Keep You Safe: A tear-jerking and compelling story that will make you think from the international multi-million bestselling author. Melissa Hill

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      And now, as the worst seemed finally behind us, I was determined that we should have lots more enjoyable mother/daughter days to look forward to and, depending on finances, maybe even think about taking a real holiday next summer or the one after.

      I checked the clock then and realised it was getting close to the end of my duty shift at two. It was nice to be finished early afternoon, but it wasn’t as if I didn’t have other ‘duties’ of sorts to attend to.

      I took Rosie swimming on Wednesdays, and on Thursday nights she had ballet practice. So I knew that I would spend those evenings talking sequins and writing frighteningly big cheques alongside the other Knockroe mothers while my daughter practised her Grand Pliés.

      Not that I minded, really (apart from the big cheques of course). It was about the only ‘girlie’ pursuit that Rosie enjoyed – and she was far more graceful than I had ever been at her age. It was just challenging having to play double duty all the time. Greg always used to make sure dinner was on the table no matter what time I got home, and I missed those days. I missed him.

      Quickly moving through a final checklist for rounds, I waved goodbye to Shelly as she emerged from Mrs Smyth’s room.

      ‘We’re all grand here,’ she said, giving me a thumbs-up. ‘Try to take it easy tonight with that sinus thing, and see you tomorrow.’

      It only took fifteen minutes to drive from Glencree to pick Rosie up from school. Parking outside Applewood, I left the car running and headed for the gate. Sure enough, my daughter soon pranced over – wearing her boots today, good girl. I gathered her into a quick hug and then hustled her to the car. Buckling her in to her booster seat, I kissed one of her pink cheeks. ‘You’re going to match your ballet tutu if you get any rosier.’ I smiled. ‘So what’s up, buttercup? How’d today go?’

      A world-weary sigh. ‘Clara Cooper went home sick this time. After big break. She was coughing and sneezing all morning, and when we were sitting together for reading time, I told her that she had spots on her neck – here.’ Rosie paused, pointing to an area just below her neck at the top of her chest. ‘I said that she’d better go tell Ms Connelly because of Ellie and the chicken pox. Kevin started making fun of her then. He can be so mean.’

      I nodded in sympathy. ‘You did the right thing, and take no notice of Kevin. Even if Clara shouldn’t really be at school if she’s sick,’ I added, mostly to myself.

      Clara Cooper, daughter of the town’s mini-celebrity Madeleine Cooper, and her popular blog or forum or whatever they called it. A self-confessed ‘Mad Mum’ according to the humorous articles and photographs she posted. Though I couldn’t call myself an avid follower, I’d caught a couple of her TV appearances and radio slots and liked her no-nonsense, slightly mad-cap approach to motherhood. Her philosophy was that women shouldn’t be too hard on themselves by taking it all so seriously and overthinking every aspect. And while I admired the sentiment, I guess it’s easier to apply such a motto when you have a partner with whom to share the load.

      Though I didn’t know the woman particularly well, I liked Madeleine; she was one of the people in the community who’d reached out to me in the immediate aftermath of Greg’s death, not just to offer condolence but genuine assistance. Where so many others seemed uncomfortable around me – afraid even – Madeleine had even given me her phone number and urged me to call her for a gossip, cry, anything at all, and I appreciated that.

      Still, I’m sure the teachers at Applewood didn’t appreciate her sending her child to school with a contagious illness, especially when she worked from home. It was one thing to be laissez-faire; quite another altogether to be wilfully careless.

      Then I thought of something I’d heard in the background at work this morning, a promo on breakfast TV about a later show on the same channel… Madeleine Cooper had been mentioned as one of today’s panellists on Morning Coffee.

      Now I got it. Clara’s poorly form and that morning’s impending live TV appearance must have put poor Madeleine in a bind, and I felt lousy for assuming that just because she didn’t physically clock in for work somewhere didn’t mean she wouldn’t have the same parenting balls to juggle as the rest of us.

      ‘Yep, poor Clara had an awful cough, and her face looked hot. She really shouldn’t have come to school at all, I think,’ Rosie added sagely.

      I looked at my five-and-a-half-year-old, marvelling at how wise she was for her age. Again, she reminded me of Greg in that regard. He was always so finely tuned in to everything that was happening around him and very little fazed him.

      ‘Yep. Sounds like she might have caught the pox all right.’ I sent some goodwill little Clara Cooper’s way and hoped it was a mild enough dose.

       *

      The next few days seemed to fly by in a blur.

      On Thursday afternoon, I hustled Rosie home from school, sat with her through homework while also simultaneously preparing a lamb tagine recipe that I had come across on Pinterest the other night. I could put it on and it would be ready for us by the time we got back from ballet later.

      She hadn’t eaten much of that day’s lunch and had also refused a snack before we left, so would surely be starving later.

      Now, I pointed her in the direction of her room so she could get ready for class.

      ‘Make sure you bring a cardie for your arms, sweetheart. It’s always chilly in the studio,’ I called up after her.

      Looking around the kitchen, I grabbed my chequebook and iPad and threw them both in the way-too-big handbag I carried with me everywhere. Child-free women used bags like this as accessories, while those with kids knew that there was no way to get through the day without a surplus of supplies within arm’s reach. I idly remembered Madeleine Cooper posting something about this one time, except she presented it in a far more humorous and creative way than I ever could.

      Moments later, Rosie was ready and we were off. I was feeling in good spirits; I simply loved the days where my organisation skills paid off and I didn’t have to run from one commitment to the next like a frantic lunatic. Sometimes I was really on top of my game.

      Sometimes.

      Upon entering the ballet studio a little way outside town, Rosie and I were met with a flurry of activity. My daughter was pulled in the direction of the practice area by her friends, and I was shuttled to a waiting area where mothers, and the odd father, watched their whirling dervish daughters through glass.

      ‘Kate – over here!’

      I turned towards the sound of a familiar voice and saw the frizzy red hair of Lucy Murphy: unofficial mayor of Knockroe (by way of the fact that everyone knew her) and one of the few friends I’d made locally. We’d met when our daughters attended the same preschool.

      Lucy was a stay-at-home mum and a couple of years my senior. Her husband Dennis worked in insurance in Dublin and she had two daughters, Stephanie and Laura. Laura was a few months older than Rosie and a year ahead of her at school while Stephanie was a couple of years older again.

      ‘Hi, Lucy,’ I said, greeting her warmly.

      ‘Great to see you, love,’ she said, coming in for a small hug before she got straight down to business. ‘I’m collecting donations for the recital costumes.’ (Of course СКАЧАТЬ