In Another Life, page 1
Praise for Imogen Clark
An Unwanted Inheritance
‘Brimful of emotion – a wonderful plot and characters that you are rooting for, even when you know you shouldn’t. An Unwanted Inheritance is that gem of a thing: a story to truly lose yourself in. I Loved It!’
—Faith Hogan, bestselling author of The Ladies’ Midnight Swimming Club
‘What happens when you drop a bag of cash right in the middle of three siblings and their families? A whole lot of good fun and drama. An Unwanted Inheritance delightfully explores the flaws that come with being human as Clark plunges us into a story about what is right and wrong and what it means to be a family. She ratchets up the tension as the story races to its surprising and oh-so-satisfying conclusion.’
—Boo Walker, bestselling author of The Singing Trees
‘A gripping tale about money, greed, and what really matters.’
—Anstey Harris, bestselling author of The Truths and Triumphs of Grace Atherton
‘Imogen Clark deftly peels back the layers of loyalty, family secrets and moral dilemma to examine a family that must make a choice between need, greed and integrity. Pacey, thought provoking, and with characters that test the ties of blood, marriage and friendship to the limit, An Unwanted Inheritance will have you wondering how far you’d go to uphold your own principles – and how much, or how little, it would take to betray them.’
—Julietta Henderson, author of The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman
‘Lovingly crafted, with flawed and nuanced characters, this riveting story will stay with readers long after the last page is turned.’
—Christine Nolfi, bestselling author of A Brighter Flame
Reluctantly Home
‘Connected by loss, a friendship blooms across the generations in this compassionate and nuanced story of endings and new beginnings.’
—Fiona Valpy, bestselling author of The Skylark’s Secret
‘Imogen Clark is a master at creating flawed, real, lovable characters and exploring their emotions. This novel cleverly weaves together the past and present, and will leave you thinking about the story long after you finish the final page.’
—Soraya M. Lane, bestselling author of Wives of War and The Last Correspondent
The Last Piece
‘This is a wonderful novel about the secrets we keep from the ones we love the most. Imogen Clark has a real talent for shining a light on the idiosyncrasies of family life and revealing past traumas, present hurts and future hopes.’
—Victoria Connelly, author of The Rose Girls and Love in an English Garden
‘The Last Piece is a beautifully crafted, insightful tale about family and the cracks below the surface of seemingly perfect lives. Clark’s characters, with their various secrets and flaws, leap off the page. A most enjoyable and riveting read.’
—S.D. Robertson, author of My Sister’s Lies and Time to Say Goodbye
‘I couldn’t resist going on this journey with the Nightingale family. With emotion on every page and mystery swirling around each character, The Last Piece explores how the past can be as unpredictable as the future. I raced through this life-affirming book, which left me buoyed with the promise of second chances.’
—Jo Furniss, author of The Last to Know
Where the Story Starts
‘Once again . . . Imogen Clark urges readers to turn the pages as the delightfully pleasant facade of her characters’ lives begins to crack when the mysteries of the past come to call. Both soothing and riveting, Where the Story Starts asks: what if your greatest secret is the one you don’t even know exists?’
—Amber Cowie, author of Rapid Falls and Raven Lane
The Thing About Clare
‘Warm and emotionally complex . . . A family drama that’s hard to disentangle yourself from.’
—Nick Alexander, bestselling author of Things We Never Said
Also by Imogen Clark
Postcards From a Stranger
The Thing About Clare
Where the Story Starts
Postcards at Christmas (a novella)
The Last Piece
Reluctantly Home
Impossible to Forget
An Unwanted Inheritance
In a Single Moment
A Borrowed Path
Writing as Izzy Bromley
The Coach Trip
Table for Five
The Bed in the Shed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2025 by Blue Lizard Books Ltd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
EU Product Safety contact:
Amazon Publishing, Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
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amazonpublishing-gpsr@amazon.com
ISBN-13: 9781662528972
eISBN: 9781662518058
Cover design by Will Speed
Image credits: © fstop Images © Alexander Korotich © dadedi1 / Shutterstock
For Mum
Contents
1: 2022 – Ripon
2
3
4: 1981 – London
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14: 2022 – Ripon
15
16
17
18
19
20
21: 1984 – London
22
23
24
25: 1984 – Sicily
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33: 2022 – Ripon
34
35
36
37: 1984 – Sicily
38
39
40
41
42
43
44: 1984 – London
45
46
47
48
49
50: 2022 – Ripon
51
52
53
54: 1984 – Sicily
55
56
57
58: 1984 – London
59
60: 1984 – Sicily
61
62
63
64
65: 1984 – London
66
67
68
69
70: 2005 – Ripon
71: 2022 – Ripon
72
73
74
75: Six months later
76: 2023 – Ripon
Acknowledgements
Preview: In a Single Moment
1: 1976
About the Author
Follow the Author on Amazon
1
2022 – Ripon
‘Are you sure we haven’t forgotten anyone?’
