On My Life Read online

  Also by Angela Clarke

  The Social Media Murders Series

  Follow Me

  Watch Me

  Trust Me

  Confessions of a Fashionista

  On My Life

  Angela Clarke

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Mulholland Books

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Angela Clarke 2019

  The right of Angela Clarke to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 473 68153 8

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978 1 473 68151 4

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 473 68152 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  The Start

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Then

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Eight Weeks Later

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  In memory of Helen Cadbury,

  who broke me into prison.

  You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed.

  Dynos Christianopoulos

  The Start

  I am covered in her blood. Her hair is caught between my fingers. Her blood is in my hair. I can smell her. Coconut shampoo, vanilla body spray, wet metal.

  Robert is missing. I don’t know where he is.

  I don’t know what happened.

  I only know one thing.

  I didn’t do this.

  Now

  The crowd outside sound crazed. The noise rushes toward us as I’m pulled away from the courtroom. Mr Peterson, my solicitor, is running alongside me. His face furrowed, concerned. I can barely make out his words over my panicked breaths.

  ‘Put your jacket over your head. Shield your face!’ he shouts. ‘There must be a way to take her out back?’

  The officer ignores him, and pulls harder on the handcuffs that bind us together. The metal scrapes against my wrist. I can’t speak.

  ‘Cover your face!’ Mr Peterson yells.

  The officer is in his late twenties, the same age as me. Tattooed Sanskrit symbols burst out the top of his shirt and climb his neck. He doesn’t look at me. His one barked instruction told me he speaks like I used to. He’s from London. South. We might have gone to the same school, passed each other on the street. Did he move to Gloucestershire to escape the past too? His tattoos a roadmap to his new self. The dolphin on my bikini line is one of the only things left from my time on the Orchard Park estate. Always a stupid name for an ugly growth of concrete tower blocks. I erased everything else. Rewrote myself. But the faded blue ink remains. A childish mistake. Mistakes Emily won’t get to make. A sob catches in my throat: I won’t cry here.

  Mr Peterson yells again, but his voice is lost under the roar of the screams outside. I grab at my Burberry mac with my free hand, try to swing it up and over my head. The fabric lands at a strange angle and I’m plunged into darkness. The shouts get muffled into indistinct anger. The officer pulls at me and I trip. It must be the steps.

  ‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’ voices yell.

  How do they know my name? What do they want? The fabric of my coat is sucked into my mouth. I’m choking. Must pull it away. Must keep my face hidden. Must get air. I’m suffocating.

  I can see feet, a swarm of legs against the barrier. The edges of camera flashes.

  ‘Why did you do it, Jennifer?’

  ‘Murdering bitch!’

  ‘Burn in hell!’

  Their vitriol sears chunks out of me. Has Sally at the office heard? Is she out there? I can’t imagine anyone I know doing this. Slinging bile at strangers. At me.

  ‘Hang her! Hang her! Hang her!’ The chant is gathering pace. It’s animalistic. Raw. I want to tell them I feel their pain too. But even if I could find the words, they’d never hear over this roar. The belt of my mac whips round and lashes at my back, as if carried by their hate. Can they get to me? Could they hurt me? I try to move toward the officer. The trainers they gave me, still laced for display in the shop, catch on the ground. The steps are the yellow Cotswold stone I normally love. It looks diseased now. My ankle twists. I trip forward. My arm is jerked up like a puppet’s by the man I’m handcuffed to. Pain tears into my shoulder. The coat is caught and flicks back and away. I’m exposed.

  A volley of camera flashes. There are a hundred screaming faces. I must get my coat. The tattooed officer pulls me on. Must cover my face. I try to use my hand but it’s hopeless. Arms reach for me. The police are trying to hold them back. Flashbulbs explode. Everything’s white. Bright.

  I’m in our kitchen. The glass panel in the door is shattered. Flashes of red slice across the white walls. Emily’s birthday cake falls from my hands. It smashes onto the floor, an eruption of icing and sponge. I can’t look down. Won’t look down.

  ‘Jenna!’ The voice rips through the chaos.

  Ness! I can’t see her. ‘Ness!’ I scream. Where is she? I try to stop; the crowd surges forward. A hand snaps out like a snake’s tongue and claws at my arm.

  ‘Keep moving!’ the tattooed officer bellows.

  ‘She’s my sister.’ Where is she? He pulls me on. There are barriers and a van. Oh god. A prison van.


  ‘Jenna!’ Ness’s voice again.

  I turn. I need her. I need to speak to her. Where’s she been? Where’s Mum? A flash of red hair. There!

  ‘Get off me, you prick!’ Ness shouts, barging aside a screaming man in a cagoule.

  ‘Easy, love,’ shouts a meaty policeman.

