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  Dedicated TK

  I know everything about you, Violet.

  I know your mother’s name is Joy. I know your sister is a paediatric nurse, that she has twin boys. I know you sold your first flat—a tiny, one-bed in Blackheath with bubbling wallpaper and an illegal roof terrace—for £300k. Double the price you paid for it. I know your father gave you the deposit when you moved to London at twenty-one. I know the house you now live in cost you and Henry almost £3million, and that you also own the villa in Marbella that you pretend belongs to your parents. I know that you lie about your age; you’re thirty-eight next birthday, not thirty-six. I know that 2017 was your most profitable year yet; that you’ve set up a trust fund for the children, somewhere to put all the money that keeps flowing your way.

  I know you have hair extensions; I know the name of your hairdresser, Pablo, and that his partner is called Ian. I know where they live. I know you’re loyal to him now, that you consider him “family,” that you always spend New Year with him and Ian. Drinking champagne out of saucers, wearing an outfit that costs more than I earn in a month.

  I know that you only got into journalism by luck. I know your ex, Angus, now married to Isabella and living in Surrey, got you a job as an editorial assistant on his golfing magazine, and that you charmed your way across one of the world’s biggest media firms until you were a features writer for a woman’s magazine.

  I know that you were good at your job, no matter how much it annoys me.

  I know that you met Henry in the bar by the office. I know that it was a work night out to say goodbye to one of the PAs. She doesn’t play much of a role in your story, but even so, I know her name was Janet.

  It’s been so easy to find it all out. All I needed was time, and determination. You’ve left it right there for me. All that information—all that power—just waiting, a few clicks away.

  It’s what you want, after all, isn’t it? Without an audience, without people like me watching, then what are you? No one asked you to put yourself on the internet. No one asked you to leave breadcrumb trails of your life across the World Wide Web, just waiting for a hungry bird like me to gobble up.

  I know everything about you, Violet. But what do you know about me?

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing this book was a completely different experience from writing my first. But one thing was the same—it wouldn’t have happened without the kind support of lots of people.

  First of all, a massive thanks to my agent, Caroline Hardman, for all her advice and opinions (no more books with bankers in I promise!), and for telling me she really loved it after I nervously sent over the first draft. She is ably supported by the brilliant team at Hardman & Swainson, who I would also like to thank. I’m so desperate to come and work in your office and chat about death too!

  Then, of course, huge thanks to Cassie Browne and Rachel Neely for believing in my writing, and for pushing me to explore my dark side more (!) and also for all their intelligent and patient editorial advice and guidance. I have so loved working with the enthusiastic team at Quercus, and would also like to thank Hannah Robinson, Ella Patel, and Katie Sadler for championing my work to the world.

  Author friends are the best friends, and so I must thank all my fellow writers from my Faber Academy group, as well as the Savvy Authors, for understanding what this strange job is like and brightening the darker days. Special cheers go to my beta readers and dear friends Susannah Ewart-James, Victoria Harrison, Caroline Hulse and Rebecca Fleet for listening to me whinge without complaint and for being brilliant writers themselves.

  Thank you again to Alice Marlow and Claire Emerson for helping me with the medical aspects of the book. If I got anything wrong, it’s my fault not theirs.

  My family put up with my obscure witterings about writing/plots all the time—sorry and thank you. But the biggest thanks must go to Oli who can often be found patiently listening as I attempt to unravel a plot conundrum. You are such a support to me and I appreciate your unflinching belief in my work so much. Thank you to Daphne too, for telling everyone “my mummy writes books” and for bringing joy into every day.

  A huge thank you to all the book bloggers who enjoyed my first book and spoke so enthusiastically about it online. Your love of reading is such a pleasure to see. I really hope you enjoy this one too.

  And finally, thank you to everyone who has bought or borrowed my books. Writers wouldn’t exist without readers—we owe it all to you.

