Every Little Secret, page 1
About the Author
SARAH CLARKE is a writer living in south-west London with her husband, children and stubbornly cheerful cockapoo. Over fifteen years, Sarah has built a successful career as a marketing copywriter, but her dream has always been to become a published author. When her youngest child started secondary school, she joined the Faber Academy Writing a Novel course to learn the craft of writing psychological thrillers. Sarah graduated in 2019. Every Little Secret is her second novel.
Also by Sarah Clarke
A Mother Never Lies
Every Little Secret
Sarah Clarke
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2022
Copyright © Sarah Clarke 2022
Sarah Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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.
E-book Edition © April 2022 ISBN: 9780008494896
Version: 2022-02-28
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Sarah Clarke
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Extract
Acknowledgements
Author’s Letter
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
For Mum & Dad
Prologue
It’s widely understood that unconditional love is reserved for a child.
Not for your brother or sister. Not your husband or wife. It’s not even expected for your mother or father.
Unconditional love is one-way. And it can be a lonely journey.
If you’re not sure that your child deserves it.
If they say hurtful things. Make selfish choices. Turn on the people who love them the most.
Can you push back against the forces of motherhood? Put your hand up and plead: it’s different for me – my child is not to be trusted anymore.
I choose to give my unconditional love to someone else.
I don’t know the answer to that question. Soon I will be tested, but not yet. Tonight I can look down at my sleeping child, so perfect and innocent in slumber, and still enjoy the miracle of motherhood. I can graze their forehead with my lips, tuck in the duvet, whisper that I love them. And mean it.
Then I can close their bedroom door behind me, walk downstairs and return to my husband.
Chapter 1
GRACE
2019
Grace gives Marcus an imploring stare, but he’s immune to her plea. Just do it, his eyes say. No sympathy there. She stares around the room, but there’s no option for escape either. She feels vulnerable, still in her pyjamas, sleepy dust lurking in the four corners of her eyes, her body trapped by their increasingly unnecessary winter duvet. She takes a deep breath and surrenders to the inevitable.
‘Do you like it, Mummy?’
Grace swallows the tepid liquid and tries to ignore its pallid tone and the suspicious brown dots floating on the surface. ‘It’s delicious, honey. The best cup of tea I’ve ever tasted.’
Kaia smiles, relief etched into her face. She’s always been like this, carrying the weight of an in-built urge to succeed. ‘I made a card too.’
Grace takes the folded piece of cardboard from her daughter’s proffered hand and sneaks a look at her husband, who’s loitering behind the bed like a spare part. Perhaps that is his role today. This is the eighth Mother’s Day that they’ve celebrated as a family, but even now, with Kaia’s glittery I love you, Mummy sparkling from inside the card, it causes a lump to form in her throat. Theirs wasn’t the smoothest route to parenthood, and Kaia still feels like a gift.
‘Kaia has offered to make breakfast too,’ Marcus offers, the tease in his voice apparent to everyone over the age of about 10.
‘Gosh, what a treat,’ Grace spars back. ‘Perhaps you could make breakfast for Daddy as well. I’m sure he’d love that.’ He’s avoided the milky cup of tea; she doesn’t see why he should miss out on burned toast or stodgy pancakes too.
‘I’m not making Daddy’s breakfast.’
Grace sits up straighter in bed. Kaia is usually such a Daddy’s girl. ‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘It’s Mother’s Day,’ Kaia replies quickly, as though surprised Grace hasn’t worked that out. ‘It’s not his turn.’
Grace relaxes back against the headboard and smiles. ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps Daddy could help you make breakfast then?’
‘I’m nearly 8. I can do it by myself,’ Kaia announces.
‘It appears that I’m redundant then,’ Marcus says, holding up his hands with mock offence. ‘In that case, I’ll go for a shower instead.’ Grace watches her husband walk into their en-suite bathroom, the muscles in his back expanding and sliding over bone as he stretches out his shoulders. His professional career ended seven years ago, but he still trains with the determination of an athlete. Then she turns back to Kaia, who’s eyeing the bed with a longing expression. Grace smiles her approval, lifts up the duvet and lets Kaia wriggle inside until their heads are parallel. Kaia cups her small hand tightly over Grace’s ear. ‘But, Mummy,’ she whispers, her warm breath crackling down the shadowy tunnel to Grace’s brain. ‘Will you make my breakfast? Because you’re the best at that.’
*
Marcus offers to buy croissants from the local deli in the end. They sit at the breakfast table together, ripping apart the soft dough and smothering it with Grace’s mother’s famous damson jam, and Grace allows herself a moment of reflection. Life hasn’t always been easy, and at times she’s found it hard to stay optimistic, but here she is, eating delicious food in a home she loves, with her two favourite people in the world.
