What Have I Done

Four years ago



The house on the Cornish cliff could best be described as ‘rambling’. It had been constructed at the beginning of the twentieth century when there had been no shortage of local building materials and was a collaboration between an extravagant and whimsical architect who had a fancy for New England, and a wealthy tin baron who wanted a home befitting his station. The result was corridors that led nowhere in particular and a property that boasted not one but three Gothic-style turrets and innumerable church-style windows that let little light into the small square rooms that they graced. A decked terrace ran along the front of the property, held up with thick porch posts and gabled arches that gave the whole place a feeling of New Hampshire.

A wooden swing-seat just big enough for two adults of close acquaintance had been suspended from a length of industrial rope and hung in pride of place to the left of the front door. In the summer it would be padded with comfortable striped cushions, making it the perfect place to while away the warm evenings. Kate pictured herself with a glass of wine in hand and her toes rocking back and forth on the deck; it would transport her back to those hot Caribbean evenings, with the sound of the waves and chirping crickets confirming that she was in paradise. The only thing missing would be the dulcet tones of a certain reverend, whom she would happily have budged up for.

The front of the house was half timbered and one of Kate’s first jobs had been to restore the wood and paint it a pale duck egg blue. This ensured that Prospect House blended perfectly with the sea and sky against which it sat.



The phone rang on the desk in the study. It was perched on a stack of papers, all awaiting her attention with varying degrees of urgency. Kate hadn’t realised there would be quite so many administrative hoops to jump through before she could make her dreams a reality. She figured that if the demands were that pressing, the topic would come to light again, a bit like cream rising to the top or a bobbing apple in a busy Halloween bucket.

‘Prospect House.’ Kate still felt a certain thrill at saying the name. She balanced the phone between her head and her shoulder, crooked to one side.

Kate loved the place in which she now lived. When she had sat in the car park on the harbourside five months earlier with the windows rolled down and the unforgiving Cornish wind buffeting her car, it had been the name that had initially drawn her. She had looked out across the harbour wall and thought of Simon as she sometimes did, wondering how his construction project was coming along. He was often never more than a small reminder away.

The estate agent’s details had fluttered in her palm, the third or fourth set that she had flicked through; the name made her do a double-take, immediately pushing it higher up the list than ‘Jasmine Cottage’ and ‘The Lodge’.

Her pulse had quickened. ‘Surely not!’

But there it was in black and white: ‘Prospect House’, on the market and, miraculously, excitingly within budget.

It had turned into a momentous day: not only did the property match the one that had existed in her head for a while, but she immediately realised that it was not meant to be just a holiday house. Penmarin could actually become the place she called home.

The house had been named for the amazing sea view from its prime cliff-top position. For Kate, however, it was the dictionary definition of ‘prospect’ that most inspired her: Possibility of something happening soon, a chance or the likelihood that something will happen in the near future, especially something desirable.

This was the definition she shared with all newcomers to the house, in the hope that they might believe in the possibility of a better future, for Prospect House was all about hope.

Kate tried to concentrate on the voice on the end of the phone while she prodded at the pile of paper with her pen, hoping it might topple into the bin and disappear for good. No such luck.

A workman’s drill stuttered to life in the old stable. She plugged her ear to try and block out its drone. The staff would have their own quarters in the converted buildings to the side of the property, across a courtyard; far enough away to give the girls their independence, but close enough to be on site in a matter of seconds. As yet, though, no staff had been hired. Kate wasn’t sure how to find exactly what she was looking for. It was one more thing waiting to be crossed off her ever growing list.

She turned her attention back to voice on the end of the phone.

‘Yes, I understand completely. I think we’ve complied one hundred per cent: fire doors, new escapes and so forth. All work was recommended and approved by the Cornish fire service… My certificate?’ Kate stared at the pile of papers; it had to be hidden somewhere. ‘Yes, I have it right here!’ she lied. ‘I’ll pop a copy in the post immediately!’

She added it to her list and replaced the handset in its cradle.

‘I need some fresh air!’ Kate threw her hands in the air and shouted into the empty house.



