The Art of Hiding Read online

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © 2012 Paul Smith of Paul Smith Photography at www.paulsmithphotography.info Amanda Prowse likens her own life story to those she writes about in her books. After self-publishing her debut novel, Poppy Day, in 2011, she has gone on to author sixteen novels and six novellas. Her books have been translated into a dozen languages and she regularly tops bestseller charts all over the world. Remaining true to her ethos, Amanda writes stories of ordinary women and their families who find their strength, courage and love tested in ways they never imagined. The most prolific female contemporary fiction writer in the UK, with a legion of loyal readers, she goes from strength to strength. Being crowned ‘queen of domestic drama’ by the Daily Mail was one of her finest moments. Amanda is a regular contributor on TV and radio but her first love is and will always be writing. You can find her online at www.amandaprowse.com, on Twitter @MrsAmandaProwse, and on Facebook at www.f

  PRAISE FOR AMANDA PROWSE

  ‘A tragic story of loss and love.’

  Lorraine Kelly, The Sun

  ‘Captivating, heartbreaking and superbly written.’

  Closer

  ‘A deeply emotional, unputdownable read.’

  Red

  ‘Uplifting and positive, but you may still need a box of tissues.’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘You’ll fall in love with this.’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘Warning: you will need tissues.’

  The Sun on Sunday

  ‘Handles her explosive subject with delicate care.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Deeply moving and eye-opening.’

  Heat

  ‘A perfect marriage morphs into harrowing territory . . . a real tear-jerker.’

  Sunday Mirror

  ‘Powerful and emotional drama that packs a real punch.’

  Heat

  ‘Warmly accessible but subtle . . . moving and inspiring.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A powerful and emotional work of fiction with a unique twist – a practical lesson in how to spot a fatal, but often treatable disease.’

  Piers Morgan, CNN presenter

  ‘A truly amazing piece of drama about a condition that could affect any one of us in a heartbeat. Every mother should read this book.’

  Danielle Lineker, actor

  ‘A powerful and emotional page-turner that teaches people with no medical training how to recognise sepsis and save lives.’

  Dr Ranj Singh, paediatric doctor and BBC presenter

  ‘A powerful and moving story with a real purpose. It brings home the dreadful nature of this deadly condition.’

  Mark Austin, ITN presenter

  ‘A festive treat . . . if you love Jojo Moyes and Freya North, you’ll love this.’

  Closer

  ‘Magical.’

  Now

  ‘Nobody writes contemporary family dramas as well as Amanda Prowse.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Amanda Prowse is the Queen of contemporary family drama.’

  Daily Mail

  OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA PROWSE

  The Idea of You

  Poppy Day

  What Have I Done?

  Clover’s Child

  A Little Love

  Christmas for One

  Will You Remember Me?

  A Mother’s Story

  Perfect Daughter

  Three-and-a-Half Heartbeats (exclusive to Amazon Kindle)

  The Second Chance Café (originally published as The Christmas Café)

  Another Love

  My Husband’s Wife

  I Won’t Be Home for Christmas

  The Food of Love

  OTHER NOVELLAS BY AMANDA PROWSE

  The Game

  Something Quite Beautiful

  A Christmas Wish

  Ten Pound Ticket

  Imogen’s Baby

  Miss Potterton’s Birthday Tea

  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 © 2017 by Amanda Prowse

  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: 9781611099553

  ISBN-10: 1611099552

  Cover design by Debbie Clement

  Cover photography by Amazon Imaging

  For my son Ben, who continues to be brilliant. We are behind you every step of the way. Dream big, Ben, and keep reaching for the stars. We love you . . .

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  Nina caught the red light only a spit away from the entrance to the boys’ school. It was a regular frustration at the beginning of the day and something she tended to see as an omen.

  Green light, good day. Red light, bad.

  ‘What’s for supper?’ Connor asked as he pulled at the seat belt of their Audi and flicked his overly long Bieberesque fringe from his eyes with a well-practised jerk of his head.

  ‘You’ve only just had breakfast!’ Nina smiled at her son, who sat forward with his school bag on his lap. Her youngest, Declan, gave a chuckle from the back seat.

  ‘I know, but I’m planning ahead. I’m always starving after my match.’

  ‘Yes, I’d noticed.’ She pictured him in his rugby kit with mud-caked knees, tearing through the kitchen cupboards with locust-like enthusiasm in a desperate search for carbs or sugar, preferably both. ‘What have you got on today apart from the big match?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Connor extracted his phone from his pocket and began to text with agile thumbs. She decided not to express her concern yet again that all that texting and game playing would lead to arthritis in later life. It didn’t stop her from thinking it though.

  ‘Nothing? Is that it? Nothing else to share?’ She willed the light to change. It always made her antsy to wait like this, just inches from the school.