‘Hey, Kaia, help me clear the table.’ Marcus picks up the three plates dappled with crumbs, and gestures for Kaia to collect the rest of the crockery. As Grace watches Kaia walk between the table and the kitchen, she wonders what her daughter is thinking about. Usually she’d be giggling at Marcus’s atrocious dad jokes by now, or calling shotgun on the washing up and barging him out of the way. But she seems miles away today. Perhaps this is just a sign of her growing up, claiming her independence one clandestine thought at a time.
Marcus looks at his watch. ‘Time for rugby, Kaia. Race upstairs and get your kit on.’ It was always Marcus’s dream to have a child to share his biggest passion with, and he never allowed Kaia’s gender to be a barrier. He signed her up with the local rugby club as soon as she was old enough, two years ago, and it’s since become a Sunday morning ritual from September to April, the highlight of both their weeks.
‘I don’t want to go.’
Marcus looks up in surprise. ‘Huh?’
‘I want to stay at home with Mummy instead.’
‘But you’re the best player in the squad,’ he reminds her, fatherly pride oozing out. ‘Faster than all the boys. Awesome ball skills. You love it there. Why don’t you want to go?’
Kaia shrugs and leans into Grace.
Marcus adds a bigger smile and tries a different tack. ‘How about I promise to get you a hot chocolate at the end?’ He winks. ‘Marshmallows on top if you score a try.’
Grace watches her daughter weigh up his offer. Kaia has always loved rugby and comes home recounting stories of her achievements on the pitch. And she’s a big fan of hot chocolate too. Perhaps Grace should give her one more push. ‘And Grandad will love to hear all about it later,’ she cajoles.
Kaia turns to looks at her. ‘But what if someone kicks me in the eye?’ Her expression is open and her tone innocent, but the question still causes Grace’s croissant to rear up inside her stomach. She crouches down. ‘It’s non-contact rugby, Kaia. It’s not the same game as Daddy used to play.’
Kaia stares at her, as though she’s searching Grace’s face for further reassurance. Silence sits between them for a while, but finally Kaia’s eyeline drops and she sighs. ‘Okay, Mummy.’ Then she plods up the stairs and returns two minutes later in her Wimbledon Rugby Club strip.
‘Thank you,’ Marcus says, his low voice showing he hasn’t fully recovered from Kaia’s question, the arc of white skin next to his right eye a constant reminder of his own accident. He guides their daughter out of the front door and the house falls blissfully silent. The air feels looser with them gone, and Grace sucks it in.
She runs a bath, adds a generous dollop of bubble bath and climbs in. As always, her hand drops to the scar on her belly. She runs her finger along the slight ridge and wonders what it would have been like to have more children, multiple Mother’s Day cards and unappetising cups of tea. But it wasn’t to be. She sinks under the bubbles and listens to the gentle whoosh of water in her ears.
Chapter 2
‘Darling, come in. So lovely to see you all!’
‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mum.’ Grace pulls the older lady into a tight hug and enjoys the smell of her familiar perfume, a scent Faith has worn for as long as Grace can remember. It’s one of the things she missed most during her time on the other side of the world. When they moved back from New Zealand, with a small baby and a shattered dream in tow, she knew she would need her mum’s calm reassurance on standby, so they’d looked for a house as close to Wimbledon Village as they could afford. They’d ended up in Earlsfield, an area with a noisier, grimier vibe, but still only a ten-minute drive from this peaceful patch of faux countryside.
‘I’ve cooked your favourite, roast salmon with baby tomatoes and asparagus. The daffs have all popped up in the garden and your father has got the rosé on ice. It seems we’re dragging spring here, whether it’s ready or not. Come through.’
Grace follows her mum down the grand hallway and into the wide kitchen and dining space at the back of the house. Her parents only moved to London when Grace and Josh left the family home; the big house in Devon with views of the sea wasn’t so appealing without the energy of children to keep it alive. Henry was still working at the bank back then, so they’d decided to sell his two-bedroom flat in Pimlico and set up a permanent home in the capital. Wimbledon Village, with its thousand-acre common to explore, had been the perfect way to reacquaint themselves with city life gently.
‘Is Uncle Josh coming for lunch, Granny?’
Faith’s face clouds over for a moment before the smile returns. Grace can see that it’s still not easy for her, the son she raised making a life for himself five thousand miles away.
‘Not today I’m afraid.’
