MY DARLING
Amanda Robson
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2020
Copyright © Amanda Robson 2020
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photograph © Ildiko Neer/Trevillion Images (building); Shutterstock.com (figure in window)
Amanda Robson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008291907
Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008291914
Version: 2020-07-08
Praise for Amanda Robson
‘A fabulous rollercoaster of a read – I was obsessed by this book’
B A Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors
‘Fast-moving, compulsive reading’
Jane Corry, author of My Husband’s Wife
‘An addictive, compelling read, full of tension’
Karen Hamilton, author of The Perfect Girlfriend
‘Compelling and thoroughly addictive’
Katerina Diamond, author of The Teacher
‘Characters you will love to hate and an ending that will make your jaw drop’
Jenny Blackhurst, author of How I Lost You
‘A taut thriller full of page-turning suspense’
Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths
‘Expertly injects menace into the domestic’
Holly Seddon, author of Try Not to Breathe
‘No one does toxic relationships quite like Amanda Robson’
Sam Carrington, author of Bad Sister
‘Twisty, taut, vibrant and addictive. The queen of the page-turner’
Caroline England, author of My Husband’s Lies
‘A compelling page-turner on the dark underbelly of marriage, friendship and lust’
Fiona Cummins, author of Rattle
‘Totally addictive and unputdownable’
Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice
‘Very pacy and twisted’
Colette McBeth, author of Precious Thing
‘What a page-turner! This is one highly addictive novel’
Wendy Walker, author of All is Not Forgotten
‘Thoroughly intriguing, high-quality domestic noir’
Paul Finch, author of Stalkers
Dedication
To my family
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Amanda Robson
Dedication
1. Emma
2. Jade
3. Alastair
4. Jade
5. Emma
6. Emma
7. Alastair
8. Emma
9. Alastair
10. Emma
11. Jade
12. Emma
13. Alastair
14. Jade
15. Emma
16. Alastair
17. Emma
18. Jade
19. Jade
20. Emma
21. Jade
22. Jade
23. Emma
24. Alastair
25. Jade
26. Emma
27. Jade
28. Jade
29. Emma
30. Alastair
31. Emma
32. Jade
33. Emma
34. Alastair
35. Jade
36. Emma
37. Jade
38. Emma
39. Jade
40. Emma
41. Jade
42. Jade
43. Alastair
44. Emma
45. Alastair
46. Jade
47. Jade
48. Emma
49. Alastair
50. Jade
51. Emma
52. Alastair
53. Alastair
54. Alastair
55. Emma
56. Emma
57. Jade
58. Alastair
59. Alastair
60. Emma
61. Alastair
62. Jade
63. Alastair
64. Emma
65. Alastair
66. Alastair
67. Jade
68. Alastair
69. Jade
70. Alastair
71. Alastair
72. Emma
73. Alastair
74. Alastair
75. Emma
76. Alastair
77. Jade
78. Emma
79. Jade
80. Emma
81. Alastair
82. Alastair
83. Emma
84. Jade
85. Alastair
86. Emma
87. Emma
88. Alastair
89. Emma
90. Alastair
91. Jade
92. Emma
93. Alastair
94. Emma
95. Jade
96. Alastair
97. Emma
98. Alastair
99. Emma
100. Alastair
101. Jade
102. Alastair
103. Emma
104. Alastair
105. Emma
106. Alastair
107. Emma
108. Jade
109. Alastair
110. Emma
111. Alastair
112. Emma
113. Alastair
114. Emma
115. Alastair
116. Alastair
117. Jade
118. Alastair
119. Emma
120. Alastair
121. Emma
122. Alastair
123. Jade
124. Alastair
125. Jade
126. Alastair
127. Jade
128. Alastair
129. Jade
130. Alastair
131. Emma
132. Alastair
133. Jade
134. Emma
135. Jade
136. Emma
137. Alastair
138. Emma
139. Alastair
140. Emma
141. Alastair
142. Emma
143. Jade
144. Emma
145. Jade
146. Emma
147. Emma
148. Jade
149. Emma
150. Jade
151. Emma
152. Jade
153. Emma
154. Jade
155. Emma
156. Jade
157. Emma
158
159
160
161
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Amanda Robson
About the Publisher
1
Emma
After my last relationship, I was looking for love in all the wrong places. Until I began to use Tinder. Until I found you, Alastair, and swiped right. It’s hard to find the perfect man. Men can be so controlling at times.
