Little White Secrets Read online

  PRAISE FOR CAROL MASON

  ‘Poignant, emotional, and breathtaking . . . In The Shadow Between Us, Olivia is running from something we’ve all feared and hope to never face. Carol Mason’s effortless storytelling and exquisite writing will keep you turning the pages until the book’s stunning and surprising ending. Bring tissues!’

  Kerry Lonsdale, Amazon Charts and Wall Street Journal bestselling author

  ‘Acutely observed, emotionally honest, utterly brilliant writing, with a shocker of a twist that took my breath away.’

  Melissa Hill, bestselling author

  ‘A beautifully written story of how we connect with each other in terrible crisis, told with wit and humanity – and one hell of a final twist. I loved it.’

  Louise Candlish, author of Sunday Times bestseller Our House

  ‘A skillful, compassionate journey into the aftereffects of trauma, The Shadow Between Us deftly explores what happens when we hold tight to the secrets we keep, and they hold tight to us too.’

  Amy Hatvany, bestselling author

  ‘A haunting, heartfelt exploration of guilt and hidden turmoil, of running away, of turning back to face the shadows. I loved it.’

  Charity Norman, bestselling author of See You in September

  ‘I read The Shadow Between Us in two sittings. Carol Mason has created a fast-paced novel. At its centre is a woman whose heart has been broken. She is on the run from herself. Carol takes us on an emotional journey which keeps us gripped right to the very last twist, which hit me in the solar plexus. I had not seen it coming.’

  Carol Drinkwater, bestselling author and actress

  ‘This book is a haunting exploration of the corrosive power of grief and the redemption to be found in understanding each other and ourselves.’

  Caroline Bond, author of The Second Child

  ‘Full of realistic emotional twists. The characters’ reactions to the challenges they face are frank and unmelodramatic; there is a refreshing honesty about the numbness that comes from discovering an infidelity, and the shame that comes with perpetrating one. Equally affecting are the counterpoised sources of sadness in Jill’s life. Her marriage has faltered because she and her husband can’t have children and yet she must be a mother to her own parents in their old age; it’s a poignant combination.’

  Telegraph, UK

  ‘A sweet, sad tale of love, loss, and the crazy way the world works to reclaim love again.’

  Cosmopolitan, Australia

  ‘What really goes on behind closed doors. Carol Mason unlocks life behind a marriage in this strong debut.’

  Heat, UK

  ‘Mason’s writing is absorbing. While reading a spicy bit about Leigh’s affair while taking the bus to work, I rode past my stop.’

  Rebecca Wigod, Vancouver Sun

  ‘This poignant novel deals with honesty, forgiveness, love and the realities of modern-day marriage.’

  Notebook, Australia

  ‘There is a fresh and vital edge to this superior debut novel. Mason has much to say about relationships. Her women have resonant characters and recognisable jobs, which give depth to their messy lives. A bittersweet narrative and ambiguous outcomes make this much grittier and more substantial than standard chick-lit fare.’

  Financial Times, UK

  ‘It’s got the raw realism of someone writing about a world she knows. A grand little book for the festive fireside.’

  Irish Evening Herald

  OTHER TITLES BY CAROL MASON

  After You Left

  The Secrets of Married Women

  The Last Time We Met

  Send Me a Lover

  The Shadow Between Us

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Carol Mason

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542004978

  ISBN-10: 1542004977

  Cover design by Rose Cooper

  For Tony, again

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Zara?’ I shout, as I stare at my face in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs. ‘They’ll be arriving any second. Can you get yourself down here, please?’

  I’ve put too much black liner on my lower lids. It’s somehow knocked the balance of my features off, making me appear a little harrowed and hard.

  ‘Mum?’ I glance over my shoulder and see Daniel’s look of horror. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of wearing that dress?’

  As soon as my jaw drops, he says, ‘Kidding!’ Then he pointedly gives me the once-over. ‘You know, you actually look really amazing! You should glam up more often. Green goes great with your eyes.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised!’ We’re not really a family that’s prone to doling out compliments, so I wonder if this means I’m a bit over the top for a Saturday morning in West Yorkshire. But I bought this frock especially for today, so I’m wearing it come hell or high water.

  Suddenly Eric appears behind me, his big, warm hand alighting on my hip. ‘Someone didn’t get the memo.’

  I gaze at our reflections in the glass. Coincidentally, he’s wearing his emerald-green polo shirt.

  Daniel splutters a laugh. ‘That’s hilarious. You look like those sad old couples who sit on a bench in the town centre in their matching outfits, having tea and a toasted teacake.’

  I turn to say ‘thanks a lot!’, but Eric pops a kiss on my half-open mouth, and I smell the peppermint on his breath.

  ‘Well, one of us is going to have to change.’ I dig in my make-up bag for my lipstick.