Josh had left for Stanford University in California as a fresh-faced 18-year-old undergraduate. No one expected him to stay in America, but his undergraduate degree grew into a doctorate in psychology, which then turned into a PhD and a career in academia, and he’d recently been made a professor there. Save for a few trips to Europe during the long summers of his first degree, he’s hardly left America’s west coast. Now the only time he comes home is at Christmas, and he only stays for a few days, always impatient to resume whatever study he’s working on at the time.
‘Oh.’ Kaia’s features sink a little, the corners of her mouth drooping with the weight of disappointment. She has always had a soft spot for her only uncle, but those feelings grew stronger on his last visit. It had snowed on Boxing Day and Josh had taken his niece sledging for the morning, with Faith joining them as official photographer. They’d returned, cheeks pink and mouths stained with hot chocolate residue, regaling her with stories of their near misses.
‘Maybe one day we can go to stay with Uncle Josh in California?’ Grace suggests. In truth, she knows that Marcus wouldn’t approve, his dislike for her brother a rare cause of tension between them. But Kaia doesn’t need to know that.
‘He already invited me actually,’ Kaia says with a disdain she’s too young for. Grace turns to her mum to share a conspiratorial smile, but Faith is too busy putting the finishing touches to their meal.
‘Well, if it isn’t my second favourite mother.’ A baritone voice sails across the room and Grace turns towards her father. While Faith is compact, like an expensive ornament neatly packaged away, Henry is a spreader, of whatever emotion he’s feeling at that exact moment. Luckily today he’s emanating respect for the matriarchy, so Grace folds into his broad chest and feels the weight of his – wholly undeserved – workman’s hands on her back.
‘Good to see you too, Marcus,’ he continues, initiating the usual ritual: vigorous handshake, elbow grab, semi hug with hearty back slap. ‘And last but not least, my little Kaia.’
‘Hello, Grandad.’
Grace watches her father ruffle Kaia’s hair until her attention is pulled away by her mum. ‘Lunch is served!’
At Faith’s instruction, they all move into the dining area. Weak sunlight is trying to edge its way through the large glass panels of the orangery and on to the long rustic oak table. As they eat, the conversation moves to Marcus’s business and his upcoming pitch with Twickenham Stadium, the home of English rugby. Grace knows it would be the dream contract for his fledgling sports marketing agency, especially with his background, but it won’t be an easy win. Ever since his snapped retina signalled the end of Marcus’s rugby career – a mistimed kick that connected with his eye socket, as Kaia reminded him just that morning – he’s struggled to find his place in the world. Grace hopes she won’t have to pick up the pieces again when the results of this pitch are announced.
‘What do you think, Grace, is he in with a chance?’
‘Well, if anyone can persuade Twickenham to try out a new agency, it’s my husband.’ She catches eyes with Marcus and when he winks back at her, her belly flips. It’s ridiculous that she still feels like this. They’ve been together for nearly fourteen years. Why does she still feel like the 16-year-old who happily accepted the bunch of flowers from him that hazy afternoon, along with his apology, and prayed he didn’t notice her shaking hands?
The generous lunch leads to calls for a walk, so they don coats and scarfs against the cold wind (spring definitely hasn’t arrived) and set out for the Common. The main pathways are busy – small children and exuberant puppies vying for space with the local, uniquely unflappable, horses – but Henry and Faith have mapped every trail in their heads over the past decade, so quickly guide them to a quieter area with narrow tracks and more tree cover. Grace weaves her arm through her mother’s and enjoys the sound of their footsteps in sync.
‘How’s school?’ Faith asks the routine question lightly.
‘Well, fine, I think. But there was an incident.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was nothing really, but Kaia hit a girl in the face with a netball. Rebecca. It was an accident of course, but it gave her a nosebleed.’
‘A risk you take when you play, I suppose.’
‘Exactly! That’s what I said. But Rebecca told her friends that Kaia had done it on purpose.’
‘On purpose?’ Faith’s face twists in disapproval. ‘That’s not very kind of her.’
‘No. But unfortunately Kaia didn’t deny it, just walked away from the argument. And now none of her friends are talking to her.’
‘Poor Kaia,’ Faith murmurs. Then she purses her lips and falls silent again, her mind seemingly elsewhere.
They carry on like that for a while, and Grace turns her attention to her daughter. Kaia’s walking slightly separately from them all, eyeing the undergrowth, delving in when she spots a good throwing stick for the imaginary dog that she’s determined to make real one day. Grace smiles as she remembers the petition Kaia made to her and Marcus last autumn. She’d lined up all her soft toys – the dogs centre stage of course – and explained that the majority of the family voted in favour of a dog. Marcus had gone puppy-eyed too at that point. Grace had been the strong one, standing firm against the tide of Kaia’s pleas, but it hadn’t been easy, and her willpower is waning. Maybe a chocolate brown cocker spaniel, she muses.
