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Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Dawn Goodwin
  3. WHAT I NEVER TOLD YOU
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. Acknowledgements
  55. About the Author
  56. An Invitation from the Publisher

Mills watched her mother from the shadows at the top of the stairs. She had heard her in the toilet, the sounds of muffled retching, the water running, the toilet flushing. She knew what she had been doing.

Mills had known about Helen’s eating disorder for some time, but she had never spoken to her about it. It was one of a list of unspoken vices between them – Mills’ smoking and drinking, which she figured her mother knew about, and Helen’s tendency to binge and purge when something was bothering her. She had thought things had settled, but when she saw the crumbs on her mother’s shirt earlier, then heard her vanish into the toilet as soon as Mills turned her back, she knew.

She hovered on the stairs, debating whether to talk to her, to check in. The two of them came as a pair after all. She started down the stairs, then heard a noise behind her, a door opening, and changed her mind, darting back into her own room.

She could talk to her another time, when they had the house to themselves.

18

THEN

Crisp crumbs stick to the blanket as we huddle together and listen to music. The wine bottle is empty, the vodka bottle open. Tracey is drunk. I can tell from her slurring words and giggling laugh. I think I am too. I feel almost out of my body, like the air around me is buzzing and rotating of its own accord. I don’t know what time it is.

“I need to pee,” Tracey says.

“We should probably go downstairs, back to my room anyway. I’m cold.”

Tracey heaves to her feet, stumbles, falls back into the bean bag and snorts. I pull her to her feet again and she puts her hands on my waist as we leave the attic in a conga line, Tracey giggling in my ear and weaving, making me stagger and lurch as I try to keep us from pitching forward down the steep stairs. Outside my parents’ room I put a finger to my lips to silence her. The door to their room is closed, so I don’t know if they are in there, but I suspect the dinner party is still going on downstairs, brandy and cigars in my father’s study for the men, a Baileys or Amaretto in the lounge for the wives, bowls of salted peanuts and rum truffles being passed around and politely declined.

Tracey is still sniggering into my shoulder. “I really need to pee,” she whispers.

We run the rest of the way and as I shut my bedroom door behind me, she lurches into the bathroom, pauses, then throws up on the white marble floor. Bright red splashes like an abstract painting.