  We’re almost at the van now. ‘I need to speak to her. Please.’

  The hatred in the tattooed officer’s eyes winds me.

  ‘Jenna!’ Ness is at the front now, hanging over the barrier.

  ‘Is Robert with you?’ It’s my only hope. That the police have made a mistake. That for some reason he’s there.

  She shakes her head. No. The police said they found Robert’s blood in the kitchen. He’s missing. Gone.

  Agony twists through my gut. The stone melts under my feet. I reach for Ness. For comfort. For support.

  The officer jerks me back. The rabble seem closer. Ness is being buffeted from the side. ‘Is Mum all right?’ I shout.

  She nods, tears in her eyes. ‘We didn’t know. The electric’s been down – the phone’s been out.’

  My heart lurches. When did they find out? Now? Is that why they weren’t here before? I was arrested two nights ago, charged yesterday. Mr Peterson said he couldn’t get hold of them. I’d feared he was lying, that they might have believed this, refused to come.

  Ahead, a female prison officer is unlocking the van. Sweat patches bloom under her white shirtsleeves. I can’t do this. I need to speak to Ness. To Mum. To Robert. Where is Robert? My heart contracts. The floor threatens to suck me down. I twist back. Yell. ‘My lawyer is called Mr Peterson. He’s inside.’

  ‘Bring back the death penalty!’ shrieks a puce blur.

  Mr Peterson must know where they’re sending me, mustn’t he? I can’t get everything straight in my head. Can’t make it all make sense. ‘Mr Peterson will find out where I’m going.’

  The mob bulges. The meaty policeman stumbles, falls backwards. A crack. The barrier holding back the howling mass tips. There’s a rush forward.

  ‘Jenna!’ Ness screams as she’s swallowed by heaving bodies. A multi-headed monster swells closer.

  I could step toward them. Let them rip me limb from limb. Make this all stop. But I’ve got to stay alive for Robert. He must be out there. He needs me.

  The officers either side of me shout. A hand grips my arm and pushes me up into the van’s narrow corridor. I feel like I’m underwater, their voices muted bubbles. The step grazes my shin. I stumble. Try to put my hands out. The handcuffs lurch me back up. The guy chained to me undoes his cuff and I fall to the floor. He turns back and squares up to the advancing crowd. Behind him the police are fighting to keep them from the vehicle. From me. A photographer jumps over the barrier’s legs and, camera up, starts snapping. I shield my face. Too little, too late. I see Ness through my fingers, behind the crowd, stooping to pick something up. My trampled mac. Mascara streaks her face. I haven’t seen my sister cry since we were kids. It breaks my heart afresh.

  The female officer jumps in and pulls the door closed behind her. Her foot catches the edge of my shin and I feel the skin pinch. The air shifts. It smells like a piss-stained alley. Stale, acrid, suffocating. Don’t panic. It’s just me and her as she towers above. She’s in her fifties, her hair dyed straw yellow over wiry white. Her eyebrows dark and pencilled on. A sickly smile on her lips.

  ‘Welcome to the sweatbox, Princess.’

  Then

  My mobile jolts to life on my desk. Sally calling. Sally calls my mobile when she wants to speak directly to me. She’s that kind of boss: too efficient to be placed on hold. I pick it up. The other two girls who make up the S. Parr Recruitment Service are busy talking into their phones.

  ‘They’re all on calls, you would’ve got me anyway, Sal.’ I press send on the email to the Cotswold Blue Cheese Company. ‘I’ve just sent the cheese contract, by the way.’ Another new client.

  ‘Oh my darling girl, thank god.’ Sally’s voice is even higher than usual.

  ‘You okay?’

  I can hear echoing in the background. Is that a toilet flushing? ‘Dear god, no. I must’ve eaten something that disagreed with me,’ she hisses.

  Ah. She’s in the loo. This is awkward, even by her standards. ‘Where are you? Do you need help?’

  ‘Urgh. There’s no way I can come back to the office, darling, you’ll have to take my meeting this afternoon,’ she says. It must be bad if she’s missing a meeting.

  I have her diary synced with my iPhone. ‘The three thirty with Milcombe?’ I took Mum for a Mother’s Day treat to Field House spa, one of the Milcombe Estate hotels, last year. It was heavenly. Ranger & Co have run Milcombe’s recruitment for years; if we at S. Parr can nab them it’d be a huge deal. ‘Sure you don’t want me to rearrange?’

  ‘No, no, darling, muck their manager around and they’ll be sticking with mangy Ranger. They’ve got a new build underway. Renovating some stables. It’s targeting the corporate away-day market, and all that. You can handle it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I’ve been here six years, and Sally treats me like her right-hand woman, but I still suffer from imposter syndrome. The fear that I’ll be uncovered as a fraud picks at my seams. It’s ridiculous really. I’ve told Sally I grew up on a sink estate and she says she doesn’t care. I think that’s because she has no idea what it really means.