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p; ‘Go on then,’ Eric says. ‘You’ve almost got time.’ He nudges my elbow right as I’m applying the brick-red colour.

  I stare at the blood-like slash across my cheek. Fabulous.

  The journalist, Leslie, is all smiles when I open the door. ‘Hiya! Ooh, that’s a lovely dress!’ So it’s official: I really do look ridiculous. She surprises me by giving me an enormous hug, like we’re old friends, which calms my nerves a little.

  ‘What about me?’ Eric throws his arms wide. ‘Don’t I get one?’ And I can’t help but think, You’re in a very good mood suddenly, aren’t you?

  For a moment she gawps at me, mock-aghast. ‘Well! He isn’t forward, is he? Much!’ Then, chuckling, she goes over to our dining table and takes off her coat, quite at home. ‘This is Darren, by the way.’ She indicates the young lad carrying the camera equipment. Darren pulls a grin.

  Eric pumps his hand. ‘Hello there, Daz. All right?’

  Daz? Oh dear.

  I was going to suggest we go into the sitting room but Leslie is already setting up camp at the table. I’ve no idea where they’re going to want to photograph us, so I’ve made sure everywhere is neat and tidy. As Leslie coos about our beautiful Georgian home, and stares out of the patio doors at the rolling greenery of the lower Wharfe Valley beyond our fence, I spot a stray glass hiding behind a neat stack of cookbooks. It definitely wasn’t there earlier. I nab it and discreetly pop it into the sink.

  Zara appears at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Aha!’ Leslie turns and spots her. ‘Zara Rossi. Sister of the superstar!’

  I place an arm around my daughter’s shoulders, giving her an encouraging little squeeze. ‘If she gets sick of hearing this, she never lets on!’ I say. Fortunately Zara smirks.

  ‘So come on then, what’s it like having a famous big brother?’ Leslie asks.

  Zara’s ears turn red. ‘It’s OK.’ We wait for her to say more but she just stares at her feet like she wants the ground to open up and swallow her.

  ‘Do you play tennis as well?’

  Zara barely manages to shake her head because then Daniel appears, and Leslie swiftly redirects her interest. ‘Hell-ooo! Daniel! It’s so fantastic to meet you! Winter Cup winner, 2018! How’s it feel?’ She wraps him in a hug, too.

  ‘Good, thank you!’ My son gives her one of his radiant smiles when she releases him. ‘It was a terrific result for the team.’

  ‘And not too shabby a personal one either!’ Leslie seems charmed by his modesty. Daniel’s easy charisma always brings out the best in people. It probably helps that he’s a handsome lad – fine-featured, with big brown eyes, flawless olive skin and thick, dark hair – the image of my father in the very first military photo we have of him, when he was around the same age.

  ‘Well, a lot of people have supported me to make this happen – my family, my teachers. It was a victory for them as much as for me.’ He flicks his thatch of glossy fringe from his face, then stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, loosely crossing his right foot in front of his left, like a model.

  Leslie gives me a look that says, Aw! And while I hate being one of these gloating mothers, I can’t help but quietly burst with pride.

  Next, we all take a seat around the table. I pat the chair for Zara to sit beside me. Daniel and Eric sit opposite, and Leslie pulls her notepad from a brown suede bag. ‘I thought I’d ask a few general questions first – get a bit of a feel for you as a family . . . Emily . . . why don’t you start by telling me how you and this one met?’ She flicks her head in the direction of Eric.

  I smile at the chummy way she refers to my husband. ‘Well, it was at Durham Uni,’ I tell her, wishing there was some extraordinary story to share, rather than just a garden variety one. ‘I was in my final year, studying English Lit, and this one was in his last year of Engineering. We met at a concert, much like everybody did back then.’

  ‘She was the first girl I ever kissed.’ Eric performs a little prim and proper jiggle.

  Leslie beams like she’s just loving this. ‘Yes! I really, really believe that! So, first love for you too, was it Emily?’

  ‘Nah!’ Eric says. ‘My wife’s been around the block more times than a Royal Mail postie.’

  ‘Terrific!’ Leslie catches my slightly aghast face, and tries to stifle a laugh. ‘Now, moving on . . . I know we chatted about this on the phone, Emily, but can you just tell me from your perspective as Daniel’s mum how championship tennis has made Daniel who he is today?’

  I take a big breath, relieved to be on to something else. ‘Well, it’s hard to know where to start.’ I try to remember what I read about speaking in quotable sound bites. ‘Over the years, Daniel has had to be a very single-minded, committed individual who keeps a number of balls in the air – pardon the pun. I’d say he’s had to learn about balance before most kids could even spell the word. He never wanted his academic life to suffer because of his sport, so that’s been a challenge. But one he’s met gracefully. Plus he’s still managed to keep a set of really good friends around him. I think these skills will serve him well for life.’