It was one of the first glorious days of summer and Kate was relishing the novelty of living on the coast, bringing new adventures every day. The sun warmed her through the window as she dawdled in the post office, browsing the jars of homemade preserves. She wondered if it would be undiplomatic to ask who made them, so that she could go direct to the source and save a few bob. As far as possible, she wanted organic, homemade produce for every meal. It was all part of establishing Prospect House as completely distinct from her residents’ previous lives, in which Kate could almost guarantee that most of the food they ate came fast or shrink-wrapped. She had hated the plastic trays on which the prison food was served. An indentation for stew and another for custard meant that one slip and the courses would slop and merge together like the contents of a toddler’s pelican bib; it was disgusting.

‘You just bought the big house on the top.’

It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer, but instead stared at the young man who stood to her right, clutching his pot noodle and a packet of chocolate bourbons. She estimated him to be about thirty, with the high tan and weathered face of someone who had grown up and worked his whole life in the outdoors.

‘We’re not ’appy about your plans.’

This also did not merit a response, causing him to redden slightly under her silent scrutiny, but not enough to deter him from repeating his phrase.

‘I said we’re—’

‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. I am just trying to figure out two things before I answer you. Firstly, who is the “we” in question, and secondly, what do you or anyone else know about my plans?’

He shifted his weight onto his other foot. Kate noticed one of his legs was considerably shorter than the other, the deficit made up by an unwieldy built-up boot.

‘We is the whole village, all of Penmarin really.’

Her eyes widened. She placed her hand on the cameo brooch at her neck, feigning shock.

‘Is that right? The whole village? Goodness, I don’t think I have spoken to more than four people since I arrived and yet the whole village is unhappy with me? That’s quite an achievement.’

‘It’s not you personally; it’s what you are going to do up there, bringing all sorts of undesirables into this little place. Most of us have lived here our whole lives and there are kids and old people to think about…’

‘Where is it exactly that I am communally discussed?’

‘You what?’

Kate shifted her shopping basket on her arm and repeated her enquiry.

‘Where is it that everybody talks about me and my degenerate plans to corrupt your children, destroy your community and life as you know it?’

His nervous stutter told her all that she needed to know.

‘In… In the pub mainly…’ He looked at his feet. Had he divulged a secret?

‘Great! Well, you can tell the great “we” that I will be in the pub tonight at seven thirty, to discuss my plans and I’ll be happy to answer any questions that anyone might have. I’m Kate by the way.’

She held out her hand. He took it and smiled.

‘Tom, Tom Heath.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Tom. I’m sure I will see you later.’

With that she swept past him and the counter where the postmistress was listening and watching, mouth agape. Kate’s appetite for preserves had suddenly abated.

She marched the two miles home; the winding lane with its steep incline was no challenge for her determined stride, she was a woman on a mission. Despite her strong resolve, hot tears pricked her eyes. Why did everything have to be a bloody battle? The warm, salt-tinged breeze irritated rather than soothed. Kate cared little for the sprouting cow parsley and red campion as she kicked at the hedgerows, sending the heads scattering onto the scorched tarmac. Slamming the kitchen door behind her, she plonked her basket in the middle of the kitchen table and gave a guttural yell.

‘UUUrrgghhh!’

‘Why don’t you just swear? It is so much more satisfying,’ said the voice from the breakfast bar.

Kate laughed, but chose not to take up the suggestion.

‘I didn’t know you were back. How was Truro?’

‘Good, thanks, but stop changing the subject. It’s true you know, Kate, a good swear can be most therapeutic. Do you know that in all the years I’ve known you, I have never, ever heard you properly swear apart from the odd “bloody” and a couple of “shits”, which frankly don’t really count, and I honestly think that sometimes you would find it of great benefit. I love a good swear, especially in the car, and I can tell that right now is one of those times. Come on, Kate, repeat after me. Boll—’

‘I don’t think so.’ Kate raised her hand and cut her friend short.

‘I have never sworn habitually and I’m not going to start now in my forties!’

‘You are such a goody-goody.’

‘That’s me!’

‘Anyway, what’s up? Why the need for an almost-nearly swear?’

Kate looked at her friend sitting astride a high stool and sighed.

‘Oh, Natasha, I’ve had a pants day. People are coming out of the woodwork and demanding certificates and insurance policies and goodness knows what else before we can open properly and as if that isn’t enough, I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands.’

