The Secret Mother sneak peek

The Secret Mother comes out November 9th. You can read Chapter One below!

 

Tessa Markham comes home to find a child in her kitchen calling her ‘mummy’. But Tessa doesn’t have any children. 

Not anymore.

She doesn’t know who the little boy is or how he got there.

After contacting the police, Tessa comes under suspicion for snatching the child. She must fight to prove her innocence. But how can she convince everyone she’s not guilty when even those closest to her are questioning the truth? And when Tessa doesn’t even trust herself…

 

Chapter One

 

The street lamps flicker, illuminating the grey pavement mottled with patches of dirty snow and slick black ice. Slushy puddles hug the kerb, cringing away from the hissing, splashing car tyres. It takes all my concentration to keep my balance. My hands would be warmer if I jammed them into my coat pockets, but I need them free to steady myself on walls, fences, tree trunks, lamp posts. I don’t want to fall. And yet would it really be so terrible if I slipped on the ice? Wet jeans, a bruised bum. Not the end of the world. There are worse things. Far worse things.

 

It’s Sunday: the last exhale of the week. That uncomfortable pause before Monday, when it all starts up again – this lonely pretence at life. Sunday has become a black dot on the horizon for me, growing larger each day. I’m relieved now it’s almost over and yet I’m already anticipating the next one. The day when I visit the cemetery and stand above their graves, staring at the grass and stone, talking to them both, wondering if they hear my inane chatter or if I’m simply talking into the empty wind. In burning sunlight, pouring rain, sub-zero temperatures or thick fog I stand there. Every week. I’ve never missed a Sunday yet.

 

Sleet spatters my face. Icy needles that make me blink and gasp. Finally, I turn off the high street into my narrow road, where it’s more sheltered and the wind less violent. A rainbow assortment of overflowing bins lines my route, waiting for collection tomorrow at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. I turn my face away from the windows where Christmas tree lights wink and blink, reminding me of happier Christmases. Before.

 

Almost home.

 

My little north London terraced house sits halfway along the road. Pushing open the rusted gate, I turn my face away from the neglected front garden with its discarded sweet wrappers and crisp packets blown in from the street, now wedged among long tussocks of grass and overgrown bushes. I thrust my frozen fingers into my bag until they finally close around a jagged set of keys. I’m glad to be home, to get out of the cold, and yet my body sags when I open the door and step into the dark silence of the hall, feeling the hollow of their absence.

 

At least it’s warm in here. I shrug off my coat, kick off my boots, dump my bag on the hall table and switch on the light, avoiding my sad reflection in the hall mirror. A glass of wine would be welcome about now. I glance at my watch – only 5.20. No. I’ll be good and make a hot chocolate instead.

 

Strangely, the door to the kitchen is closed. This strikes me as odd, as I always leave it open. Perhaps a gust of wind slammed it shut when I came in. I trudge to the end of the hall and stop. Through a gap in the bottom of the door I see that the light is on. Someone’s in there. I catch my breath, feel the world slow down for a moment before it speeds back up. Could I have a burglar in my house?

 

I cock my ear. A sound filters through. Humming. A child is humming a tune in my kitchen. But I don’t have a child. Not any more.

 

Slowly I pull down the handle and push the door, my body tensing. I hardly dare breathe.

 

Here before me sits a little boy with dark hair, wearing pale blue jeans and a green cable-knit jumper. A little boy aged about five or six, perched on a chair at my kitchen counter, humming a familiar tune. Head down, he is intent on his drawing, colouring pencils spread out around an A4 sheet of paper. A navy raincoat hangs neatly over the back of the chair.

 

He looks up as I enter the room, his chocolate-brown eyes wide. We stare at one another for a moment.

 

‘Are you my mummy?’ the little boy asks.

 

I bite my bottom lip, feel the ground shift. I grasp the counter top to steady myself. ‘Hello,’ I say, my heart suddenly swelling. ‘Hello. And who might you be?’

 

‘You know. I’m Harry,’ he replies. ‘Do you like my picture?’ He holds the sheet out in front of him, showing me his drawing of a little boy and a woman standing next to a train. ‘It’s not finished. I haven’t had time to colour it in properly,’ he explains.

 

‘It’s lovely, Harry. Is that you standing next to the train?’

 

‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘It’s you and me. I drew it for you because you’re my mummy.’