  Leslie nods, scribbles away, then looks purposefully at Eric, a residual glimmer of humour in her eyes. ‘And from a father’s perspective?’

  Eric glances around, looking bemused. ‘Who? Me?’

  There’s another rumble of amusement, slightly more anaemic than before, and a part of me withers. Then he gets to his feet, stands behind Daniel and clamps his big hands on Daniel’s broad shoulders. ‘I certainly don’t say it often enough but I could not be more proud of my son. Daniel might have been born dangerously premature but he certainly arrived in this world like he was meant to be here.’

  Our son hates any mention of the prem baby thing so he sits there grimacing with an expression that says, F$%k, Dad! Must you?

  ‘He took to something he liked, and he gave it his all. And he did it for the love of the sport, rather than from the competition aspect – which is always the best reason to do anything, right?’ He glances at Darren, who has glazed over, then at me, for approval.

  I pull a taut smile.

  Then I realise that Zara is sitting rather stiffly, staring into her lap. Eric must notice too, because he says, ‘And my daughter . . . I’m immensely proud of Zara as well, in ways she’ll never know. Daniel’s schedule – especially since he began travelling all over the country and training in Europe – has demanded a lot from us as a family. Airport runs . . .’ He seems to be searching for more examples, and failing. ‘It has sometimes taken us – well, mainly Em – away from other aspects of family life . . . But Zara has tolerated it all gracefully. She has never once resented him like some little sisters would.’

  ‘No tennis aspirations yourself, we’ve established? Right, Zara?’ Leslie’s pen is poised. ‘What about other sports? Are you athletic like your brother? Any cool hobbies?’

  Zara, who has acquired a noticeable amount of puppy fat these last couple of years, hardly looks like she hurls herself at sports. I glance at her sideways. The long, mousy hair, always a little lank these days from the flux of teenage hormones. Her poor ear sticking out. It’s beet red now. I clasp her clammy hand under the table.

  ‘Zara used to take dancing lessons, and she loves to cook,’ I pipe up, hoping Leslie won’t want details. The reality is, I’ve had conversations that have gone on longer than Zara ever stuck at dance lessons. Or gymnastics. Or all the other things we’ve encouraged her to try.

  I needn’t worry, though. Leslie says, ‘Excellent . . . One last question, Daniel . . . What’s the hardest thing about spending all this time training abroad?’

  ‘Definitely having to do my own food shopping and laundry,’ Daniel says, without missing a beat.

  Everybody laughs except Zara, who mutters, ‘God, this is excruciating,’ under her breath. I’m glad I seem to be the only one who has heard it.

  Outside – because it’s a deceptively sunny day for February – there’s a bit of fuss about how to arrange u
s. Standing on the rockery. Sitting on the rockery. The kids in front. The kids bookending us. Leslie moves us around like chess pieces as I try not to shiver too obviously. Eric makes more inane comments. Leslie chuckles. Darren clicks away.

  ‘What do you think of this?’ Darren finally shows me one or two. Aside from the fact that my dress is clearly an over-the-top disaster, and Eric’s face is a little telltale red, I don’t like the way Daniel has been positioned. In an attempt to have him appear more up front and centre, his right shoulder is edging Zara out, forcing her to appear like some sort of sad apparition immediately behind him. But if I draw attention to it, it’s going to make Zara squirm even more than she’s already squirming.

  ‘Lovely.’ I stare at this slightly slanted version of our reality. ‘Just perfect.’

  ONE

  August 2018

  Six Months Later

  The knock is so quiet I barely hear it. Even Otis, our lazy lurcher, doesn’t stir from his cinnamon-bun position under the dining table.

  I finish putting a dish of lasagne into the oven and quickly set it at 190°. Through the textured glass pane of the front door I can see two reflections, one slightly taller than the other. Door-to-door callers are rare down here. Our street is largely obscured from the main road by trees, and there are only four houses on it anyway – the Bennings first, who can’t bring themselves to speak to anyone, not even the kids, then there’s ours, my friend Charlotte’s, then the new guy who just moved in nearest to the common. No one really knows we are here other than locals who use the lane as a shortcut to get on to the green.

  I rub my hands on a tea towel and trot down the hall, hearing the nimble tap of Otis’s nails on the wood floor as he follows. When I open up, a woman and a girl are standing on the top step. Rain pelts the hoods of their matching bottle-green parkas.

  ‘We’re collecting for victims of domestic abuse,’ the woman says, without any preamble or friendliness. She is carrying what looks like a church collection basket, and it’s empty. In the cast of the single light above our door, her face is almost bleached of all colour, except for the glacial blue of her eyes.

  It’s been a depressingly dark day and is practically dusk already – odd, considering it’s barely the end of August. The trees that border the common sway, their leaves rustling like a secret conversation.