‘Yes,’ hisses Ada. ‘She does. Don’t you think she’s been through enough? She was manipulated, sexually assaulted, beaten, held in a basement against her will for months. Why should she give up her dreams because of what he did? She isn’t responsible for her abuser’s actions, and she won’t continue to suffer for them. My sister saved my life. She’s helping people at the charity, with this book and, as you’re clearly aware, she hasn’t made a penny from it. If she were a man, you’d have no problem with her publishing this book. If—’
I lay a hand on Ada’s arm to stop her. ‘I think you have everything you need for whatever you’re writing,’ I tell Stephanie, nodding towards the phone in her hand which is recording this exchange.
Ada, realising she has given several powerful soundbites, swears under her breath.
‘You’ve had your pound of flesh,’ says Mum, appearing behind Stephanie. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘Now,’ intones Dad.
‘Nobody wants you here,’ says Mel, the girl with the perfect eyeliner.
Then the rest of our readers, our friends, our family, chime in with a surge of support. Stephanie is surrounded and uncomfortable. Josh emerges from the back room, red in the face and trying to work out what is happening. As soon as he gets the gist, he is escorting Stephanie through the bookshop and out the back door. And I feel a rush of love for everyone who came tonight.
Ada’s eyes are on me, making sure I’m okay, and I give a minute nod of my head.
When the last copy of One Small Mistake is signed and our ticket holders have gone, we have a moment with our family and friends.
‘You girls,’ says Mum, a swell of emotion cresting her voice. She is wearing her best shoes, the satin ones with the little bow detail. ‘I’m so proud of my girls.’
Dad clears his throat. ‘We both are.’ It could be a trick of the light, but I think his eyes are shiny.
My parents were ineffably relieved both their daughters were alive, but I had a lot of explaining to do. Even though Ada and the police had been willing to keep my fake book deal a secret from my parents and the public, I couldn’t. I told Mum and Dad everything. Understandably, it took them a long while to forgive me, to understand why I lied about the book, why I felt compelled to agree to Jack’s plan after he had me abducted. But my parents’ anger soon gave way to concern as I told the rest of my story to the police and discussions about sentencing were had. The reality that their youngest could be facing prison for initially agreeing to her own abduction settled like a chemical smog.
The police couldn’t prove Jack’s involvement in Jeffrey’s death, but they could prove his involvement in Noah’s. Going back through his bank statements, they saw Jack had hired a car the day before Noah was hit. After some investigating, they discovered Jack had taken that same car to a garage out of town to repair a shattered windscreen, and with paint traces found on Noah’s body, they were able to positively identify the car Jack hired as the one which hit Noah. I think this, along with my story and, eventually, Ada’s too, they were lenient, giving me a one-year suspended sentence.
‘It’s wonderful to have everyone together,’ says Mum.
I look around the room and feel lucky. George, our adoptive grandfather, catches our eye and lifts the biscotti by way of greeting. He’s in possession of the most loved copy of our book. Mum smiles back, but there’s a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. She’s thinking about Kathryn and Charlie. I know because I feel it too. Kathryn sold the house and left Crosshaven a week after Jack’s funeral. She’s living in London now, not far from her son and his husband. Mum and Kathryn exchanged a couple of emails after she moved, but they haven’t spoken in over a year.
‘Don’t keep apologising, Elodie,’ said Mum all those months ago. We were planting lavender in her garden. My counsellor said gardening would help with the panic attacks, the flashbacks, so I spent a lot of time in my parents’ garden. ‘It’s done. Jack’s fate was sealed the day you met as children on the front steps of Wisteria,’ she told me. ‘Even if you’d refused to go with Jack that day in the woods, he would’ve forced you to anyway.’
Which was true, though I couldn’t help but think Mum and Kathryn’s friendship turned to ash the night Wisteria did.
I wrote to Kathryn once, but she never replied. I didn’t expect her to. After all, I burned down her holiday home and took her son’s life. But I needed her to know I was sorry. That I loved Jack, even after everything, I loved him. This is a carefully guarded secret. I mentioned it to my counsellor once and she started talking about Stockholm syndrome, so I never spoke about it again.
‘Elodie, love, are you sure you won’t write another book?’ asks Mum.
I shake my head.
‘But writing is who you are. And think about all the money you could donate to charity with a second advance. All the people you’d help.’
‘I am helping, Mum. I work for the charity.’ After Jack, I couldn’t go back to marketing. I couldn’t sit behind a desk and pretend I was the same person. The need to connect with people who’d been through what I’d been through, the need to help them, was an itch, a nettle beneath my skin that only eased when I got the role at the Somerset Rape Crisis Centre.
‘I know …’ she says. ‘But don’t you listen to that nasty reporter or whoever she was. You had to write this book. People needed to hear your story. And you’ve done so much good with the money.’
Then Ada and I are alone.
‘You should tell them about your new book,’ she says.
‘No. And neither can you.’
‘Elodie—’
‘No one can ever know.’
This secret is my most valuable and Ada is the only person trusted with it. I do not want to be Elodie Fray, the girl who gained a career from a fake kidnapping gone wrong. But Mum was telling the truth; writing is who I am. It is sewn into the fabric of me. So I have written another book, submitted anonymously to another agent, penned under Noah Pine. His green vase sits on my writing desk; a reminder to live life doing the things I love. Without him, I’d never have quit my job and finished my first manuscript. I was lucky to have been loved by him. Writing this book under his name is the best way to honour that. To honour him.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I won’t tell them, I promise.’ Ada watches me over the rim of her champagne glass then asks, ‘Will you tell Josh?’
‘Of course not. Why would you ask that?’
‘I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you.’
I glance over my shoulder. He is across the room, talking to Christopher, though his eyes are on me – were before I looked over – and my heart beats just a little faster. He smiles, all white teeth and dimples. ‘He’s kind,’ I say, dragging my focus back to my sister. ‘He plays football. And he cycles. It’s a universal rule that all men who cycle have kind hearts.’
‘And great legs.’
I smile.
‘They’re not all like Jack,’ says Ada gently.
Her words are a wash of cold water, sobering. ‘I know,’ I say, though I’m not sure I do.
‘Josh isn’t Jack,’ she says. ‘He’s one of the good ones. Trust me.’ And I suppose I should; Ada recognised Jack’s intent before anyone else did. ‘You don’t need a man to make you happy, or to make anyone else happy for that matter,’ she offers. ‘But don’t close yourself off to love because you’re scared.’