Perfect Strangers: an unputdownable read full of gripping secrets and twists. Erin Knight

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СКАЧАТЬ yipped Sarah. She looked at Isobel. ‘Max is five.’

      ‘Oh. Is he at the school where you teach?’

      ‘He is.’

      ‘Handy for the school run,’ smiled Isobel.

      ‘Yup. Not so handy when you need to put your parent’s hat on, though. I’m dreading sports day.’

      ‘Hmph?’ A fleck of muffin shot from Cleo’s mouth.

      ‘I told you, the whole school’s running a vote on which child’s pet should be Mr Pethers’ co-umpire this year.’

      ‘Whose brilliant idea was that? You’re a pet-free home,’ mumbled Cleo.

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘Oh, just pop him a garden bug in a tub and let him name it what he likes.’

      Sarah rubbed her forehead. ‘Max was already crazy about getting a puppy, this pet election is sending him into overdrive. On top of Sebastian Brightman pushing his buttons.’

      ‘What’s up with Max and Olivia’s kid?’

      ‘Oh, nothing really. Max won’t eat brown bread sandwiches any more because Seb says brown bread is for ducks. He’s stopped wearing his orange raincoat because Seb says orange is the colour of orangutan poo. Max hates breakfast club on Tuesdays now because Seb’s told the other breakfast kids not to play with Max, the orangutan-poo-wearing, duckfood-eating kid.’ Sarah pushed her pancake away. ‘Sorry. You did ask.’

      ‘Have you tried collaring Olivia? Too busy horse riding, I expect. All those dressage rosettes, you’d think she’d be able to train her offspring to behave.’

      ‘Maybe you could try a play date?’ suggested Isobel. ‘They might have more chance finding a common ground away from the rest of the class?’

      Sarah nodded towards her cup. ‘I agree, Max and Seb probably would find common ground if they were given the chance. It’s just a little complicated, and too boring to go into, but Olivia wouldn’t be keen on a play date at our house.’

      ‘No, because Olivia and the rest of the Hornbeam momsters swallow everything Juliette’s got to say like chocolate-covered rabbit shits.’ Cleo stiffened. ‘Did you just hear that? Those bloody cats in my bins!’ Cleo was on her feet. ‘Back in a jiffy.’

      They watched her go. She was making a detour via two schoolboys hovering by the terrace ramp, both pointing their phones towards the café windows.

      ‘What are they doing?’ asked Isobel.

      ‘At a guess, piggybacking Cleo’s wifi.’

      The shorter schoolboy studied his phone while his bulkier friend tapped at a wooden post with his shoe. Isobel would’ve recognised the first boy more quickly, but he wasn’t in the hipster glasses he’d worn outside the organic veg shop.

      ‘Go on, you’ll be late if you don’t get a shuffle on,’ shooed Cleo.‘And get your mother to top up your data, Milo!’ she called.

      ‘She won’t!’ he called back.

      ‘Yeah,’ the other boy snorted, ‘his mum thinks too much internet will warp his little mind.’

      ‘Get going, boys,’ Cleo instructed, marching purposefully towards the back of Coast.

      ‘So, wanderlust, Isobel? Sounds exciting.’

      She felt her thoughts stall like those fainting goats Ella liked to watch on YouTube. She should’ve put more effort into her back story before making pretend friends with chatty locals.

      ‘Not really. More of a flexible holiday.’ It sounded like a lie.

      ‘So why Fallenbay, of all the places?’

      Because I’m a teacher too. With a lesson to teach. ‘Um . . . the surf. I want to learn.’

      ‘Yeah, the schools here are great, you should book in with the Blue Fin guys. They started my boys off.’

      ‘Go on! Move it along! You can’t just rummage through my things, even if they are the unwanted bits. Go on or I’ll call the police.’ Cleo emerged from behind the café, arms spread wide, herding a man looking at her in complete bewilderment. He had a thick matted beard and duct tape around his trainers.

      ‘Poor guy,’ said Sarah quietly. Cleo was trying to drive him towards the street, but their generously laden breakfast table had caught his attention. Isobel felt her breathing quicken. The fallen-from-grace banker. Who liked to hurt girls. ‘We should give him something to eat,’ Sarah decided. ‘We’ll have to be discreet though. Cleo bans customers for encouraging the gulls, she’ll go berserk if we encourage that gentleman. Uh-oh, I think he’s read my mind.’

      Isobel’s heart was pattering steadily.

      ‘No, no, come away from there please, this way! Walk this way and I’ll find you something to take with you.’ But his eyes were already locked on the pastries and fruit. ‘No! Don’t bother my guests! I’m so sorry, girls . . .’

      He kept on coming. The smell of stale clothes over something less pleasant reached Isobel first. His features were dark and furrowed. Pitiful. Wretched. A man who hurt girls deserved an existence like this, didn’t he? He came close enough that he was staring down at her. She thought about standing, making herself taller, more formidable. The way you were supposed to when confronted by a bear . . . or was it a wolf you should stand your ground with?

      ‘Isobel?’ Sarah gently touched her hand. Isobel looked down, her knuckles were white, her fist clamped around a fork she couldn’t recall grabbing.

      A figure jogged across the terrace. ‘He’s harmless, Mrs R. Come on, Bob, I’ve got a box of sarnies here. I hate tuna but the old dear thinks it’ll make me smarter. Step this way, Bob.’

      ‘Milo, I don’t think you should—’ Sarah stopped herself.

      ‘It’s cool. Cheers for letting us bum off your wifi, Mrs R, you’re a life-saver, serious. Bob likes the beach, don’t you, Bob? And tuna sarnies. We’re going that way anyway.’

      Cleo stopped eying Isobel and the fork. ‘Milo, hurry up and get yourselves to school.’

      ‘It’s cool, Mrs. R, just don’t tell the mother you saw us.’

19

      Sarah leant back on her chair and peered along the hallway. Max’s orange raincoat lay abandoned at the bottom of the stairs. At the end of the corridor a familiar rump peeped into view around the kitchen doorway. ‘Mum, stop rummaging through my pantry!’ Her mother’s greying Bardot style popped around the door instead.

      ‘It’ll take you months to eat this lot, darling. You’ll be paying removal costs for . . .’ her mother inspected another tin, ‘ . . . kidney beans.’

      Sarah grimaced. She wasn’t a fan of kidney beans. Patrick had called her boring for picking hers out СКАЧАТЬ