 

Am I hallucinating? Have I finally gone crazy? This beautiful little boy is calling me his mummy. And yet I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before in my life. I close my eyes tight and then open them again. He’s still there, looking less confident now. His hopeful smile has faltered, slipping into a frown. His eyes are now a little too bright. I know that look – it’s the one that precedes tears.

 

‘Hey, Harry,’ I say with false jollity. ‘So you like trains, huh?’

 

His smile returns. ‘Steam trains are the best. Better than diesels.’ He scrunches up his face in disgust and blinks.

 

‘Did you come here on the train? To my house?’

 

‘No. We came on the bus. I wish we did come on the train, the bus was really slow. And it made me feel a bit sick.’ He lays the sheet of paper back on the counter.

 

‘And who did you come with?’ I ask.

 

‘The angel.’

 

I think I must have misheard him. ‘Who?’

 

‘The angel brought me here. She told me that you’re my mummy.’

 

‘The angel?’

 

He nods.

 

I glance around, suddenly aware that Harry might not be the only stranger in my house. ‘Is she here now?’ I ask in a whisper. ‘Is there someone else here with you?’

 

‘No, she’s gone. She told me to do some drawing and you’d be here soon.’

 

I relax my shoulders, relieved that there’s no one else in my home. But it still doesn’t help me solve the problem of who this little boy is. ‘How did you get into the house?’ I ask, nervously wondering if I might find a smashed window somewhere.

 

‘Through the front door, silly,’ he replies with a smile, rolling his eyes.

 

Through the front door? Did I leave it open somehow? I’m sure I would never have done that. What’s going on here? I should call someone. The authorities. The police. Somebody will be looking for this child. They will be frantic with worry. ‘Would you like a hot chocolate, Harry?’ I ask, keeping my voice as calm as possible. ‘I was going to make one for myself, so—’

 

‘Do you make it with milk?’ he interrupts. ‘Or with hot water? It’s definitely nicer with milk.’

 

I suppress a smile. ‘I agree, Harry. I always make it with milk.’

 

‘Okay. Yes, please,’ he replies. ‘Hot chocolate would be lovely.’

 

My heart squeezes at his politeness.

 

‘Shall I carry on colouring in my picture,’ he says, ‘or shall I help you? Because I’m really good at stirring in the chocolate.’

 

‘Well, that’s lucky,’ I reply, ‘because I’m terrible at stirring in the chocolate, so it’s a good thing you’re here to help me.’

 

He grins and slides off the stool.

 

What am I doing? I need to call the police right now. This child is missing from somewhere. But, oh God, just give me ten minutes with this sweet little boy who believes I’m his mother. Just a few moments of make-believe and then I’ll do the right thing. I reach out to touch his head and immediately snatch my hand back. What am I thinking? This boy has to go back to his real mother; she must be paralysed with worry.

 

He smiles up at me again and my chest constricts.

 

‘Okay,’ I say, taking a breath and blinking back any threat of tears. ‘We’ll do the chocolate in a minute. I’m just going to make a quick phone call in the hall, okay?’

 

‘Oh, okay.’

 

‘Carry on with your drawing for a little while. I won’t be long.’

 

He climbs back up onto the stool and selects a dark green pencil before resuming his colouring with a look of serious concentration. I turn away and pad out to the hall, where I retrieve my phone from my bag. But instead of dialling the police, I call another number. It rings twice.

 

‘Tess.’ The voice at the other end of the line is clipped, wary.

 

‘Hi, Scott. I need you to come over.’

 

‘What? Now?’

 

‘Yes. Please, it’s important.’

 

‘Tessa, I’m knackered, and it’s hideous out there. I’ve just sat down with a cup of tea. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

 

‘No.’ Standing by the hall table, I glimpse Harry through the doorway, the curls of his fringe flopping over one eye. Am I dreaming him?

 

‘What’s the matter?’ Scott says this the way he always says it. What he really means is, What’s the matter now? Because there’s always something the matter. I’m his damaged wife, who’s always having some new drama or make-believe crisis. Only this time he’ll see it’s something real, it’s something not of my making.

 

‘I can’t tell you over the phone, it’s too weird. You have to come over, see for yourself.’

 

His sigh comes long and hard down the phone. ‘Give me twenty minutes, okay?’

 

‘Okay. Thanks, Scott. Get here as soon as you can.’

