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  With you.

  We are on the beach at Godrevy. The sky is the colour of cornflowers, the wind cold and fresh, the mid-October sunshine is bright. Your hand is warm and holds mine tightly as if you’re worried I might blow away. I’m talking too much. About everything and nothing. Suddenly self-conscious, I stop myself and look up at you.

  You smile. Carry on, you say.

  I’m not boring you?

  Boring me? You laugh and it sounds like music. How could you ever bore me?

  It’s low tide. The beach is deserted but for a man sweeping a metal detector like a metronome over the ribbed sand. I can smell the mussel-cloaked rocks. The sea. Drying seaweed. You unpack the picnic you made. Thin squares of electric pink ham on sliced white, spread with margarine.

  Mum would call you a criminal for not using butter.

  Your sheepish smile melts my heart. Your body is hard and muscular. Not an ounce of fat. The feel of it excites me as I lean against you.

  I’m sorry, you say.

  It’s delicious, I whisper. Best sandwich I ever tasted.

  We talk. Drink Fosters. Smoke roll-ups and kiss. We don’t notice the tide coming in until the sea skims our toes. We’re trapped. We laugh. Jump up. Hold hands and wade through the icy water to reach the path. I stumble, giddy from the lager and kissing, and you catch my elbow.

  Saved you, you say.

  I miss you.

  I had no idea how important these moments would become. At the time it was just a picnic on the beach. With a boy I was falling in love with. Something fun to do at the weekend. We had no idea how fleeting our happiness would be. We took love for granted. We imagined we’d always be free. But now the memory of that picnic on Godrevy is a scrap of precious fabric I cling to like a child with their blanket, comforting and safe, ragged with overuse. I remember the heat of him. I can taste the cigarettes on his breath. As I let his lips linger on mine, my pulse quickens. I recall the smell of him. The feel of his skin against mine. The sound of his voice as he whispered in my ear.

  It only takes a moment for grief to take over. My stomach pitches with loss and the image of him dissolves, leaving the space where he was desolate and empty. Regret seeps into every nook of me.

  If only I could replay that night. Do things differently. Alter our course.

  If only.

  I hear the bus wending its way along the lane and push myself off the telegraph pole. It draws to a halt and the door opens with a hydraulic sigh. The driver, who’s been driving this route for years, greets me like a friend. I count my fare out. I no longer apologise for the coppers. He waits patiently as I drop them into the dish and thanks me when I’m done.

  I don’t know his name and the only words we’ve exchanged are the occasional comment on the weather and a ‘Happy Christmas’ or ‘Happy New Year’ when seasonally appropriate. I always sit close enough to watch his face in the rearview mirror. He wears his happiness like a medal of honour. Right there, on show, unashamedly proud of it. He is one of those people who whistles a tune. Sometimes he’ll spontaneously smile and when he does, it makes me glow as I imagine he’s recalling something funny or touching. Perhaps he’s thinking of his wife and children clamouring around him when he gets home from shuttling backwards and forwards between Land’s End and Penzance. I imagine he has a simple life. An allotment. A comfortable, threadbare armchair he’ll never throw out. I find imagining this man in a life of contentment comforting. My Tuesday bus journey is something I look forward to. On the rare Tuesdays when there’s an unknown at the wheel, I can become inexplicably agitated, as if my world has tipped and I’m sliding towards the edge.

  Like I said, routine helps.

  Chapter Two

  Hannah

  ‘Please. God. Tell me you’re joking.’

  Vicky and I are sitting opposite each other at one of the six tables in the café we meet at every week. It’s on a back street in Penzance. The walls are light blue, in need of a touch-up, and there are paintings of birds and huge Cornish skies done by local artists. When it’s warm enough, the door is wedged open and the small space floods with natural light, sea air and the cry of gulls. It’s cheap and basic, the type of place Nathan wouldn’t be seen dead in. Which is, of course, why we meet here.

  Vicky shakes her head in disbelief. ‘But why?’