‘Ooh, that sounds dramatic. Tell all!’

Natasha placed her paintbrush into its pot of water, swirling it to create the most vivid shade of blue. She bunched her voluminous skirt into her hand and gave Kate her full attention.

‘I ran into a young chap in the post office who told me that the locals are not happy about what we are doing up here.’

‘Oh my God! It’s out, isn’t it! The fact that we have been drinking Chablis and eating crisps while watching Mamma Mia into the early hours. Oh my God, the shame! I confess all; I have a weakness for Pierce Brosnan!’

‘This is serious, Natasha, and worse still, I have agreed to go and face the masses at the pub tonight for a bit of a question and answer session. I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just so incensed! I felt a lot braver then than I do now.’

‘I think it’s a great idea. We should be open and up front, not hide here as though we have a guilty secret. It will be okay once we have actually met the locals. They probably think we are a couple of lesbians living a life of debauchery all alone and thoroughly enjoying ourselves!’

‘Goodness, Natasha, not the whole lesbian thing again, please!’

They both laughed.



Half-past seven came round very quickly. Kate quietly closed the front door and felt a wave of anxiety. The next time she stepped through its frame she would either be accepted or alienated – quite a daunting thought.

The two sauntered along the lane in the dying warmth of the summer’s day. Kate had dressed with care in a pair of tailored jeans, a floral poplin shirt and the faintest smidge of make-up. The novelty of being able to wear jeans after two decades of Mark’s sartorial restrictions had not worn off; she doubted that it ever would. In her deck shoes and with a cotton jersey over her shoulders, she looked somewhere between a local and a visiting yachtie.

Natasha looked magnificent in a turquoise linen shift with an array of lapis lazuli at her throat and wrists. No understated dressing for her – Kate wouldn’t have expected anything different.

‘It’ll be all right you know, Kate. What’s the worst that they can do? Hound us out of town?’

Kate smiled weakly and thought that yes, that was exactly what they could do.

The Lobster Pot pub radiated light against the natural landscape, throwing out its shadowy beams across the tarmac car park and grass beyond. It was the same glow that drew teenage adventurers, with the lure of all that it held within, but for Kate Gavier it looked like the Admiral Benbow from Treasure Island, and tonight held as much menace.

The two women stepped through the door and were greeted by at least forty pairs of eyes and a curtain of silence that descended with alarming speed. The place was packed to the rafters with the old and the young; denim-clad bottoms were balanced on stools and filled the shabby booths; women were perched on the knees of their menfolk. The air was thick with the sweat and alcohol-breath of the crowd. The windows had steamed up and the place pulsed with the anticipation of forty expectant souls whose tongues and wits were being lubricated by the local real ale.

Kate hesitated for a fraction of a second, loitering in the doorway. To flee or fight, that was her dilemma. A loud voice roused her from her stupor.

‘Ah! Here she is, our guest of honour!’

A large man in his mid fifties stepped forward from the crowd, a generous measure of whisky swirling in his hand. His mustard cords, checked shirt and floppy hair identified him as the wealthy restaurant owner from the harbour. He was a minor celebrity in these parts, with a stake in nearly all the local businesses, including the pub. His shiny yacht, which was permanently moored alongside the shabby fishing boats, made a bold statement.

Kate and Natasha had seen him from afar at least twice. He was a man for whom ageing was not only a problem but also a preoccupation. Tooth veneers and a regular root touch-up to keep the grey at bay both helped. Little, however, could be done to disguise his elderly hands, aged with liver spots and reminding Kate of prime pork sausages: meaty, bloated and growing more inept month on month. He dressed as he always had, paying no heed to his expanding waistline or the swell of his neck that strained beneath his collar. Kate and Natasha could see that two or three decades earlier he might have been attractive in a rather caddish, country gentleman type way. But not now, now he was past his prime. They had snickered, knowing that to be similarly assessed would be devastating.

He reached out his chubby hand and Kate shook it firmly, noting the heavy gold signet ring on his little finger.

‘Rodney Morris. Delighted to meet you.’ His voice boomed with the confidence of a man who wanted to be heard.

‘Kathryn Br— Gavier, I’m Kate Gavier.’