 

My heart pounds, trying to make sense of what’s happening. That little boy in there says an angel brought him. He says I’m his mummy. But he’s not mine. So where on earth did he come from?

I take a breath and go back into the kitchen. The air is warm, welcoming, cosy. Nothing like the usual sterile atmosphere in here.

 

‘Can we make hot chocolate now?’ Harry looks up with shining eyes.

 

‘Of course. I’ll get the mugs and the chocolate. You open that drawer over there and pass me the smallest pan you can find.’

 

He eagerly does as I ask.

 

‘Harry,’ I say. ‘Where are your parents, your mummy and daddy?’

 

He stares at the pans in the drawer.

 

‘Harry?’ I prompt.

 

‘They’re not here,’ he replies. ‘Is this one small enough?’ He lifts out a stainless-steel milk pan and waves it in my direction.

 

‘Perfect.’ I nod and take it from him. ‘Can you tell me where you live?’

 

No reply.

 

‘Did you run away from home? Are you lost?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘But where’s your house or flat? The place you live? Is it here in Friern Barnet? In London? Close to my house?’

 

He scowls and looks down at the flagstone floor.

 

‘Do you have a last name?’ I ask as gently as I can.

 

He looks up at me, his chin jutting out. ‘No.’

 

I try again, crouching down so I’m on his level. ‘Harry, darling, what’s your mummy’s name?’

 

‘You’re my new mummy. I have to stay here now.’ His bottom lip quivers.

 

‘Okay, sweetie. Don’t worry. Let’s just make our drinks, shall we?’

 

He nods vigorously and sniffs.

 

I give his hand a squeeze and straighten up. I wish I hadn’t had to call Scott. And yet I need him to be here when I ring the police. I can’t deal with them on my own, not after what happened before. I’m dreading their arrival – the questions, the sideways glances, the implication that I might have done something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong, though. Have I?

 

And Harry… he’ll be taken away. What if his parents have been abusive? What if he has to go into foster care? A thousand thoughts run through my mind, each worse than the one before. But it’s not my place to decide what happens to him. There’s nothing I can do about any of it, because he’s not mine.

 

I don’t have a child. Not any more.

 

 

~

 

The Secret Mother is available From:

 

Amazon    Kobo    iBooks    Google Play    Nook

 

 



Pre-order The Secret Mother

My new psychological thriller THE SECRET MOTHER is now available to pre-order!

 

‘Are you my mummy?’ the little boy asks.

Tessa Markham comes home to find a child in her kitchen.
He thinks she’s his mother. But Tessa doesn’t have any children.

Not anymore.

She doesn’t know who he is or how he got there.

After contacting the police, Tessa comes under suspicion for snatching the boy. She must fight to prove her innocence. But how can she convince everyone she’s not guilty when even those closest to her are questioning the truth? And when Tessa doesn’t even trust herself . . .

~

Pre-order your copy via:  Amazon Kindle   iBooks   Kobo   Google Play

Nook is coming any day now.

Paperback and Audiobook coming soon...

The Millionaire's Wife - Preview

The Millionaire's Wife comes out April 27th. You can read Chapter One here!

 

Can you ever really know the ones you love?

Anna Blackwell lives a charmed life with her husband, in a clifftop mansion overlooking the ocean. But things haven’t always been this way.

After seeing a news report about the death of a woman on the other side of the world, Anna realises that her past has caught up with her. That her greatest fear is about to come true. That it’s her turn next.

Uncover a web of lies and deceit in this chilling, twisty suspense thriller.

 

Chapter One

3^rd January 2017, Barbados

The man watched her hasten down the stone steps, slightly ahead of him, her bare, tanned legs lithe and slim – a combination of good genes and regular dance classes, more like a teenager than a woman in her late twenties. For a moment, he felt as though he were watching a memory, a video on his laptop of someone he used to know. He gave himself a shake and followed her.

‘Come on, slow-coach!’ she called, dark ringlets bouncing around her shoulders. She threw him a glance over her shoulder, a teasing grin. He smiled back and put on a spurt of speed, scooped her up in his arms and jogged down the remaining steps with her until they reached the arc of pristine sand which curved around the turquoise bay, its backdrop of trees swaying in the breeze. The sand sifted pleasantly beneath his soles, warm and soft. Later it would become a white-hot furnace, impossible to walk on with bare feet, and he’d have to dig out his flip flops from the beach bag.

