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Certain details in this book, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
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First published by HarperElement 2017
FIRST EDITION
© Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2017
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover photographs © Alexander Vinogradov/Trevillion Images (posed by model); Paul Gooney/Arcangel (street scene)
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Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008142797
Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008142766
Version: 2018-09-13
Contents
Vicky looked down at the blue line on the stick in her hand and stared. It was a busy Thursday, and she was already a good ten minutes late for work. But, though she knew that, she couldn’t move: she was transfixed.
In the fairy-tale scenario she’d fashioned for herself, the baby had been conceived on a Monday. The Monday night before Paddy had been led away and taken off to prison, which made it a child that would be born of love. Of commitment, and passion, and also of promises. That they would love one another always. That they would always be together. That she would wait for him, like a wife torn from her husband by war. That he would do right by her. Return to her. Stay with her.
She had walked home on the Sunday morning, carrying her slingbacks by their straps, having borrowed a pair of Lucy’s old pumps. And despite her assurances to her friend that she was done with him completely, she’d still felt a pang when Lucy told her he’d come to find her, and a similar rush of unwelcome emotion as she rounded her corner to see his Capri parked outside.
She tried to steel herself, even so, calling to mind – which wasn’t hard – what she’d seen in the nightclub, with Lacey. And, as she approached, she was heartened to see that he’d not ventured into the house. It would make it all the easier to tell him to sling his hook.
She saw him first, walking silently in the old Dunlop plimsolls, and, as always happened (and perhaps always would, more was the pity), she felt the fluttering of butterflies in her gut.
He was half-sitting, half-standing on their gate, smoking a cigarette in the watery sunshine. He was so beautiful, she thought, even though she didn’t want to think it. And she wondered just how he would cope if – when – he got incarcerated. She’d heard the stories. And she’d seen documentaries on the telly, too. He was a good-looking man – but only just a man, really. In prison terms, eighteen was no age at all, was it? Yes, a world away from sixteen – to Vicky, Paddy was a man through and through. But