  LILY

  DECEMBER 2017

  It’s the best part of my day. 7.35pm. I sink on to the sofa, fish bowl of wine in hand, and reach for my laptop. The coffee table is littered with relics from a rainy Sunday: Archie’s latest work of art, his bright red cup—name scrawled on the side to stop his friend Tom from using it—a half-chewed breadstick and two lift-the-flap books in need of repair. I push them to one side, and open the lid of my laptop.

  I’m not usually one for organisation. James used to find it frustrating, frowning at my attempts to laugh it off. Adorably inefficient, that’s what he called me. If only James could see my laptop now. He’d open it up and stare open-mouthed at the Internet history, the neatly organised bookmarks. He’d think I was a weirdo. Maybe I am.

  7.35pm. It shouldn’t be, but sometimes it feels like the best part of my day.

  I love you, Violet.

  I open the browser, my tongue ticking impatiently as the temperamental Wi-Fi kicks into life. My laptop is practically a museum piece these days. Two clicks and I’m in. I feel my body relax as I wait for the page to load, taking a satisfying glug of white wine, feeling it scratch its way down my throat. I can’t afford the good stuff anymore. I can’t afford the cheap stuff either, really.

  As I prepare to see them again, to laugh and cry and live through their dramas, to escape my loneliness for just twelve minutes—or fifteen, if I’m lucky—there’s a wail from Archie’s room. I feel my fingers tensing around the stem of the wine glass, the pressure almost enough to shatter it. Just me, it’s all down to me. I stand up, place the glass as calmly as I can next to Tinky Winky, who’s lying on the coffee table regarding me solemnly with his stupid blank face, and pinch my wrist.

  By the time I get to Archie’s door, he’s quietened down. Just whimpers now, the worst of the nightmare over. I creep into his room, stand by his bed and stroke his hair away from his forehead. He looks so beautiful when he’s sleeping it hurts. Sometimes I think there’s no space in my heart for my own upset at losing James, it’s too full with the agony of Archie’s situation. No one deserves to grow up without a father.

  “Shh monkey,” I whisper, kissing him on the head. “Just a bad dream. Mummy’s here.”

  One eye twitches, squeezing open and meeting mine. He gives a murmur of relief, and shuts it again. I wait a few more minutes, watching him as he falls into a deep sleep, and remember how I felt my heart would break every night as I tucked him in, with nothing to greet me once I left him but a living room that was both empty and full of memories, and a microwave meal for one.

  And then I discovered Violet. A blonde angel. The perfect mother, with the perfect family—yet even she admitted to struggling with parenthood, making the wrong decisions. Ballsing it up, as she puts it. Watching her makes me feel I’m not doing too badly after all. Is it too melodramatic to say she saved me?

  I tiptoe out of Archie’s room and back into the living room. My laptop is humming on the coffee table. Round two. Here we go. I walk towards it, press the space bar and the screen lights up again. But something isn’t right. A dead link. I’ve clearly made a mistake. Because on the screen, underneath the red and black header, there’s just an empty blue box, filled with words that make no sense.

  This channel does not exist.<
br />
  I refresh the page. I double check the address, the handle, whatever you call the damn thing. But nothing. YouTube must be down, broken, something.

  I click on my list of Bookmarks. My favorite sites, neatly in a row, the only thing I’ve ever organised. First I try her Facebook page, but am greeted by the words “This page isn’t available.” Then her Twitter but am told the page doesn’t exist. Then Instagram, nothing. In a perverse desperation I try Pinterest. Nothing there either.

  She has vanished.

  Violet has vanished. As I always feared she would.

  YVONNE

  The sound of my husband slapping his hands against his thighs in time to “We Built This City” makes me want to crash the car and kill us both.

  “Simon…” I say. “Could you … could you just not.”

  “What?” he replies, grinning. “It’s a classic!”

  “Fuck’s sake!” I shout, accelerating through an amber light. “I’ve got a headache.”