Katie wriggled out of his arms and pulled him along by the hand to their favourite spot under the morning shade of a benevolent palm, far enough away from the manchineel trees with their poison fruit and deadly sap.

A cursory glance left and right, showed two other couples already on the beach, stretched out on bright towels, and one older woman on her own, nose buried in a paperback. It was a week day, so no sign of the weekend yachties and speedboat owners who would moor up in the bay often staying until sundown. No. Today, the view was of empty ocean and sky. Perfect.

Dropping her towel and bag on the sand, Katie twirled her hair up into a makeshift bun, fixing it in place with a hairband from her wrist. ‘You coming in?’

‘Later. I think I’m going to relax for a while.’

‘Lightweight,’ she teased. ‘The woman in the villa next to ours said she saw whales in the bay yesterday. I’m going to swim out and see if I can spot them while it’s still early enough.’

‘Don’t go too far,’ he said, knowing she’d most likely ignore him.

He’d never been on holidays like this before he’d met Katie. Yachts, mansions and ski slopes had not been for the likes of him. Katie, however, had been born to it. While he’d been skinning his knees learning to ride a second-hand bike at the local skateboard park, she and her parents had been gliding across virgin snow, flying to far-flung continents on safari, or watching prima ballerinas twirl on famous stages. She had led a charmed life.

Surely, the parents of a girl like this should have been horrified when she brought home a nobody like him – a dirt-poor, classless loser with no career to speak of. But he had been proven wrong. The Spencers were nice people. Warm and welcoming. Non-judgemental. Nothing like his own family. To give himself credit, he did have a decent sense of humour and a beautiful face. He had always been admired. Charm was his gift.

And so, it had been an easy thing to become absorbed into this family. He and Katie. The golden couple. Shining wherever they went. He had shrugged on her privilege with ease, taking it for his own. Long-haul flights to distant lands, skiing, safari-ing, visiting the ballet, the opera. Moving in dizzyingly high circles without once losing his balance. They were a pair. And she loved him without reserve.

Peeling off his t-shirt, he began applying sun lotion to his torso, watching as Katie walked across the beach in her skimpy bikini towards the gently lapping ocean, its water the perfect temperature. Not like the English Channel back home which would steal your breath, needle your skin and finally give your stomach an icy punch. No, Barbados seas were warm yet refreshing. Already up to her waist, Katie struck off away from the shore, her arms powering forward. He watched her for a moment and then lay back, gazing at the palm fronds and blue sky above, trying to let his mind go blank for a while.

It didn’t do to overthink things.

He lay there for some time before he heard the noise. Faint, at first, like a lazy bumble bee or a neighbour’s lawnmower. Then, growing louder. An engine, determined, fast, the random crashes of its hull against the ocean’s surface. He imagined himself sitting up and looking at the sea, searching out the source of the noise, but his body was locked in place, too tense to move. He couldn’t stop staring at the impossibly blue sky. Could barely breathe.

A scream jolted him from his brief stasis and he jerked upright before springing to his feet. As his senses sharpened, he saw the other sunbathers running towards the ocean, their hands raised against the glare of the sun, pointing, shouting. Beyond them, a white speedboat bounded out to sea, its wake contaminating the glassy blue ocean. His eyes scanned the water for Katie. No sign. Maybe she was hidden by the chop from the boat.

He sprinted down to the water’s edge, shielding his eyes from the sun, trying to locate her.

‘Did it hit her?’ a woman with a German accent cried out to him. ‘Did you see?’

‘What?’ he replied, panting.

‘The boat out there. I think it might have hit your friend.’

‘Are you sure?’ he questioned, his voice slow and stupid, his mind frozen. ‘The boat? It hit my wife?’ He dove into the water, powering through the ocean to reach Katie.

He felt the company of another swimmer beside him – a concerned sunbather wanting to help. The boat was already a pale dot in the distance, its motor a receding hum. He didn’t know where to look for her. Stupid. He should have been looking out for her instead of staring at the sky. But the man ahead of him knew where he was going, his long, powerful strokes propelling him towards a fixed point. He would follow that man.

A crimson stain like a beacon spread out before him, already losing its bright hue, turning pink and dissolving into wisps. Soon it would be absorbed into the ocean. But still no sign of Katie. This is where it must have happened. Where the speedboat had collided with his wife. He took a long gulp of air and dove down. He couldn’t let the other man reach her first. The crystal water showed him what he needed to see.