  Her blonde hair is tied back in a scruffy bun, and even without a scrap of make-up and four-year-old twins who never sleep, she is as pretty as she always was. Her skin is smooth, religiously moisturised, and the lines around her hazel eyes so delicate it’s as if they’ve been painted on with the finest of brushes.

  The waitress places our pot of tea on the table, with a slice of coffee cake for Vicky, and toast and jam for me.

  ‘Guess that means you won’t be coming along to cheer for him?’ I lift the lid of the teapot to see if it’s brewed enough then pour two cups.

  ‘No, I bloody won’t. I mean… really? An award? Why would the council give a lawyer an award?’

  ‘I told you. Citizen of the Year.’

  She groans and mutters something under her breath.

  Vicky makes no effort to hide her dislike of my husband. When I told her Cam and I were finished and I was with Nathan she was having none of it. We’d known each other since nursery. Our mums were friends and we played together for happy hours while they gossiped and drank tea. From primary school through secondary school we were inseparable. We went to our first gig together, got drunk together, smoked our first cigarette together – stealthily swiped from her mother’s pack of Benson & Hedges – and went to as many parties as we could, invited and uninvited. Vicky knows me better than anybody else and there was no way she would ever believe I’d fallen head over heels for Nathan Cardew in only a matter of days. All she did was shake her head.

  ‘No,’ she’d said, refusing to believe it. ‘No. There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  She also wouldn’t accept Cam had just upped and gone in the night without even a goodbye. Her interrogations were exhausting. I’d struggled to keep strong, because all I really wanted to do was curl myself into her arms and tell her the truth. All of it. Every last, filthy detail.

  Would things have turned out better if I had? Could she have helped me? Sitting in front of her now, I have yet another overwhelming urge to confide in her. But I can’t risk it. The fallout would be devastating. I’ve kept the truth buried for long enough. I’m not going to unearth it now.

  When I found out I was pregnant things got even harder.

  ‘You have to tell Cam. He’ll come back. Of course he will!’

  This was when the real lies began.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ I said, sobbing into my hands. ‘I did tell him. That’s why he left. He wants nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with the baby. He’s moved on and says he’s never coming back to Cornwall. He told me he never loved me. I didn’t tell you because I was scared. Of the baby. Being pregnant. I hoped it would… go away. But… it didn’t.’

  Lies, lies, lies.

  Lying to Vicky made me feel sick. But though the idea of the baby was terrifying, it finally gave me the perfect excuse for Cam’s sudden disappearance. I dropped my head, unable to meet her eyes.

  ‘Bastard,’ she breathed. ‘The fucking bastard.’

  I didn’t correct her.

  ‘Does Nathan know?’

  I nodded. ‘He wants to get married.’

  ‘And he’ll accept Cam’s baby? Just like that?’

  I glanced at her but didn’t reply.

  ‘No. Surely no?’ Judgement and shock in her whispered words. ‘Hannah, you can’t…’

  Then I straightened my shoulders and took a bolstering breath. ‘Women have done it since forever.’

  ‘But it’s not—’

  ‘I don’t want to have a baby on my own,’ I said resolutely, stumbling unwittingly into the truth. ‘What kind of life is that for either of us? I owe my child more than a bedsit and benefits. Nathan can give
us a decent life.’

  Her disapproval physically hurt.

  I took her hand in mine as tears spilled down my cheeks. ‘Please don’t tell anybody. Please, Vicky. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want my baby to grow up without a father.’

  She went with it reluctantly, but when Nathan started to push my friends and family away, when he began to isolate me, her dislike of him grew into hatred, almost as strong as the hatred she has for Cam, the man who, as far as she is aware, abandoned her pregnant friend without a backward glance.

  I unwrap one of the small packets of butter and spread some thinly on one of the triangles of toast.

  ‘What does Citizen of the Year even mean?’

  ‘He does a lot for the community. You know that. Apparently it was the first time in eighteen years that a nominee was universally voted through.’

  She scoffs. ‘And, what? You have to go and stand at his side and play the dutiful wife?’ She breaks off a piece of cake and puts it in her mouth.