2
Jade
We move into our new house, Fairlawns. A large Victorian detached, near the river in Henley-on-Thames. Top-end comfort. Top-end price. Arriving in our Porsche, just as the removal men are entering the house with our walnut dining table, I look up and see a man and a woman standing at the side window of the house next door, staring down at us.
The woman is seriously tarty. Long blonde hair, bleached, not natural. Smelling of Botox. Not wearing very much clothing. Her short house coat does not leave much to the imagination. Very much your sort of thing, Tomas. Not a woman, but a stereotype. As I watch her looking down on us, I determine you will not get away with it again. Don’t even try it, I tell you with my eyes.
3
Alastair
‘Spill the beans, what are they like? Save me from getting out of bed,’ you say.
‘The man is a serious looker – like Jason Donovan in his prime, with darker hair and darker eyes.’
‘I’ll look forward to meeting him then.’
‘Watch it, Emma. You know I can’t cope when you admire other men,’ I joke.
‘And is there a woman?’
‘Yes. Big-boned. Neat-featured.’ I pause and continue staring out of the window. ‘Four removal men. Furniture coming out now. Expensive furniture.’
‘How do you know it’s expensive? Can you see the price tag?’
My stomach tightens, because money is an issue between us. Dentists earn far more than forensic scientists. Especially dentists who have inherited a lot of money. Top career. Expanding your dental practice to inject Botox and facial fillers, it all adds up. Whereas I’m always struggling. A child and a difficult ex-wife to support means any unexpected extra expense is a mountain to climb.
‘A walnut dressing table.’
‘Brown furniture isn’t as expensive as it used to be.’
‘It’s still expensive to me.’ I pause. ‘OK then, what about this? A fancy sofa. Candelabra. A racing bike.’ I press my face against the window. ‘A large box marked “Silver”.’
‘You sound as if you’ve got the binoculars out,’ you say, slipping out of bed, pulling your silk dressing gown across your naked shoulders and coming to join me.
Your cat Casper yowls from the bed. He doesn’t like it when you leave him. He follows you everywhere. Sure enough, seconds later, this special animal who looks like a cross between a baby polar bear and a tiger – stripy face and tail, fur like white candyfloss – leaps off the bed to join you, rubbing his head and body against your ankles. Smiling, you lean down to stroke him. You dote on him. I know he’s some unusual pedigree breed that you insist on not allowing out, but don’t you think that keeping a cat inside is a little cruel, however highly strung and dependent he is?
You put your hand in mine. I pull you towards me and kiss you. You taste silky. Like strawberries and cream. My erection stirs and I want you again. Even though I know you’re too good for me, every time I have you I want you again.
4
Jade
I walk around our new home. Almost everything is in place after the move. I set out towards the Stereotype’s house, to invite her and her partner over for supper. Time to get to know her. Time to see what I’m dealing with.
5
Emma
Dinner parties have never been my thing; trapped around a table making small talk. But my new neighbour Jade coerced me into accepting her invitation. With a nod of the head. With the solidity of her face. So at 8 p.m. on Friday evening, I find myself standing with you, Alastair, on Jade and Tomas’ doorstep, clutching a bottle of red wine and twelve yellow roses. The door opens. Jade. A big woman. Nearly six foot tall. Short dark hair. The ‘make-up-is-a-sin’ type.
‘Do come in,’ she beams.
We step inside a hallway of mirrors and lights. I hand her the roses and wine.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ she says, voice so hard I almost guess she means it.
She leaves them on a glass dresser as we follow her along the hallway. Through the dining room. The table is laid for supper. Silver mats. Silver goblets. Heavy silver cutlery. A centrepiece of shiny black orchids. We arrive in a large sitting room containing toffee-coloured sofas draped with cowhide, which scream against the period of the house. Why did they choose a Victorian house when they own furniture like this? Jade’s husband is standing by a cocktail bar built of oak, with brass cupboard handles. I’ve only ever seen anything like this in 1970s sitcoms.
‘What can I get you?’ Tomas asks. His eyes sparkle at me. ‘We’ve got everything. Beer. Cocktails. Bubbles.’
‘Bubbles, please.’
‘And you, sir?’ he asks, turning to you.
‘Beer please, mate.’