  The most important day of the month, and yet my mood swings are worse than when I have my period. I read somewhere that irritability during ovulation is down to a heightened sense of competition, as women once fought over the most fertile, masculine mate.

  Not much has changed there, really.

  The tapping stops, and from the corner of my eye I see Simon slump back in the passenger seat. He’s been drinking, as usual. Sunday lunch with the in-laws, that’s what they should make every hopeful bride sit through for a month before they swish down the aisle in their layers of tulle. That’d put them all off.

  Every Sunday the same. Simon’s mum fawning over him, looking me up and down with a judgemental twitch in her eye, asking how he’s been. Has the stress taken its toll, he’s looking a little thin? Must be so hard for him too, you know. Makes him feel … and this last bit is always whispered … less of a man.

  Earlier, as I stood in the kitchen, drying the serveware she passed to me unsolicited, I wanted to shout back that he was less of a man. That yes, it was all his fault, actually. All of it, everything, my whole hideous plan. The test results were clear: male factor infertility. His little soldiers were missing their heads and had stumpy tails, and they couldn’t be bothered to swim at all, let alone in the right direction. It was nothing to do with me. My eggs were perfect. Or as perfect as they could be at forty years of age.

  Three months of complicated vitamin supplements, a ban on hot baths and tight underwear … Simon has been trying everything to improve his sperm. But I’m not allowed to tell Jane that, of course.

  Well, we never had any problems having Simon and Steve. But then I was so much younger …

  In the living room her beloved firstborn was sitting next to his father, watching the match on the unsettlingly big television that they were so proud of. Drinking a can of beer. He refused the first two Jane offered, but then his father told him to stop being so soft, that one “wouldn’t hurt.” There’s your answer, Jane. Stop offering him Stella, then you might get your precious grandchild.

  By the time we’ve pulled into the driveway of our thirties semi, it’s 7pm. Just a few hours left of this horrific weekend before everything goes back to normal. It’ll be like yesterday never happened. Simon at the gym, me spending my days shooting happy families, my heart bursting with envy at their irrepressible matching grins and myriad nicknames for one another.

  Simon’s sulk has set in and he doesn’t even acknowledge me as he opens the passenger door and marches up to our house. He lets himself in, makes a huge fuss of the cat and then disappears into the kitchen. I linger on the step outside, checking my phone for the thousandth time today. Nothing. Then, I follow Simon into the house, hanging back in the hallway as he opens the fridge and pulls out another can of beer. I know he’s making a point, doing it to annoy me.

  I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It’s not his fault, after all.

  “Simon…” I say. “I…”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he replies, cracking the ring pull. “Maybe you should go for a lie down.”

  “What do you want for dinner?” I soften my voice, consider walking towards him and giving him a hug. No, that’d be too weird. Bollocks. I always pick a fight on the wrong day.

  “Whatever. I’m not really hungry,” he replies.

  He pushes past me and heads for the living room. Seconds later I hear a click as the television springs to life. Shit shit shit, it’s all going wrong.

  I walk back through the hall and stand in the doorway of the living room.

  “Antiques Roadshow, huh?” I say, smiling. “Didn’t realise that was your cup of tea.”

  His lips twitch but he doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed to the screen.

  “Simon,” I say. “I’m sorry. Please. You know today…”

  He gives a great sigh.

  “Let’s just wait for the appointment, Von. I’m not in the mood.”

  I feel a rush of sympathy for him, for his hurt male pride. It’s all he ever wanted; a family. He dotes on his nephew, volunteers to babysit him at every available opportunity. When the consultant handed us his results, giving us the verdict with a sympathetic shrug, I saw the way Simon swallowed and looked away. Then later, at home, I watched through the door of the living room as he ripped the sheet of paper into tiny pieces.

  “It can’t hurt, can it?” My voice sounds whiny and needling, like a child. For a second I am taken out of myself and I’m looking down at the scene, hearing a forty-year-old woman beg her much younger husband to have sex with her.