Damn! She didn’t know why she did that, but whenever nerves got the better of her, she almost always referred to herself by her married name. Any high-anxiety situation had the potential to kick her back into that state of terror she’d permanently endured during her marriage, all but flipping her brain into assuming the role of Kathryn Brooker, tortured wife.

‘Well, Kate, I have been nominated “unofficial spokesman”, if you like, to try and add a semblance of order to proceedings.’

Kate was pleased that Natasha, who was now standing to her right, did not correct his use of ‘spokesman’ to ‘spokesperson’, although she knew that her desire to do so would be strong. She herself fought the need to giggle, accurately surmising that far from being put out at his role, Rodney Morris would have volunteered to take centre stage.

The whole charade was quite hilarious. The rag-taggle brigade in front of her, ranging from the estate agent who had sold her the house to the milkman who delivered to her daily, were there to decide whether they would accept her or not. Who the bloody hell did they think they were? Kate was suddenly invigorated with strength and confidence. She had faced worse than this motley collection over the last few years, was she going to fall at the first hurdle? No, no she wasn’t. She stepped into middle of the room and very quietly and calmly took control.

‘Excellent. It’s great to finally meet you, Rodney, in fact to meet all of you, whose paths we have crossed anonymously for the past few weeks. This is my friend and colleague, Natasha Mortensen.’

Natasha waved to anyone whose eye she could catch.

‘It’s great to see so many of our new neighbours here tonight and I am very grateful for the opportunity to tell you all about our new venture. So I guess it’s best if I start by giving you a brief summary of what it is that we are planning to do at Prospect House and then take any questions. How does that sound?’

There were several loud, inarticulate mutterings, but the general consensus was ‘Yes’, ‘Fine’ and ‘Let’s get on with it’.

Rodney Morris nodded and twisted the chunky ring on his pinkie, feeling that his role as unofficial spokesman had rather been usurped. He took two steps backwards in a physical gesture of redundancy.

Kate turned to face the crowd. They were silent, drinks held aloft, awaiting the sermon.

‘I would firstly like to say how very fortunate I feel to now be living in such a beautiful, tranquil place as Penmarin and I am sure that I don’t need to tell you people how lucky you are to live and work in somewhere so blessed.’

Natasha was stunned by her friend’s commanding, steady voice. You go, girl! This too she managed to refrain from shouting.

‘I intend to open Prospect House as a residential home for people who have not always been so blessed in their environment or their lives—’

‘Yeah, we heard it was going to be full of paedophiles, rapists, druggies and whatnot. Truth is, we don’t want them here, we really don’t!’

The voice of dissent belonged to a fisherman, who was still wearing his padded wading trousers. His angry words had been battering the inside of his lips ever since Kate had entered the pub. Several shouts of agreement came from the crowd and there were some nods as well.

‘Paedophiles and rapists? Goodness me! Who would want that?’

Her smile was for Natasha alone. They both knew that Kate had lived amongst those types and worse for the last few years and that a good few of the people in the pub would likely be either or both, such was life. A small ripple of comment and laughter spread among the crowd; they were clearly divided. She continued.

‘I can assure you that the last thing I would do is to place you or anyone in this community in danger. The people that I will be taking in may have criminal records, but I am talking about a maximum of six residents at any one time and they will be females, girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three. They will probably have had horrid childhoods and as troubled teens most will have never been given a chance or shown kindness. They certainly will never have experienced the beauty of living in a place like this.’

‘Well that all sounds lovely, but the big question for me is how will you control them?’ Rodney Morris looked around the bar to garner support for his crass question.

‘Control them? They’re not animals, Mr Morris! They are just kids who deserve a break and a better life. We will help them heal through various means, through therapy and coaching. We want to send them on their way with a sense of worth so that they can become valid members of society and make decent lives for themselves.’

‘Therapy? What’s that? Do you mean aromatherapy and the like?’ The postmistress’s question hadn’t intended to amuse, but people tittered nonetheless.

Natasha stepped forward. ‘This is probably where I come in. I was an art teacher for a number of years and a couple of years ago I retrained as an art therapist. I’ll work very closely with our residential counsellor—’

Rodney Morris couldn’t help himself. His voice boomed.

