I would like to thank HQ Digital for their continued support. A special thanks to my editor Hannah for your guidance and support throughout the planning, writing and editing process.
To my auntie Suzanne Roberts, I promise that one day I’ll buy you a coffee maker!
Since becoming an author, I have been overwhelmed by the support of bloggers, book clubs and fellow authors. There are far too many to mention but you know who you are!
To my Facebook ‘groupies’, I love you. Thank you for always sharing my posts and never tiring of my constant writing dramas! And of course I have to mention my self-proclaimed ‘Number One Fan’ Jayne Silver! (See – your dedication paid off! )
To my family and closest friends – both in Tenerife and Manchester – thank you for your constant encouragement.
Of course the acknowledgements wouldn’t be complete without thanking my husband Danny. I love you, not only for everything you do, but also for everything you are.
To every single reader who has taken the time to read, review and recommended my books – I truly cannot thank you enough!
Author letter
Thank you so much for taking the time to read A Mother’s Sacrifice. If you enjoyed it, I would be most grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. If you would like to be kept up-to-date with news of my next book, sign up here. I promise I won’t bombard you with anything else or share your email.
PLEASE do come and say hi! I am on Facebook (Gemma Metcalfe – Author) and Twitter (@gemmakmetcalfe) I really do love connecting with readers.
A Mother’s Sacrifice was inspired by my own journey through infertility. It is something myself and my husband are still dealing with and something which I know many readers will relate to. Using such a sensitive subject as the basis for a thriller was never going to be easy. I can only hope that amongst the twists and turns, I was able to convey the hope and heartbreak that many couples face.
If, like me, you are still on that journey – please know that you are not alone.
If you loved A Mother’s Sacrifice then read on for an excerpt from Gemma’s debut, Trust Me
PROLOGUE
As she stepped through the door, her first thought was how deadly silent it was.
Especially given the circumstances.
‘Hello, where is everyone?’
The long, narrow hallway was encased in darkness, thanks to the bulb blowing a few days previously. She fumbled around in the dark with the toggles of her coat in an attempt to take it off, her fingers stiff with cold thanks to the buckets of icy rain which had pissed all over her on the journey home. Finally freeing herself, she attempted to hang the coat on the rail, but the lack of light meant it fell to the floor with a thud.
‘Hello?’ she shouted again into the darkness, her voice catching in her throat for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. ‘Anyone in?’
Nobody answered.
Gripping hold of the banister rail, she gingerly made her way upstairs and towards the bathroom. Opening the door, her teeth chattered hard as she flicked on the light with her elbow, too scared to use her hands in case she got an electric shock. Leaning over the bathtub, she wrung out her heavy, soaked, blonde hair, while sniffing up loudly in an attempt to stop her nose dripping like a tap.
It was then that she heard a noise.
Opening the bathroom door, she let the light seep out, illuminating the stairs and hallway.
What happened next would change her life for ever.
Running into the living room, she saw him – curled up in a ball, a pool of blood by his side. Perhaps due to the shock, or her hysterical screaming, she didn’t notice the mobile phone by his side; nor did she hear the pleading voice on the other end of the line.
CHAPTER ONE
PRESENT DAY
Lana, Tenerife, 9.30 a.m.
‘What is the first rule of sales?’ asks my manager, Damien, a pathetic, bald-headed little Scouser who has a surprisingly large forehead and an even larger ego.
‘Well?’ he demands when nobody speaks, a manic grin plastered on his face thanks to the bag of cocaine he’s no doubt just shoved up his hooter. He cracks his knuckles twice, looks around the room for an answer. We stare ahead uninterested, dodging eye contact.
Through the window of the office, a characterless, white, walled box packed to the brim with computers and sweaty bodies, I catch a glimpse of paradise. Tenerife looks especially beautiful this morning; pale-gold sand meets crystal-blue sea, blending effortlessly into a cloudless sky. Lazy morning sun beats down on half-naked bodies like warm honey; couples arm in arm, forgetting for at least one week about the damp, cold weather and depressing recession which are destined to greet them off the plane home. I swivel around in my chair ninety degrees and can just about make out the harbour in the distance; rich people’s yachts bobbing up and down with the fresh morning breeze, excited babies being rocked on their mothers’ knees, their chubby faces covered in bubble-gum ice cream. Damien says I have the best desk in the office, next to this window. He calls it ‘the window of opportunity’. He likes his play on words does Damien – that’s one of the many reasons why I think he’s a prat!
‘Lana,’ he often barks, while looming over my desk with his Armani tie swinging in my face and his beer breath wafting up my nostrils. ‘If looking through that window doesn’t inspire you to sell holidays, you might as well go and look in the job centre window instead.’ Then he laughs hysterically before giving way to a smoke-induced coughing fit, like the wit he possesses needs to splutter out before he spontaneously combusts.
So anyway, the first rule of sales is to not believe a word the client on the other end of the telephone says. Obviously I know this but I wouldn’t give Damien the satisfaction of answering. He is right, though; they all lie to you from the second you say hello. One lady, a Mrs Chilton, aged seventy-two, from Brighton, once told me she couldn’t possibly take up my offer of a beautiful, luxurious holiday because her parrot had separation anxiety. Apparently he had taken to pulling out his own feathers and hanging upside down while singing Lionel Richie songs whenever she left the house. Perhaps this one was true – either that or Mrs Chilton is an absolute legend!
‘The first rule of sales is to never believe the client,’ declares my colleague Terry smugly, like Jeremy Kyle revealing his lie detector results. Damien almost whoops, ecstatic that somebody has actually paid attention. He then screeches a decibel louder than is necessary.
‘Listen up! I’m going to announce the star of the week.’
He breathes in deeply, psyching himself up for the grand revelation as if we were finalists on The X Factor.
I look around to see if anyone’s actually listening. Over in the far corner, next to the fire extinguisher and overflowing bin, I see Louise playing on her iPhone. Next to her, Max is looking intensely at what looks like a piece of chewing gum on the floor, and Holly is giving the wanker sign to Martin. Mel, who is sitting next to me, seems to be concentrating extremely hard on not vomiting all over her new flip-flops
‘Are you all right?’ I whisper into her ear, careful to keep my voice low so that Damien doesn’t acknowledge my existence.
As she responds with a dry heave, I can’t help but smile at the slightly faded admission stamp on her hand, which advertises ‘a free shot with every drink’.
The people who work with me are all British expats. They’re a harmless mismatch of eighteen-year-old party animals, bored housewives and young suits who fancy themselves as the next Wolf of Wall Street.
Well, I’m definitely no Jordan Belfort! Five months I’ve been working here and I haven’t sold one single holiday. I’m that skint I can’t even afford mayonnaise to mix in with my dry tuna pasta, which is currently sitting in a Tupperware container on my desk, sweating in the sticky morning heat.