  He doesn’t look up.

  He wants this just as much as me. I just need to take the pressure off.

  I take a few steps back into the hallway and look in the mirror, plumping up my brown lob with my hands. I don’t look forty. But there’s a bittersweet reason I don’t—it’s because I haven’t had children.

  Yet. I haven’t had children yet.

  This has to be done today. I undo another button on my blouse. Men have always wanted to sleep with me. Something to do with my pout, the fullness of my lips. And there have been so many men. It was the only power I ever had, and now it makes me want to cry. I don’t want to be a whore; I want to be a mother.

  I button up my blouse again and take a deep breath. I can do this. We’ve only been together for two years, not even seen our first wedding anniversary yet. He still finds me attractive. He’s a thirty-two-year-old man, for goodness’ sake.

  Silently, I walk back into the living room. Simon eyes me but he’s only half interested. I sit down on the sofa next to him, curling my legs up, and lean into him. He smells of beer, but I won’t let it put me off. I feel him shift slightly and then he puts his arm around me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, as I lie back, my head in his lap, meaning it. “Sorry for shouting at you.”

  I push the side of my face against his crotch. It’s a cheap trick, but I feel it work almost instantly. I stay there in silence for several seconds until finally there’s a shift. He puts the can of beer down on the table next to the sofa, and then I feel his hands on me, gently at first, then more insistently as he leans down to kiss me.

  He’s going to fuck me on the sofa, in front of the living room window, and the curtains are still open. He’s going to fuck me like a whore, but today I don’t care. Needs must. This has to be done.

  * * *

  Later I am lying in bed, phone in hand, glass of organic full-fat milk on the bedside table. Drinking it makes me feel sick but wannabehousewife from the GoMamas pregnancy forum swears it helped her conceive. Simon is in the bathroom. He takes longer than me in there, claims he’s brushing his teeth if I ever ask him. I know the truth though. I never imagined I’d marry someone who waxed his chest and used fake tan, but I understand that looking good is part of his job, and actually it makes me proud that he takes care of himself and his appearance.

  I remember introducing him to Katie, the teasing arch of her eyebrow as she shook his hand. Her ironic words when he went to
the toilet, leaving us alone.

  Well, you two are certainly going to have beautiful babies!

  Yes, we are.

  I’ve been waiting all day for this moment, and I click on the link for Violet’s YouTube channel, picking up the glass of milk and taking a mouthful as I wait for it to load. She uploads her daily vlog at 8pm every evening. The thickness of the cream furs up my tongue, settling around my lips in an unpleasant moustache. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, watching the screen as it loads, waiting for reassurance. But it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s the unexpected.

  This channel does not exist.

  The milk churns in my stomach as I close my eyes, almost as if to pray.

  What does it mean?

  GoMamas

  Topics>Mummy Vloggers>Violet is Blue

  3 December 2017

  Coldteafordays

  Anyone else having problems getting on to Violet’s blog today? It’s not loading for me?

  Sadandalone

  Me neither. Weird. Says page not found. Nothing on Twitter or Insta either?!

  Horsesforcourses

  Looks like she’s deleted it!!

  Coldteafordays

  What?! I don’t believe it. What am I going to do now!? I was so looking forward to hearing how Skye’s nativity play goes next week! I was more excited about it than my own kids’ … Lol

  Neverforget

  Not that surprised. Maybe her mother finally talked some sense into her. Time she put her family first.

  Sadandalone

  But she wouldn’t just delete it without telling us why! She did a post calling out vloggers who do that just last year!

  Neverforget

  You’re surprised that she’s behaved hypocritically? *Eyeroll*

  Sadandalone

  I miss her already.

  Horsesforcourses

  She’ll probably be back in the morning.

  Coldteafordays

  She better be! Not sure what I’d do without her daily updates reassuring me I’m not the only mother who breastfeeds while on the loo. Sheer desperation, you understand …