Jade is standing by Tomas’ side, back straight, hands by her side. She is wearing a simple black cotton shift with a belt. Too plain. Too simple. Clothing suitable for a funeral. Not much fun for a Friday night supper.
Tomas fixes our drinks and we sit down. Couples together on opposing sofas.
‘You look pretty organised. How are you settling in?’ I ask.
‘I can’t function if things are out of place. I’m a bit OCD. Aren’t I, darling?’
Tomas stirs uneasily. ‘Isn’t everybody? No one likes their house to be a mess.’
‘Where did you move from?’ you ask.
‘Hampton Hill.’
‘And what made you choose the Thames Valley?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ She leans forward and pushes her eyes into mine. ‘Are we the new neighbours from hell, or something?’
I shake my head. ‘No. No. I just wondered whether it was a job thing?’
‘The job conversation always feels like pulling teeth.’
‘That’s an apt thing to say to me, because I’m a dentist,’ I say, trying to keep things light.
She shrugs. ‘OK. So now, thanks to you, we do the job thing.’
I stiffen inside. I didn’t mean to offend her. You glance across at me. He puts his beer on the table in front of him, leans back and folds his arms.
‘It’s fine with me. I’m a forensic scientist. I’m happy to tell you what I do. What’s wrong with talking about work?’
‘It’s good with me, too,’ Tomas smiles. ‘I work in the City, as a hedge fund manager.’
Jade gives her husband a look, to scold him for joining in.
Not wanting her to get away with this, ‘What do you do?’ I ask.
A saccharine smile. ‘Since you’re wanting to judge people by their jobs, why don’t you try to guess?’
‘Are you an estate agent?’
She shakes her head.
‘Travel agent perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘Teacher?’
Her head continues to shake.
Frustrated by this silly game, ‘Circus acrobat?’ I suggest.
She laughs. I sigh inside with relief. At least she has a sense of humour. ‘No. I’m retired. But I used to be in forensics too,’ she replies.
‘What sort of forensics?’ Alastair asks.
‘An academic. Professor of Forensics at the University of West London.’
‘So why did you quit?’ he pushes.
She hesitates. ‘It’s difficult to feel fully involved in crime when you’re based at a university. So distant from the cut and thrust of the police.’
‘So why didn’t you move to my side?’
‘Too boring and repetitive.’ A slow, strangled smile. ‘In this life nothing is ever perfect.’ There’s a pause. ‘And I would like perfect.’
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Alastair replies. ‘But I have to say, I get a lot of satisfaction from my job.’
‘Each to their own.’
She turns to me. ‘Come on, Emma. Enough small talk. Come and help me with the starter.’
I stand up and follow her from the room. Out through the dining room, across the hallway. Into a smart, shiny kitchen with white cupboards and a black granite top. A large arrangement of black and white orchids adorning the central station. The type of orchids that look as if they are plastic, but if you squeeze their stems they bleed. She opens the stainless-steel larder fridge, takes out four dishes of prawn cocktail and bangs them onto a tray.
‘It’s ready. I don’t need your help, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you in private.’ She leans towards me, across the kitchen counter. ‘I want to warn you that my husband Tomas has a wandering eye.’
‘What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me that he’s unfaithful?’
She sighs. ‘He’d be upset if he knew I was talking about him behind his back.’ She shrugs. ‘But, yes. He has a penchant for having affairs.’
I stand looking into Jade’s sad face, unsure of what to say.
She blinks and shifts her weight from side to side. ‘Come on, let’s go back and join the men. Make yourself useful – carry the tray.’
6
Emma
‘What do you make of our new neighbours?’ I ask you, later that night, as we lie entwined in my king-sized bed.
‘Tomas seems all right,’ you reply. ‘But Jade’s a strange one – disparaging about my job. Unenthusiastic about her own.’ You pause. ‘A glass-half-empty type to be wary of.’
I snuggle up closer. ‘When I was on my own with her in the kitchen, she said Tomas has “a penchant for having affairs”.’
‘Strange thing to tell your neighbour the first time you meet.’ You kiss my neck. ‘I reckon she’s a clusterfuck.’
I giggle. ‘Clusterfuck. I like that. But maybe it’s a bit unfair. Lots of people are glass-half-empty about their jobs.’
You laugh, ‘But not many people are so disparaging about their husband to a complete stranger.’ You roll away from me and slide into your sleeping position. ‘Living so close to her, I guess you’ll soon find out what she’s like.’