‘Ah, I see. The old “let’s stop them reoffending by letting them paint a pretty picture” strategy. Marvellous! But does it work? Why don’t we just send them to Disneyland? In my day we believed in proper punishment, not all this leftie pandering.’

He sniggered into his knuckles. His cronies at the bar raised their glasses in his direction, a gesture that screamed ‘Well said, that man!’

‘Punishment?’ Natasha fought to control her rage at his ignorant, outdated views. ‘You have a point, Rodney, but in the case of these children and young adults, we are not talking about punishment. Our residents will have already been “punished”, as you put it. What we are interested in doing is helping them come to terms with the traumas they have experienced in their young lives. Youngsters like them are not always able to verbalise what has happened to them or how they feel about it. Often they block out feelings and thoughts which need expression. Quite literally, I give them a blank piece of paper in a safe environment. The art therapy provides a safe, non-threatening space and invites the individual to explore their issues. It is often the first time that these kids have been able to communicate what they have been through and once we understand that, we can look at how best to help them.’

‘I think it sounds wonderful and if you need any help or materials, I would love to be involved.’

Natasha looked across at the elderly lady sitting at the bar in her artist’s smock. Natasha had seen her small studio and gallery on the harbour.

‘Thank you, yes! That would be wonderful.’

Rodney Morris did not like the way that events were unfolding. He felt his position as self-appointed village elder was being undermined.

‘I think I have heard enough. What next? Free beach barbecues for all the local benefit scroungers? Oh, I know, why don’t I just give all the food in my restaurants away to anyone that didn’t get enough hugs as a child?’ He snorted and turned towards the bar. ‘I need to top up this drink!’

A couple of Rodney’s chums chortled obligingly. There was the briefest moment of awkwardness before Kate once again took the floor.

‘I guess what we are saying is that these girls are coming here voluntarily because they want to make something of their lives, but it will only really work if they have the support of the community they live in. They have been shunned and treated like dirt everywhere they have ever been and I want their experience here to be different. I want to give them that chance; I want to show them that there is a nice side to life. I want to give them hope.’

No one heard the door creak open. In the midst of the debate, a girl carrying all she possessed in a heavy grey bin liner entered and stood in the shadows. She listened intently to Kate’s words. Without any pre-planning, she stepped forward and took her place centre stage. Her large frame dominated the low-timbered room. She deposited her bin liner on the floor.

‘Kate’s right. I’ve been shunned and treated like dirt since I was little. And let’s face it, it was just bad luck. Some of you got lucky and were born here to parents that loved you, and I got the exact opposite. But I have decided to change my luck. I shall be studying at Plymouth University. I’m going to study psychotherapy. It’s something I could never have imagined doing a few years ago, but someone gave me a chance and showed me that there is a nice side to life.’ She smiled meaningfully in Kate’s direction and Kate beamed back, astonished and thrilled at the surprise arrival of her old friend. ‘If I hadn’t been given that chance,’ the girl continued, ‘my life would be very different, believe me. Now I want to give other people a taste of that hope, and when I finish my course I would like to work at Prospect House to help people like me, people who need better luck. My name is Janeece, by the way.’

The bar was silent for a moment, then the regulars started mumbling among themselves, casting mental votes, seeing what their neighbours thought before throwing in their support. Tom Heath stepped forward.

‘I think it sounds like a wicked project, Kate, and maybe if I’d had a bit more support when I was younger, I might of made something of myself. I could have done with a bit better luck. I will help you in any way that I can.’

The locals stared at Tom, who had been one of the loudest objectors to Prospect House only minutes before Kate and Natasha’s arrival.

‘Thank you, Tom. Actually I do need help; we are looking for a cook and a housekeeper, and there are other roles that need filling.’

I can definitely help you there; that’s my trade, the hotel game …’

The volume in the room rose by an octave. Jobs? They hadn’t thought of that.

The fisherman spoke again. ‘So I guess we won’t be overrun with muggers and murderers!’ He laughed and his friends laughed too. The lion had been tamed, for now.

‘No, I can almost guarantee that there will only ever be one killer living at Prospect House.’

Rodney Morris seized on Kate’s statement.