  ‘Of course. I want to be there.’ My attention is caught by a group of girls on the street outside, fourteen or so, dressed in school uniform, skirts rolled up to mid-thigh, giggling and pointing at something on one of their phones, the case decorated in pink diamante which catches the sunlight, fingernails painted in colours I’m certain their head teacher would disapprove of, eye make-up heavy, lips shiny with cheap pink gloss. Bunking off. These are the kids for whom school is a dull inconvenience and life outside its gates so much more enticing. Nostalgia prods at me like an annoying child. I tear my eyes off them and look back at Vicky. ‘Apparently, some VIP from the council is going to do a speech.’

  Another groan. ‘Don’t tell me they’re giving him a bloody trophy.’

  ‘A brass plaque in the town hall.’ We exchange wry smiles and she laughs with another shake of her head.

  The waitress clears our empty plates and asks if we’d like anything else. She’s a striking girl with dreadlocks tied back in a floral scarf, a nose ring, and a puffy-eyed tiredness from partying. She reminds me of myself at the same age, smiling through a hangover whilst dropping pasties into bags for sunburnt tourists and beer money.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ Vicky asks then.

  I smile. ‘She’s OK. Sleeps a lot but seems fine.’

  ‘And Alex?’

  I press my finger on to some toast crumbs on the wipe-clean tablecloth and brush them on to my plate.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s—’ I stop myself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  I take a breath. ‘He’s growing up, that’s all. Getting argumentative.’ I hesitate. ‘With Nathan.’

  ‘Good for him.’ She lowers her eyes, perhaps aware that her comment could be taken as a criticism of me for not standing up for myself.

  ‘It’s nothing serious.’ I continue picking up the scattered crumbs with my finger. ‘Teenage stuff. He won’t be the first boy in the world to have a tricky relationship with his dad. It’s normal, isn’t it?’

  It surprises me how much the deterioration of Nathan and Alex’s relationship still upsets me. It wasn’t always the same. When Alex was younger Nathan was a good father, engaged and interested most of the time, albeit uptight and unaffectionate. But when Alex was around seven or eight he seemed to draw away from us. He became colder, more distant, as if somebody had flicked a switch off inside him. His temper was short. He was impatient and moody, too quick with caustic asides. It was around this time he had his first affair. Maybe he just got bored of us.

  Vicky notices my anxiety and takes my hand. ‘Yes, of course it’s normal. God, do you remember the fights I had with my parents? I was convinced I was adopted.’

  I smile.

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ she says then. ‘He reminds me of you when you were that age.’

  Her words unleash snippets of memory from back then. The biting cold and crashing waves. The fear that grabbed hold of me. The dawning realisation that everything was altered.

  ‘Change of subject.’ Vicky’s voice wrenches me back. ‘Did you talk to him about our night away?’

  Her face splits with sudden excitement and my insides cave a little as I recall Nathan’s stony face and the definitive way he said no. There was no question mark, no room for debate, no way he’d let me go. Vicky was a bad influence. A flirt. Common. She’d poison me against him. The more I begged, the more rigid he became. What about Alex? he’d asked, his voice edged with glass. And the dog? You can’t just walk out on them. You have responsibilities, Hannah. Responsibilities.

  I give Vicky what I hope is a sheepish smile. ‘Not yet.’ Another lie. ‘But I will. Promise. We’ll get the award ceremony out of the way, then I’ll ask him.’

  ‘You’ll ask him?’ Her eyes close in an indignant blink. ‘Hannah. He can’t stop you, you know? You’re not a kid. Don’t ask him. Tell him. I mean, for God’s sake, what’s his problem?’

  ‘He worries I won’t come back. After last time—’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘That was years ago. And you’re not the first woman to get postnatal depression and flip out. He’s punished you enough, for God’s sake.’ She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. ‘Jesus,’ she whispers. ‘He’s such a bloody child.’