  Sally exhales forcefully. ‘Oooof. No time to argue, they’ll love you like I do. Kisses.’ And she rings off.

  Luckily, I know her system well. Sally’s placed the files for today’s clients on her desk, and within half an hour I’m up to speed. The plan is to offer them a cohesive package for their new venture. Top-dollar sourcing, shortlisting, and training. I can see that Sally’s aiming to win them over with this project in the hope of getting introductions to the wider estate.

  At three thirty I’m all set up in the meeting room. It’s good to look busy when the client arrives. Becky is teed up and I hear her laughter and offers of tea or coffee as she and the client approach. A quick check of our glossy brochures and I’m ready. I stand up, smooth my white shirt down over my cigarette pants and smile as she opens the door. I almost forget to extend my hand when the man walks in.

  Taller than me, with messy blond hair, he’s wearing a green Milcombe Estate polo shirt, shorts, and, most incongruously, wellies. He greets me with a confident grin.

  ‘Sorry for the attire, I’ve come straight from calving.’ He holds out a hand and a piece of straw drops from his watch.

  Surprise must have shown on my face, because he looks bashful. Way to make him feel comfortable. ‘No problem. I’m Jenna.’ His hand is soft for a farmer. I stop staring at his forearms. ‘Sally’s been unexpectedly detained, I’m afraid, so I’ll be talking to you today.’ Let go of his hand. He’s going to think you’re mad. I drop it.

  ‘She’s not expecting as well, is she?’ he asks, concerned.

  As well? He can’t think that I’m pregnant, can he? I need to lay off the carbs. Sally’s fifty-five and has no children, I’m not sure what to say. ‘I . . . she . . . well . . . I think it’s unlikely.’

  His face creases with a smile and his eyes sparkle. ‘I meant the herd. I heard she bought Bridge Farm last year.’

  What’s wrong with me? ‘Oh, of course! I see!’ He doesn’t think I look fat. ‘No, she rents the land out. Sally can barely keep a cactus alive.’ My laugh comes out all squeaky. ‘She definitely doesn’t have livestock. God no.’ I’m babbling.

  He bends to retrieve the piece of straw from the floor. ‘I’m making a mess again.’ His voice is friendly. I catch basil and cedarwood as he reaches past me to the bin.

  Behind him through the glass door, I can see Becky fanning herself and mouthing he’s hot!

  Ignore her. Stay focused. ‘I’m so sorry, the calving comment threw me a bit. I wasn’t expecting it.’ I was expecting a corporate hotel manager. A less hands-on one.

  ‘Have I put
my foot in it again?’ he beams. ‘Bit of a bad habit. Size elevens, you see. Bloody great big things.’

  I feel the urge to giggle. ‘No, no, not at all.’ I remember my manners. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t get your name?’ Get a grip, Jenna. You’re behaving like a schoolgirl.

  ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ He holds out his hand. ‘No calves this time. I’m Robert. Lovely to meet you, Jenna.’

  I smile and shake his hand again, strong, warm. My face flushes. Behind him I can see Becky crack up. I’m not used to men having this effect on me. A little too late, I remember to let go of his hand. For the second time.

  We stand for a moment, looking at each other. And then it comes back to me: I’m at work, this is a meeting. ‘Shall we?’ I gesture at the table, trying hard not to meet his gaze, to keep my voice upbeat.

  ‘Let’s,’ he says. A dimple forms on the left side of his face as he smiles.

  I’m hyper-aware of all my limbs as Robert pulls the chair out for me, as if my body might throw me into him of its own free will. It knows before I do that I want him.

  The meeting passes in a blur. I have no idea what’s coming out of my mouth, or if I’ve completely screwed up our pitch. All I know is that when Robert tentatively asks, blond hair falling over his anxious eyes, if I would consider going for a drink with him, my heart sings. I’m going to see him again. I’m going to see him again!

  Now

  There’s a thud against the side of the van. And another. They’re kicking it.

  ‘My sister’s out there!’ What if they turn on her? ‘They might hurt her!’

  ‘Should’ve thought of that before.’ The prison officer smiles. She looks delighted.

  My stomach drops.

  Another thud against the van. There are shouts from outside. I know what they’re saying. Saliva pools in my mouth. I need to use the bathroom.

  The officer unlocks a door to her left. The van is lined with tiny metal cells.

  ‘In,’ she commands.

  Panic is hauling itself up my throat. ‘I get car-sick,’ I say, as she pulls me toward the cell.