Her body was whole, but had been mangled, torn up, beyond repair. One side of her head was missing, ribbons of red following her descent. He looked away briefly, noticing the blurry shape of the man from the beach next to him. Then, he turned back, swam towards his wife, took hold of her slippery body and kicked up to the surface, gasping for air.

The man rose up with him, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Jesus,’ the man gasped. ‘Let’s get her to shore. That fucking speedboat, man.’ A South African accent. ‘Shall I help you . . . with . . . her?’

‘No. I’ve got her.’ He knew how to tow an inert body. Remembered it from his lifesaving classes. The South African swam alongside him as he carried his dead wife, the smell of sun and salt and blood in his nostrils, a strong desire to vomit, a blank void in his brain, a trail of blood in their wake.

Back on the beach, one of the women was shaking her head and crying, the other two had mobile phones clamped to their ears, no doubt calling the emergency services. The other man on the shore took Katie’s legs and they carried her between them, up the beach away from the shoreline towards his and Katie’s favourite palm tree. They laid her on her towel, where she’d been standing less than an hour earlier. A numbness overtook his body and he realised he was shaking.

Someone placed a warm towel over his shoulders, but the shivering only increased.

‘He’s in shock.’ A woman’s voice, loud and authoritative.

‘It was his wife,’ the South African said.

‘Do you think they’ll catch them? The people in the speedboat?’

‘I gave the police a description of the boat over the phone. Didn’t see who was driving it, though. Surely they can track it on radar?’

‘No chance. They’ll be long gone.’ An English voice.

‘Irresponsible bastards.’

‘I can’t believe it. Poor woman.’

‘Poor guy.’

The crush of words wove through his consciousness, but he didn’t respond. He closed his eyes and clutched at the towel around his shoulders, desperately trying to stop the shivering and act more coherently. React. Respond. Cry. An arm slid around his shoulder – the South African. ‘The police will be here soon, mate. Don’t worry. They’ll catch them. Those bastards will get what’s coming to them. Don’t you worry about that.’

 

The Millionaire's Wife will be available on April 27th

on Kindle, in paperback and slightly later as an audiobook.

 

 

 

 

Chilling Psychological Thriller - The Best Friend

 

RELEASE DATE - October 20th 2016

Now available to pre-order!

Limited-time, new-release price of 99c / 99p

"THE BEST FRIEND"

Toxic school mums, money worries, paranoia, murder...

 

They say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer . . . Wrong.

Louisa’s new best friend has it all – the house, the status, the money.

But she’s also hiding a dark secret. And as Louisa is drawn

deeper into her friend’s life, events take a chilling turn.

Available for 99c for a limited time from:

Amazon US   Amazon UK   Amazon CA   Amazon AU

 

Will also be available in print and audio very soon

The Girl from the Sea - pre-launch teaser!

I'm two days from launching my first suspense thriller, The Girl from the Sea. Here's a sneak peek of the first few pages...


The dark water swallows me whole, pulling me under into blackness, dropping too fast. I cannot let the water take me, so I kick and flail. I push my body up. Water flows. Bubbles stream away. The sound of air and desperate splashes. The scent of damp night. And, at last, I see the inky sky once more. I don’t have enough energy for relief.  Instead, I gasp and thrash. All I know is that I must move my arms and kick my legs.

Keep moving forward.

Stay alive.

 

Chapter One

The scent of salt and seaweed. My throat, dry. Lips parched. Head aching. My clothes cling to me, heavy and wet. Cold. Shivering. I can’t think straight.

What’s happening?

Eyes closed. A rushing, bubbling, frothing. Birds, wind, warmth. I cough, a dry, echoing scrape. Painful. Everything sounds close by, yet far away. My body is stiff. Numb. I can’t move. Can I?

Water rushes over me. Cold and salty. Like it wants to claim me. To keep me covered. But it seeps away, replaced by a mixture of cool air and warmth.

My eyes fly open.

A fuzzy brightness greets me. I see blurred outdoor shapes in beige and blue and grey.

My head is pressed down onto something cold and hard. Not a pillow. Not a pavement. Sand. Wet sand. Something presses into my temple. A stone? I raise my head with difficulty. And bring up a reluctant arm. My hand peels away a pebble. Tosses it aside with herculean effort. I cough. Retch. There’s saltwater in my mouth. Bile. Tears. Snot.