  ‘Nothing,’ he confirmed.

  ‘That’s what you always say.’ She pressed the accelerator, letting the engine rev, as if this action might in some way influence the traffic light, encourage it to hurry up.

  ‘Mum,’ he began, sounding much like a statesman about to deliver a valuable sound bite, ‘it’s just my normal schedule, regular classes! I never know what else to tell you.’ Connor held his phone in the air and raised the other hand. His gesture reminded Nina so much of his dad it made her smile.

  ‘I know.’ She winked at Declan in the rearview mirror. ‘I just wish you did.’

  There was a beat or two of quiet while she listened to the movement of Connor’s fingers as they glided across the screen, punctuated by the odd tut.

  ‘Spaghetti carbonara, by the way,’ she said, leaning towards him.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘For supper, after your match. Spaghetti carbonara. Oh look, there’s George.’ She raised her hand in a subtle wave.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Connor stiffened, eyes blazing.

  She stared at him, taken aback. ‘I was just waving to George.’ She pointed at the boy who was a regular visitor to their house, lumbering
along with his sports bag slung across his shoulders.

  ‘God! Don’t do that! Don’t wave at my friends! That’s so embarrassing!’ He slid down the upholstery until his chin rested on his chest.

  ‘Really?’ She screwed her face up. ‘Waving? That’s a no-no now?’

  ‘God, yes!’ He sighed.

  ‘He . . . he did wave back,’ Declan mumbled. His hesitant tone suggested he was torn between wanting to support his mum and not antagonise his big brother. Connor whipped around to glare at his younger sibling.

  The traffic light changed from red and amber to green.

  Nina pulled away, more than a little embarrassed. The list of things that were forbidden/discouraged/frowned upon where Connor was concerned seemed to be long and ever changing. She found it hard to keep up. She remembered a time not so long ago when this same boy who now seemed to hold her in such contempt ran out of the school gates and straight into her arms, keen to show her whatever he had made that day, while rummaging in her pockets for snacks. Upon discovering a treat, he would reward her with a kiss on the cheek and place his plump little hand inside hers for the walk back to the car. She looked at the tall, muscular boy trying to sink down below the level of the dashboard while texting furiously and felt a flush of sadness; what wouldn’t she give to feel those chubby little arms around her neck one more time.

  Thankfully, the Internet had proved to be her parenting buddy. The many forums she could dip into – asking the anonymous question ‘Why does my teenager hate me?’ – offered reassurance by the bucketload that he didn’t hate her, far from it, but was going through a stage of discovery where his love for his mum might at times feel a little . . . repulsive. But it was just a phase. Nina was happy she was not alone. The messages that most gladdened her heart were those that repeated the wisdom: ‘I have been through this. He will come back to you. He will open up. You’ll see.’ She longed for the day when she’d once again be a person of interest in his life, and not just the inept and profoundly embarrassing cook and chauffeur.

  ‘Have a great day! See you later,’ she called out as her boys climbed from the car. Connor strolled confidently ahead, with Declan trotting behind him on the path, happy to follow in his wake.

  She shopped for groceries, lobbing smoked salmon and dainty petits fours into her basket. Back home, she tackled two of the never-diminishing dirty clothes mountains that grew in her laundry room and ran the vacuum over the acres of flooring in their large farmhouse. Finn had suggested more than once that she get help with the housework, but this idea rankled. It was her thing, her job, for want of a better description, and she enjoyed it. It was early afternoon by the time she pulled back into the boys’ school and killed the car engine.

  Looking at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she took a deep breath, then exhaled through pursed lips. Steeling herself, she rubbed her palm over the waistband of her jeans, trying to quieten the familiar flutter of nerves as she parked her shiny off-roader among the other sleek models. A car like this was part of the standard requirement when you were a Kings Norton College parent, along with a confident stride, the right accent and a weighty bauble or two glinting on your fingers and dangling from your wrist. She had been gifted the car and the jewellery, but the other two items had proved a little harder to attain. Closing her eyes, she damned the anxiety that left her feeling flustered.

  After spritzing her favoured Chanel behind her ears and over her throat, she grabbed her padded jacket from the back seat. The January ground was still hard, and despite the bright blue sky, a chill wind whipped across the playing field. She hesitated at the mini lunch box containing a bottle of water, a ham and cheese sandwich and a bar of chocolate that sat on the passenger seat. She wasn’t sure of the etiquette when playing with the A team. This was the first time for Connor and therefore a big deal for her sports-loving boy. Her instinct had been to prepare snacks, but she was wary of doing the wrong thing, like her earlier waving antics. The thought of embarrassing him or herself sent heat to her face.