Bronte stared at the list, her vision blurring slightly. She wiped the tears away before Marc could see and pass comment. There was always a comment.
‘Don’t see how we could have done,’ said Marc. ‘The whole town is on that list.’
He was right. The announcement of the death had been in the paper and that, combined with the local grapevine, meant there couldn’t be a soul left in Ripon who hadn’t heard about it.
‘It’s going to be standing room only,’ said Annie.
Marc threw her the look he reserved for when people were being particularly stupid.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Annie. It’s a cathedral.’
Annie pulled a face at him.
‘You’re so bloody literal, Marc. You know what I mean. Mum knew the whole town and everyone adored her. They’ll all want to say goodbye.’
‘There will still be enough seats for everyone, though. That’s all I’m saying,’ chipped in Marc, unable, as usual, to allow anyone else to have the last word.
‘Whatever,’ said Annie, turning her back on him. ‘You can be such an arse, Marc. You know that, right?’
Bronte, used to zoning out the bickering of her siblings, continued to focus on the list in her hand. It was very long. There was barely an organisation in Ripon that wasn’t represented. Her mother really had been the proverbial pillar of the community.
But there was one obvious omission.
‘It’s such a shame that there’ll be no family coming, not from Mum’s side at least,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Well, she hasn’t got any . . . didn’t have any,’ said Marc.
‘I know. But it’s still sad.’
Marc tutted impatiently.
‘We’ve just established that it’s going to be “standing room only”.’ He made air quotes with his fingers and Annie snarled at him. ‘Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty
‘I know that. Do you think I should increase the catering order, just in case?’
‘No,’ chorused Marc and Annie loudly and Bronte shrank a little at the force of it. ‘There’s always too much food,’ said Marc. ‘And if it runs out then people can just wait until they get home. It won’t kill them.’
Bronte stared at her brother, disbelieving.
‘Sorry. Poor taste,’ he said, dismissing his comment with a toss of his head.
‘Dad said that loads of people have been in touch wanting to say a few words in the service,’ said Annie. ‘They all have stories about her. It’s so cute.’
Marc frowned. ‘We can’t have that. It’ll get completely out of hand.’
‘But if people want to pay their respects . . .’ objected Annie.
‘Then they can, just not in the service. Imagine if everyone decided to stick in their two penn’orth. It would go on all night.’
This had the makings of an argument and Bronte, ever the diplomat, stepped in to keep the peace.
‘I’m sure it will all run like clockwork,’ she said appeasingly.
‘Of course it will,’ said Marc, as if there could be absolutely no doubt. ‘The cars are coming at ten thirty. The service is at eleven. I’ve spoken to the vicar and he knows what he’s going to say. My eulogy is written. The readings are all printed out. The orders of service are in a box in the hall. The hotel is primed and ready. I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.’
Marc was doing that thing he did, the oldest sibling thing that told everyone he was completely in charge and that no one detail had fallen through the cracks. It made Bronte want to run away. She was in the middle, falling squarely between Marc’s confident competence and Annie’s devil-may-care insouciance. The middle child, neither one thing nor the other and not really sure about any of it.
‘And,’ he added, ‘it’s not going to rain.’
He made a little ta-dah gesture with his hands, as if he could take credit for the weather on top of everything else, but then dropped them to his side, seemingly recalling what it was that he was organising so capably.
‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Annie, looking around as if their father might have been hiding behind a door.
‘He’s gone for a walk,’ Bronte replied. ‘I told him that we . . .’ She shot a glance at Marc, tacitly acknowledging his organisational skills. ‘. . . have everything under control and that he wasn’t to worry about a thing.’
‘How’s he doing?’ Annie asked, her tone more gentle.
She and Marc both turned to look at Bronte. As the only one of them to still be living in their home town, she was best placed to know. Bronte considered before answering.
‘I think he’s still in shock.’
‘Well, he’s not alone there,’ said Marc.
‘No, but we have lives of our own, away from home. Dad only had Mum. And now she’s gone.’