Please, someone, tell me what’s happening. I feel as though I’m trapped inside my head, unable to look outside. Like I’m covered in a membrane. Sealed in.

A muffled voice breaks through my panic. I try to latch onto it. But the incoming words slip and slide away – a flow of sound that I can’t decipher. I try to keep my eyes open. To focus on something. But neither my eyes nor my ears want to cooperate.

‘Poppy, no!’

A snuffling black nose and a wet tongue. A whine and a bark.

‘Poppy, no! Come here!’

It’s someone’s dog. I still can’t focus properly.

‘Are you okay? I’m so sorry. Good girl, Poppy.’

I open my eyes once more and order them to focus.

‘Are you okay?’ The same voice, closer this time.

A face looms into my field of vision. I see a nose, a mouth, pink lipstick, glasses.

A noise comes from the back of my throat. But it’s just a rattle and a rasp. Nothing intelligible. What am I trying to say?

‘I called 999. Don’t worry. Poppy, sit! The ambulance will be here soon.’ A warm hand takes my cold one. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.’

Will I? This person is here to help me. I know that much. That’s good. I can give myself over to the help of this woman. I close my eyes again. It’s too hard to keep them open. Too hard to focus.

More voices roll in and out like the salty water, like the breeze on my cheek. A wash of sound trying to break through to me. Part of me tries to resist the voices. Wants to keep them as a distant, blurring sound. Merging one with the other, like the waves and the wind. But a greater part of me needs to decipher the words. Needs to understand what’s happening.

‘Can you hear me?’

Another female voice in my ear. A younger, firmer voice. Her breath warm on my face.

‘Hello, can you open your eyes? Can you look at me?’

I force my eyes to open.

‘That’s it. Can you tell me your name?’

Warmth spreads over my body. Someone has placed a blanket over me. I’d forgotten how cold I was.

‘Look at me again. That’s it. Can you tell me your name?’

I’m staring into kind brown eyes. A woman in uniform. Her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I open my mouth to say my name. But then I close it again. My mind has gone blank. It hurts to think.

‘Can you hear me?’

I want to nod, but my head won’t obey. ‘Yes,’ I say, even though no sound comes out.

‘Good,’ the woman says.

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘Beach?’ My voice is a faint croak.

‘That’s right. Do you know which beach?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me how you feel, physically?’

‘Tired.’

‘Have you been in the water? Been for a swim in the sea?’

‘I think I was in the water,’ I whisper.

‘Are you hurt? Are you in pain anywhere?’

‘I . . . I don’t know. Sore throat. Headache. Cold.’

‘Alright. We’re going to get you up off this sand. Get you away from the waves where you’ll be more comfortable, okay?’

I close my eyes again. I’m scared. They’re going to move me, but what if my body’s broken? What if it hurts when they lift me?

The next few minutes pass in a strange blur. I’m lifted onto a stretcher. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be; my body aches, but there’s no sharp pain. People are watching. I’m awake enough to feel self-conscious. The woman in the glasses with the pink lipstick hovers over me for a moment.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘You’re in good hands now. Take care.’ She touches two fingers to my cheek, and then steps back.

And now I’m being moved. Carried away from the sea, across the sand. My body is still cold, but a warm breeze skims my face, the sun heats my forehead. I feel as though I’m floating. Light as air. The woman and the man in uniform talk to me, but I’m too tired to hear them. Their voices sway in and out, merging with the crunch of footsteps and the cry of the gulls.

 

The walls are toothpaste green, and the air smells of old socks and disinfectant. Stale and recycled like an overheated aeroplane. I’m sitting up in a hospital bed in the Accident and Emergency department, waiting for a doctor to see me. A nurse has already taken my blood pressure and temperature. The curtains are pulled around the sides of my bed, but they’ve been left open at the end so I can still see out. A teenage boy lies in the bed opposite, his mother at his side. I can’t tell what’s wrong with him. My thoughts are clearer now than earlier, my mind a little sharper. But my head still throbs, and I can’t quell the panic in my chest, the constant fluttering in my stomach or the tightness in my throat.

Nurses stride past, calling out instructions to colleagues. Trolleys clatter as medical equipment is wheeled up and down the ward. At least I’m warm and dry. They took my wet clothing, and now I’m wearing a hideous blue hospital gown. I tense as I hear a woman’s voice getting closer. Her accent is pretty, and I wonder where she’s from. Maybe Russia, or Poland?