  I have a vivid recollection of the stillness of the dark, deserted platform. The way I stood there, staring up at the train timetable. No trains. Too late. My head all over the place. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing there and no idea where I was going. All I could think about was getting away. Then the next thing I knew he was in front of me, eyes burning with seething anger, hands reaching to rip my baby away from me. Words coming in a torrent. Terrifying words. Telling me if I did anything like that again he’d sue for custody. I’d lose my son forever.

  Later, when Alex was asleep in his Moses basket, Nathan came into the bedroom, laid his head on my stomach, and sobbed.

  ‘You have no idea how much you scared me,’ he whispered. ‘You endangered our son. I can’t trust you with him while you’re so unstable.’

  The next day he took my bank card and passport.

  ‘He’s over protective,’ I say to Vicky.

  ‘Over protective? You mean nuts. Honestly, Han, I don’t know how you put up with him.’

  My cheeks flush with warmth as I stare fixedly down at my knotting fingers.

  She sighs and when she next speaks her tone has softened. ‘It’s just one night.’

  I nod and force a feeble smile. ‘I’ll talk to him.’ I look out of the window and see two seagulls. One is young – new feathers pushing through his brown down – and holds a crust of bread in his beak. The other is older and is intent on stealing the crust. The two birds hop about on the pavement, fluttering and spinning around each other as if dancing and, for a few moments, I’m mesmerised.

  ‘I just want you there with me, that’s all.’

  One night away, the two of us, to celebrate her fortieth birthday. It’s a present from Phil. When he phoned to tell me, I protested. Told him I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift. He insisted. I was part of the present. There was no way Nathan would allow me to have a night away and he certainly wouldn’t let another man pay for me, so I told Phil he should take Vicky and the two of them could have a relaxing night away from the twins. But he said it was already decided. Vicky missed me, he said. This would be the best birthday present she could wish for. And before I could stop the words coming out of my mouth I’d said yes. The thought of it was thrilling. Eventually I’ll have to make my excuses. Phil will end up taking my place. But I can’t face telling her yet.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Booze, fags, no kids, no husbands. It’ll be like the old days.’

  The old days.

  Before that night. Before the horror of it all. Back to a time so far removed from now I wonder if it was ever even real. Who was that young woman? I remember her vaguely, like one might remember a character
in a childhood book, carefree, surrounded by lightness and laughter. Popular and confident. Filled up with joy like an over-inflated balloon, shifting from party to party, pub to beach, living in the moment, working the week with the weekend in sight. Then in the blink of an eye she was gone. The lightness turned dark. The laughter became no more than a distant echo. That young woman, a version of me, trapped in the past like a stranded time traveller.

  A new version of me was born that night but not completed. Then, as I followed Nathan numbly into St John’s Hall registry, the transformation continued. My husband took over my deconstruction. One by one he took aim at my friends – unworthy, boring, ill-educated, uncultured – until gradually they were weeded out. I should have fought it but I didn’t. What was the point? It was only a matter of time before they tired of the anaesthetised husk of the girl they once knew. What kind of friend could I be? I was broken. So I let him tell me I needed a fresh start. That it was better to cut ties with my old life. That I deserved more. He spoke with such authority as he pointed out their flaws and failings, I’d find myself agreeing with him. Why was I so dreadful at choosing friends? How had I gravitated to such people? Was it any wonder everything had gone so horribly wrong? It would be convenient to blame my isolation on Nathan but I am complicit. I let this happen. I walked into this life, into this version of me, willingly, and have nobody to blame but myself.

  Thank God Vicky was too strong for us. Nathan detested her from the first moment he met her in the pub that night. She was everything he loathed: dressed wrong, loud, uncouth. In the early years of our marriage, we used to meet up as a four, Nathan and I with Vicky and Phil. After an evening out, he would spend hours criticising her, pointing out how crass she was, how opinionated, how her voice cut through him like nails down a blackboard. It was exhausting listening to him go on and on and on. I couldn’t bear it so Vicky and I began to meet in secret. Once a week, on a Tuesday, at this tiny café in Penzance. It’s clandestine and rebellious and for an hour each week I feel free. Like those girls bunking off school. Like I felt in the old days.