Bronte’s voice cracked as the emotion that she’d been trying to keep in check threatened to escape.
Annie wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close.
‘Oh, Bront. It’s okay. You can cry. You don’t have to be brave all the time.’
Bronte wasn’t being especially brave, but she feared if she started to cry she might never stop. She leaned into her little sister, burrowing her face into her jumper, its soft fibres tickling her nose, and let out a shuddering sob.
‘It’s just not right,’ she mumbled. ‘She was so young. Sixty-two is no age. She had so much she wanted to do. And to die from a sting. A bloody bee sting. How is that fair?’
‘How do you get to be that old without knowing you’re allergic to bees?’ said Marc, as if somehow their mother had been complicit in her own death.
‘Well, if you’ve never been stung, then how would you know . . .’ began Bronte.
‘But that’s what I mean. I’ve been stung loads of times. And you were that time we were playing Twister, remember?’
Bronte did remember. Being stung had hurt, but her nine-year-old self had been more upset knowing that by releasing its sting into her, the bee had caused its own death.
‘I haven’t,’ said Annie. ‘Do you think I should get tested? Now we know about Mum.’
Bronte stepped out of Annie’s embrace.
‘Maybe,’ she said. She didn’t have the energy for what she knew was coming. Annie and drama were never far apart. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk, get some fresh air.’
She left them to their allergy discussions and headed for the front door of their family home without much idea of where she was going. Just away, she thought.
The evening was bright, the spring sunlight still with a bit of a kick to it, and she squinted as she stepped out. She could put on her sunglasses, but she was bound to see someone who had known her mother and they might think she was being dramatic, like a bereaved celebrity perhaps. And anyhow, her sunglasses were in her bag, which was on the kitchen table. She didn’t want to go back. She wanted to be outside in the fresh air where she wasn’t answerable to anyone.
She walked down the steps, opened the gate and set off towards the town. The urge to text Joel was overwhelming. There was nothing that happened to her that didn’t prompt a need to tell Joel all about it. It was like a compulsion, as natural to her as having her own thoughts. Have an idea, share it with Joel. That was how it had been for the last five years. That was how she had assumed it always would be.
But Joel had blocked her number. It was for their own good, he had said. Just whilst she got used to everything. She wasn’t sure she ever would.
She would go to the shop instead. That was where she always went when she needed to feel safe. Her little shop, with its baskets of discarded trinkets and curios, things no longer required by the people who originally bought them but lovingly given a second chance by Bronte. It was her refuge, her port in any storm.
She snuck along the pavement, hoping that no one would notice her. That was unlikely. If you lived in a place for all your life then bumping into people you knew was unavoidable, especially when you most wanted to be on your own.
But Bronte couldn’t face any more conversations today. It was lovely that everyone she met wanted to tell her how wonderful Loretta had been, a linchpin in the community who would be painfully missed. They meant well, Bronte didn’t doubt it, but these conversations left her wanting to scream. She didn’t care how much they would miss her mother at the Brownies, or the WI, or on the parish council, or the very many things that seemed to require her mother’s attention and would evidently barely survive without her.
None of them would miss Loretta as much as Bronte did. She was already missing her mother more than anyone could possibly imagine. In fact, Bronte had no idea how she was expected to keep moving through day after day without her mother at her side.
It felt impossible.
2
On the morning of her mother’s funeral, the best Bronte could say was that she was functioning. She got up, showered, dressed, and made a stab at applying a little make-up. She took in her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had lost its shine, her skin was grey and half-moons of stormy purple sat beneath her eyes.
She had not been looking her best before her mother’s unexpected death. Joel had dropped his bomb into her world three months, two weeks and four days before and the fallout from that had still showed on her face when she suffered the second crushing blow. She could barely remember how she used to look and wondered whether she would ever be the same again.
But her sallow complexion and hollow eyes were the least of her concerns as she stared at herself. The greatest affront was her dress. It was a screaming fuchsia, so vibrant that you almost had to look at it side on. It glowed.
Not wearing black to the funeral had been a family decision.
‘Mum wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad,’ said Annie.
Bronte stared at her sister and shook her head, unable to fully follow her meaning. Of course they were going to be sad. Their mother was dead, for goodness’ sake.
‘She’d have wanted the funeral to be a celebration of life,’ Annie pressed on, glancing at them each in turn to urge their agreement. ‘Not us sitting around weeping and wailing. She’d have hated that. And she hated black too.’