  Smiling now at the absurdity of her concerns, she thought how ridiculous it was that whether to take a snack or not felt like a decision of such mammoth proportions. She left the lunch box where it was; she could always nip back for it. Hitching her handbag onto her shoulder, she trudged from the car park to the rugby field. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was 1.50. Kick-off was at 2 p.m. There was just enough time to go and find a good place to stand, where Finn would be able to see her easily when he arrived. He’d promised Connor last night he would come. She wished he would hurry up. Nina put her phone in her pocket – it was a useful tool for avoiding eye contact with other parents.

  The sports field was busy. Clearly the top team was a big draw; she had never seen quite so many spectators. Her stomach bunched; there were groups of people she didn’t recognise, parents and supporters from the opposing school all wearing the Coteswell Park colours of burgundy and navy, and already calling out instructions to their boys before the match had even kicked off.

  ‘Come on, Tom!’

  ‘Keep your eye on the ball, Max!’

  ‘Stay with your man, Cameron!’

  Slow claps followed these shouts, as if these words and gestures could spur their sons on to great things. Nina blinked and looked at the ground, nervous that some of the attention the parents drew to themselves might float upwards and fall on her shoulders. Over the years, her confidence in social situations had eroded. Her world existed within the four walls of their home, ‘The Tynings’, an archaic English word derived from the verb meaning ‘to enclose with a fence or hedge’ – and they had done just that, making a haven for their family. To interact with others exposed the fear that she had nothing of interest to say.

  She found it hard to explain to Finn how she felt, knowing he didn’t fully understand what it was like to have grown up in humble circumstances, with shabby rooms and a lack of space. She made no secret of the fact that she loved their home and felt an overwhelming sense of pride every time she walked in the front door. It was where she felt safest, happiest. It lifted her spirits to see how far she had come from the grubby corridors and shared bathroom of her childhood in a rundown Southampton suburb. She had never fully realised how poor they had been, until she grew up and met Finn. Not that he had grown up with the wealth that now surrounded him, but at ten years older, he was more self-assured than her and was well on his way towards success when they started dating. By the time they married, his construction firm was beginning to really take off and they had never had to struggle.

  Nina waved briefly to the few parents she did recognise on the other side of the pitch, before positioning herself alone on the touchline. It mattered little that her boys had been at the school for over a decade; she watched as other women greeted each other with the loose embrace and wide, comfortable smiles of people who knew each other well and who she imagined chatting over brunch and taking long weekends away together, drinking wine in front of a sinking sun while their respective broods played football on an expanse of grass. Finn often reminded her that rugby was the common bond at these events and that this was a good starting point for conversation between her and the other parents, and what she lacked in enthusiasm for their chosen sport, he and the boys more than made up for.

  The invites had come thick and fast when Connor had first started school, the requests as numerous as they were varied: birthday parties, barbecues and even sailing weekends. Her own feelings of awkwardness meant she felt unable to accept, and after so many polite refusals and insincere rain checks, people had stopped asking, saving both parties any further embarrassment. Connor, she knew, wished that she were as sociable as his peers’ parents, expressing his admiration for the gregarious nature of George’s mum, who after a couple of glasses of Prosecco was the life and soul, but it wasn’t that simple. Nina felt bad that she was in some way letting him down, knowing she had got into a rut of isolation, and with every year that passed she felt less capable of climbing ou
t. Finn told her it was nobody’s business and as long as they were happy that was all that really mattered. And they were. This placated her, but didn’t make Connor’s huffs of disapproval any easier to bear.

  The match officials checked the pitch, stamping the chilled soil with their heels and walking the perimeter. Nina tucked her chin into her scarf, trying to avoid the wind. She regularly glanced over her shoulder towards the car park, hoping to see Finn loping up the slight incline with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and his easy smile of apology that always made everything better.

  At least fifteen Kings Norton boys had gathered on the pitch. All looked remarkably similar in their navy shorts and navy-and-white-hooped rugby shirts bearing the school crest and motto: Pertinacia, fortitudo et fides – determination, courage and faith. The cluster of boys made her think about those dedicated penguins that walked miles in Antarctic blasts to find food for their young and then waddled slowly back, among tens of thousands of identical-looking chicks, to find and feed their own.

  ‘I’d be a rubbish penguin,’ she whispered, unable to pick out her son among the troop.

  Suddenly there he was, Connor, not five feet away and in the middle of a huddle of boys who were passing rugby balls to each other, catching and spinning them with confidence. He looked taller, older than he had mere hours ago. She was certain that this posturing was as much about intimidating the other team as it was about practising. She caught his eye and remembered not to wave. Instead she raised her eyebrows and smiled.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ he mouthed, looking over her shoulder as if this might reveal Finn in the empty space behind her.

  She tapped her watch and made a face that was part smile, part groan.

  Connor gave a shake of his head and turned his broad back, continuing to throw and catch the ball.