Caroline England [England - Betray Her

Caroline England was born and brought up in Yorkshire and studied Law at the University of Manchester. She was a divorce and professional indemnity lawyer before leaving the law to bring up her three daughters and turning her hand to writing. Caroline is the author of The Wifes Secret, also called Beneath the Skin, and the top-ten ebook bestseller My Husbands Lies. She lives in Manchester with her family.

To find out more about Caroline, visit her website www.carolineenglandauthor.co.uk or follow her on social media:

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The Wifes Secret (previously Beneath the Skin)

My Husbands Lies

Published by Piatkus

ISBN: 978-0-349-42278-7

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2019 Caroline England

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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 permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Piatkus

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.littlebrown.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

For Simon solid as a brick like our dad.

The current glints and sparkles as she gazes. It has been a good outing: fresh air, camaraderie and fun. Freedom from the house, too. Her whole body a little weightless, shes contented, relaxed, happy. And high.

The rain-speckled wind strokes her cheeks. Closing her eyes, she breathes in the musky fragrances of the countryside surrounding her woody pine and damp conifers, rotting moss and wet grass. The pristine and crisp smell of the river too. Save for the hum of falling water in the distance, its silent.

She stretches and smiles. In this instant she has everything she wants; its a moment to capture.

A sharp gust and shes teetering, then tumbling down. Oh my God, oh my God, shes slipped.

Instinctively holding out her arms, she gropes for something solid to protect herself from the fall. Nothing there but empty air, then the slap of the surface and shock of icy water. A powerless plunge into darkness hauls her down and down further. Liquid like bleach stings her nostrils, swamps her mouth, seals her throat.

Raw survival setting in, she pins her lips shut and tries not to inhale. Swim, she needs to swim, get back to the top. Kicking out her legs, she tries, then again. Futile, so fruitless. Boots too heavy, blazer leaden with water.

Weak, unduly weak. Paralysed limbs. Frozen flesh. No air left, no more room. A spasmodic breath and acid deep in her chest. So dark, very dark.

Inescapable tugging, insistent sucking, a swirl of murky depths.

The arms of the dead drag her in.

Pure and transparent, the blackness turns white. With it, realisation, as clear as the river.

She didnt trip; she was pushed.

Revenge, sweet revenge.

The friendship, the bonding. The smile, the pretence.

Cleverly biding her time.

And finally winning.

It drizzled that first September day. Dad nearly missed the turning.

Quickly swerving to the left, he accelerated the Jag up a long and surprisingly modern driveway. Tennis courts, this must be it, he said, his first words through the hour and fifteen-minute journey.

Mum was sitting next to Jo in the back. Looks nice, love, she said.

Jos new boater was still on her knee for safekeeping. She looked at it doubtfully. What was it for?

Mum didnt seem to know either. Maybe you should put it on now, love, she said.

The elastic snapping her neck, Jo pulled on the straw hat. It restricted her view, but that didnt matter; she hadnt been looking through the windows anyway, just at the back of her dads black wavy hair and catching his sad eyes in the mirror.

Dad finally pulled up with a deep sigh. The car park was busy, large glossy vehicles lined in neat rows, their boots open. Girls were milling in grey suits or grey coats and grey socks, their hair tied in low bunches. They reminded Jo of the twins at her primary school whom no one could tell apart. The thought made her tummy turn.

Mum patted her knee. Are you ready, love? she asked in a wheezy voice. Then Dad opened the door, holding out his rough hand to take hers, which wasnt like Dad at all.

Grown-ups with umbrellas were standing back from their car boots, watching men lug out brown and grey trunks and drop them on trollies with wheels. But Dad lifted Jos trunk himself.

I think its this way, Stan, Mum said, pointing to a sign with an arrow saying, Junior House.

Jo wanted to stop and breathe. The leather smell of Dads new car had made her feel sick all the long journey, and shed been too hot in the thick coat, but she hadnt said anything. And suddenly they were here; time was going too fast. Dad was striding up a patchwork path, his rolled shirtsleeves showing the tight muscles in his forearms as he carried the trunk towards glossy black doors.

Feeling peculiar in her suit and grey belted overcoat, she clutched Mums hand. Her stiff shirt collar and tie were almost making her gag. The boater felt funny as well, the elastic too tight beneath her chin, but at least it kept her newly blown hair neat and dry, holding off the wild frizzy mass which sprung up every morning.

Mum and Dad stopped. Adjusting her hat, she looked up. Made of dark greenish stone, the building was tall and old, not unlike a spooky Scooby-Doo haunted mansion. A woman with inky hair and a white face was standing at the door. Wearing a lilac jumper and matching cardigan, she was looking down from the top step with closed thin lips and a smile Jo wasnt sure of.

Ah, the Wragg family. Welcome to Junior House, she said in a posh, smooth voice. Im Miss Smyth, Housemistress. Her pale eyes rested on Jo and Jo felt them pierce her. You must be Joanna. Youre from Barnsley, in Yorkshire, I believe.

The womans face was thin, nothing like Mrs Browns nice, friendly dimples. In fact, she looked remarkably like the wicked housekeeper from an old black-and-white film Jo had watched with Mum only last week. Wondering how on earth the woman knew who they were, she turned to Dad, but his face was tight, his eyes fixed on the trunk.

Miss Smyth stood back and wafted an arm inside the building. Come through and see Joannas dormitory and then quickly say your goodbyes.

The woman said it in a sweet voice, but Jo thought it was crispy underneath. Still holding the trunk, Dad lifted his head and opened his mouth, but Miss Smyth interrupted. Thank you, Mr Wragg, but leave it there. The porters will deal with it.

The boater at an angle, Jo followed, climbing the steps into what Mum would call a busy room. An old piano stood at one end, a tall cupboard at the other; one wall had two small windows with orange curtains inside, the opposite was lined with rows of books. They were higgledy-piggledy, she noticed. At least she liked that.

These are my rooms, Miss Smyth said, gesturing to an opaque glass door on her left. Then, with her thin smile, she nodded to the hardbacks. This is the library, Joanna. I hear you like reading and we cater for all sorts, Im sure youll find something suitable and spend many enjoyable hours here. She peered again at Jo. Her face was all powdery but the talcum didnt hide the funny lump at the side of her nose.