‘The one from the beach?’ I hear her say. ‘How long?’

Another woman replies: ‘Only a few minutes.’

The women step into my line of sight. One is a young doctor in a white coat, her blonde hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. The other is an older lady, a nurse. The doctor looks up at me and smiles. The nurse continues on her way.

‘Hello. I’m Doctor Lazowski.’

‘Hi,’ I croak.

She picks up a clipboard from the end of my bed and comes closer. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

‘Strange,’ I reply. ‘A little dizzy. I have a headache. I’m tired . . . and a bit freaked out.’

‘Can you tell me your name?’

I open my mouth to answer, but, like before on the beach, nothing comes out. I give a small embarrassed laugh. ‘I . . . It sounds so silly, but I just . . . I can’t seem to remember.’ I run a hand across my damp and tangled hair.

‘That’s okay,’ she says. ‘Do you know where you live?’

‘I . . . I think. I  . . . No. I’m sorry. I don’t know. How can I not know?’ My voice is trembling and I’m on the verge of tears.

‘You’ve had a shock,’ she says. ‘Just try to relax. Try to stay calm. You’re here now, and we’ll look after you. Okay? You have some retrograde amnesia, but with any luck, your memories should return soon.’

The word “amnesia” makes me catch my breath.

‘I’m going to run a few tests,’ she says, closing the curtains fully. ‘We’ll see how you are, physically, and then we’ll try and get those memories back.’

I nod again, hit by a wave of exhaustion. My eyes want to close. I feel the pull of sleep, but Dr Lazowski is talking again. I should try and concentrate.

‘Can you sit up, please?’

I do as she asks.

‘I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs. Just breathe normally.’ She takes the stethoscope from around her neck and begins examining me, first by placing the end of the stethoscope on my back. Then, on my chest.

‘Can you remember swimming in the sea?’ she asks, as I clumsily try to rearrange my hospital gown.

‘No.’

‘Were you in the water at all?’

‘I think so. But I don’t know. I remember lying on the beach, soaking wet. The waves were coming over me.’ I give a shiver at the memory.

‘Hmm, Okay,’ she says. ‘We don’t know how long you were in the water. I’m worried about a possible lung infection, so we’ll have to keep you in for a few days at least. To keep an eye on you.’

‘Is it serious?’ I ask.

‘Just a precaution,’ she replies. ‘We’ll also get you on an IV drip.’

‘A drip?’ I don’t like the sound of that.

‘You’re dehydrated,’ she says. ‘You need fluids.’

I close my eyes and massage my forehead with the tips of my fingers. What’s happening to me? What am I doing here? How on earth did I end up unconscious on the beach?

Why can’t I remember anything?

The Girl from the Sea is available on Amazon

 

Special release price - The Girl from the Sea

 

RELEASE DATE - June 9th 2016

Now available to pre-order!

Limited-time, new-release price of 99c / 99p

 

THE GIRL FROM THE SEA

 

For fans of Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train.

 

A chilling suspense story of wounded hearts and dark secrets.

 

Washed up on the beach, she can't remember who she is. She can't even remember her name. Turns out, she has a perfect life - friends and family eager to fill in the blanks.

But why are they lying to her? What don't they want her to remember?

 

When you don't even know who you are, how do you know who to trust?

 

Available for 99c for a limited time from:

Amazon US   Amazon UK   Amazon CA   Amazon AU

Psychological Thriller - The Girl from the Sea

So, I'm branching out into a new genre. Leaving the security of YA behind me and trying my hand at writing an adult thriller. It was so much fun to write, mainly because I plotted it out so tightly before I began writing - something I've never done before as I usually fly by the seat of my pants.

Set in beautiful Christchurch, Dorset, The Girl from the Sea is about a woman who wakes up on the beach with retrograde amnesia, and her subsequent journey to uncover the truth about what happened to her.

I typed 'The End' last week and it's currently at the editor's being ripped apart polished. The release date is June 9th 2016.

The Girl from the Sea

 

A chilling suspense story of wounded hearts
and dark secrets.

 

Washed up on the beach, she can’t remember who she is. She can’t even remember her name.
Turns out, she has a perfect life –
friends and family eager to fill in the blanks.

 

But why are they lying to her?

What don’t they want her to remember?

 

When you don't even know who you are,

how do you know who to trust?