‘A murderer? You are telling us that there will be a murderer living among us, interacting with our kids, roaming our paths? Good God, I don’t like the sound of that one bit! How can you guarantee that we’ll be safe?’

Kate smiled at his flustered rhetoric.

‘I personally guarantee that you will be safe from the killer, Rodney.’

‘How? How can you guarantee it?’

Kate turned to face him and spoke loudly enough for them all to hear.

‘Because, Rodney, the killer is me. I have, however, served my sentence for manslaughter, done my time, as they say, and don’t expect to be tried again by you or anyone else. And incidentally I am not planning on bumping off anyone else any time soon.’

The pub was once again silent. Everyone stared at her, each drinker digesting the words and deciding whether they had been spoken in jest.

Tom stepped forward and placed a pint of real ale into Kate’s hand.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers, Tom.’

Kate raised her glass at the crowd, then glugged the beer. Impromptu clapping broke out, and she got the feeling that they were clapping for much more than the fact that she was downing a pint. She was right about that.

* * *

The unlikely trio made their way down to the beach below Prospect House. As they spread picnic blankets on the sand and unpacked a cold roast chicken, a large bowl of Greek salad and slices of vanilla cheesecake, they all felt a giddy sense of excitement.

Natasha produced cold cans of Pimm’s and dished them out. She held hers aloft.

‘Here’s to our success and may I say well done to you both for your outstanding performances last night!’

The three knocked cans together and each took a long swig.

‘I was scared,’ Kate confessed.

‘You were scared?’ Janeece laughed. ‘Did you see their faces when I pitched up? Half of them were eyeing me bin bag, wondering if I had a sawn-off shot gun in there!’

The three howled with laughter.

‘It is so lovely to see you, Jan, how did you know where to find me?’

‘I knew you were in Penmarin from your last letter, and the rest was down to luck. I decided to ask in the pub if they knew where you lived; I mean how many reclusive jailbirds could there be shacked up in a place like this?’

‘Well I’m jolly glad you did, do you know I really feel like this could happen!’ Kate felt her stomach jump with excitement and nerves.

‘You’d better believe it, Kate. This is it! Prospect House is nearly open for business! Woohoo!’

Whether down to the Pimm’s or high spirits, the three danced and laughed for most of the morning. Natasha’s impression of the po-faced Rodney was the highlight.

The three dozed off the effects of the Pimm’s in the midday sun. Janeece lay propped on her elbow, wondering what other beautiful places like this existed in the world and whether she would ever get to see them.

‘Have you heard from your kids?’ It was an innocent question asked out of concern. She knew what they meant to Kate.

Kate exhaled slowly and opened her eyes. ‘No. No, I haven’t, more’s the pity. I’m hoping that once we’ve settled in here, they may want to come and visit. I’ve told Francesca all about it, so it will all be passed on.’ Kate sat up and rested her chin on her knees. Please, please come soon. ‘The trouble is it’s a very long way—’

Whether it was Natasha’s tongue or her confidence the Pimm’s had lubricated, Kate wasn’t sure; the effect, however, was the same.

‘I don’t know how you put up with them, Kate, I really don’t. I think it’s a bloody disgrace. Yes, we know it’s tough for them; yes, we know it’s a long way to travel, but enough already! They’re not babies. How long are they going to punish you for? And how is it their job to punish you after all you have done for them, after the life you led for years just to create a happy family for them?’

Kate was taken aback, angry and defensive in equal measure. ‘It’s not that straightforward, Tash—’

Her friend was not done, interrupting Kate for the second time in as many minutes. ‘Actually, Kate, it is that straightforward. Their dad was a prize knob, a nasty piece of work, and you did your best to hide it from them, suffered for the sake of their convenience and this is how they repay you? Dominic travels the length and breadth of the country to go to a bloody party and yet can’t tootle to Cornwall to see how you are at a time when you need him more than ever? You let them get away with it, Kate, but you should get tough with them. I know I bloody would.’

Kate was incandescent. ‘Then let’s hope for everyone’s sake that you never actually become a mother because God help your kids!’

‘I wouldn’t let them walk all over me, Kate, that’s for sure. You need to set them a boundary, set them an example!’