7
Alastair
Driving home from the lab after a boring day. Hanging around in scrubs for too long, waiting for some evidence that required urgent analysis to arrive. So urgent the police hadn’t found time to bag it. By the time it came it was 5 p.m., so I stayed a few extra hours to make a start, but I’ll have to finish off tomorrow. The salary I’m on is not enough to justify pushing the boat out and staying all night. Perhaps I would if they promoted me.
Stuck at the lights, longing to get a beer. Longing for a chat with Mother. Hoping Stephen is in bed. I fancy a quiet time. Supper, beer, TV, chat with Mum.
I park on the street outside the Italian restaurant and open the door beside it, which leads upstairs to our flat. As usual the scent of toasting mozzarella and basil assaults my nostrils, making me feel hungry as I climb up. As soon as I step inside my home, Mum scuttles into the hallway.
‘Heather is here. In the sitting room. Waiting to speak to you,’ she whispers. ‘Stephen’s in bed.’ My heart sinks. Heather, my ex-wife. Another clusterfuck. ‘Now you’re here, I’ll leave you in peace and go and relax in my room,’ Mum continues.
She pads along the narrow corridor rubbing her back. Sixty years old, hunched, as if she was eighty. Why won’t Heather take responsibility for our son? What’s wrong with her? Mum disappears into her cramped bedroom. I’ve made it as nice as I can, with a small TV, and big cushions, to make her bed double up as a sofa. I wish I could afford a nanny. Mum needs a break. If I could, I’d send her on an exotic holiday, to Mauritius, or the Caribbean.
Sighing inside, I open the door to the lounge. Heather is sitting on the sofa, glued to Love Island. As soon as she sees me she turns the volume down, but leaves the picture on. A group of women with pouty lips and extravagant figures are sitting by a swimming pool drinking cocktails; an orangey-brown mixture decorated with pink umbrella cocktail sticks. And laughing. A male Adonis walks towards them, beer in hand, and their eyes fix on his pecs. I try to ignore the screen and look at Heather, but I become glued to his pecs too. I really should work out more.
‘We need to chat,’ Heather says, forcing me to drag myself away from the on-screen overdose of oestrogen and testosterone.
‘OK then. But let’s turn the TV off.’
‘I can watch and chat,’ she snarls, her upper lip curving upwards like a horse’s.
‘Well, I can’t. So if you want to talk to me, you need to turn it off.’
She waves the remote at the screen, remaining transfixed as it closes down, then turns to look at me. Her hair is a mess, and she’s gained quite a bit of weight. I thought newly divorced women tended to smarten up. With Heather, divorce has had the opposite effect. What is going on with her?
‘What do you want to talk about?’ I ask, hovering in the doorway. I haven’t had a civil conversation with her since the day she left me.
‘I need more money. I can’t cope.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t have any more to give you.’
‘Yes you do. You’ve shacked up with that wealthy bint.’
‘If you mean Emma, I’ve only just met her. And I haven’t shacked up with her. As you may have noticed, I live here with our son Stephen, who you’ve abandoned. Hardly the lap of luxury, is it? A flat above an Italian restaurant. If I’d taken better advice I’d still be in the family home.’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Well, I’m not in the family home either. The Robinsons who bought it off us are.’ She hesitates. ‘You know I’m living with a girlfriend for now, while I decide what to do.’
I frown, exasperated. ‘I know you’re living with Shelly. But that’s your choice. You got your share of the house sale.’ I pause. ‘What have you done with it? Why are you asking me for more money?’
‘That’s a no-brainer, isn’t it? You know I’m out of work at the moment.’
‘Get a job. Any job. It was your choice to stop your teacher training.’
She sighs. ‘I was finding it too stressful, after everything that had happened between us.’
‘Life is stressful,’ I say, really losing patience now. ‘You need to get a grip.’
‘Always so empathetic, aren’t you?’
‘Look, Heather, you only have Stephen every other weekend. I’m already bearing the brunt of the expense. I don’t see what’s unreasonable about suggesting you get a job.’
‘You’re selfish, Alastair. You even went to Paris for the weekend.’
How does she know that? I didn’t even tell Stephen where I was going for my birthday treat with you, Emma. You must have put a picture on Facebook and Heather must have seen it.
‘Alastair, I need you to cough up, please.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t afford to, Heather.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Try. Just try and get more money out of me,’ I hiss.