Kate stood up. Her voice shook with barely controlled anger. ‘Set them an example? I’ve spent my whole life setting them an example! My whole life trying to show them how to be decent human beings by being kind and attentive—’

‘Yes! And look how that’s worked out. How kind and attentive are they exactly, Kate?’

Kate ran from the beach towards the path. The sound of her sobbing drifted back on the breeze.

Janeece looked at Natasha. ‘I’m glad I asked…’

Natasha buried her hands in her face. ‘Shit!’ She knew she had gone too far.



Natasha knocked on Kate’s bedroom door and entered without waiting for an invite.

‘I’m sorry, Kate.’

Kate stared at her through swollen lids. ‘For which bit?’

‘All of it. I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘I know you didn’t mean it, Tash.’

Natasha held her friend’s hand. ‘Oh but I did mean it, Kate! I just shouldn’t have said it.’

‘But you know my kids; you love them!’

‘Yes, I do. But I love you more. I will always do and say what I think is best for you and right now I don’t like the way they are behaving.’

‘You’re right, Tash; it is my fault, the way I brought them up. I thought that hiding things from them was the best course of action, but it wasn’t. They are young adults who don’t know how to trust because what they trusted was a mirage and that’s all my fault.’

‘But that’s just it, Kate. It’s not all your fault, it’s all Mark’s fault actually, and I wish they would realise that. I try to do everything in my power to support you, Kate, and make you happy. You’re my best friend in the whole world and it kills me to see how much you suffer when the solution is so simple. Just one visit, that’s all it would take. I don’t think they’re being fair.’

Kate hugged her mate. ‘You are my best friend too. They will come eventually, Tash. I know it.’

Kate bit her bottom lip. She had to believe that was true.

‘I’m sure you’re right. I forget sometimes what you have been through, that while I’ve been working away you’ve been in prison. It’s because you seem to cope so well and are so resilient, I just forget.’

‘I forget too sometimes. It’s like I’ve blanked out large chunks of my life. The time in jail neither flew by nor dragged particularly; it was a bit like a pregnancy or a long school holiday – felt like an eternity at the beginning, but now it’s over seems to have passed doubly quick. I find it hard to remember the detail of my life in there; I can only recall how much I missed the kids.’ Tash squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘It was also a haven of sorts, a relief not to be gut-wrenchingly terrified all the time. I could watch the clock hands whizz towards bedtime without feeling petrified. And life inside was actually quite easy, not what you might think. There was no scrubbing concrete steps with a toothbrush or having to peel a never-ending mountain of potatoes whilst sat on a cold, concrete floor…’

There was a silence while both women considered how to continue.

‘Do you really hope I never become a mother?’

‘Yes, but only because of your horrendous dress sense and non-conformist ideas. The poor kid would be a weirdo!’

The two laughed. They were back on track.

‘I’ve thought of names for if I ever do have kids…’

‘Oh you have to tell me!’

‘Well, for a boy I like Radar and a girl, Philadelphia.’

‘Philadelphia, like the cheese?’ Kate roared.

‘No, like the city!’

‘Radar and Philadelphia? I rest my case, poor little weirdos.’

Janeece poked her head round the door and was relieved to find the two of them laughing.

‘Sorry to interrupt, but Tom from the pub is downstairs.’



Kate noticed that Tom had spruced himself up, shaved his stubble and flattened his unruly hair. Her feet had barely touched the bottom stair when he fired his question at her.

‘Were you serious about a job, Kate?’

‘Depends, what did you have in mind?’ Kate wondered what his skills were.

‘I’m a trained chef and I’ve worked in the local hotels since I left school, doing every job you can think of. For the last couple of years I’ve mainly been mending fences, building walls and painting, but I prefer working inside. I’d like to be your cook and housekeeper. I reckon I can keep a few bedrooms shipshape and rustle up good breakfasts and meals for all your guests.’

Kate looked him in the eye. ‘Can you promise me, Tom, that I will never, ever, ever have to wash a sheet or make a bed for the rest of my life?’

‘Yes, I can do that, no problem.’

Kate held out her hand. ‘Then welcome aboard, Tom!’

‘When shall I start?’

‘You just did. Four coffees and a plate of biccies please, and then the four of us can figure out how this place is going to work.’

Tom beamed and limped off to find the kitchen.