I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks. Adele Parks

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СКАЧАТЬ am at a loss. I can’t go into work as he is, to all intents and purposes, my boss. I’m sure you know about our careers. I find most of my English friends keep up with what’s going on with me. He exec-produces my show; practically owns the channel, as a matter of fact. The humiliation. Everyone must have known before me. The wives are always the last to find out.

      I’ve decided to travel home to England. Maybe find some work there. I need a change of scene. I have nothing to keep me here in the States. We never had children so I’m not tied by schools or whatever. My plans are vague. I’ll call in on my mother – my father died four years ago. I wanted to look up my old friends. I thought perhaps we could meet for a drink. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Reminisce over old, less complicated, days.

      I’ll be arriving in London on 20^th Feb. Where do you live now? I’m guessing London, everyone does. Let me know. Phone number below.

      Love,

      Abigail.

      The kettle has boiled by the time I’ve read the email through twice. I make myself a cup of tea, add a spoon of sugar, which I rarely take. I need something sweet. She is right, I have never imagined I’d see a note from her in my inbox. True, we are Facebook friends – I remember sending her a request on impulse one evening a few years ago. I’d had a glass of wine or two, otherwise I’d probably never have done it. Her name was suggested to me because I’m Facebook friends with a few people from my days at uni. I’d been a little surprised when she accepted it. Surprised and flattered. Abigail Curtiz’s attention is still to be coveted. Perhaps more so now as she is famous. Not A-lister movie-star famous but someone who makes her living by appearing on TV – that seems glamorous enough to me. As far as I’m aware she has never ‘liked’ any of my posts. I haven’t liked hers either. Doing so would seem impertinent, pushy. She’s right about something, though: I have kept abreast of her news via Facebook. And Google. And Wikipedia. And the occasional celeb mag search, if I’m honest. Of course, I looked her up.

      She married Rob Larsen. They’ve been together since we were at university. A good innings, some might say. An absolute tragedy therefore that it’s ended the way it has. I’m sorry for her. Truly. Her heart is breaking. She aches. The confession, so bold and frank, moves me. It shows a level of trust and confidence in our old, neglected friendship. I wonder whether Rob has had affairs throughout their marriage. Perhaps. I’ve long since thought he was arrogant. Cold.

      It must be a dreadful position to be in. Abi isn’t exaggerating in her letter. Her career is entirely wrapped up in his, I know from all my searches. They are a golden couple of TV, with the Midas touch, stronger together, bigger than the sum of the parts. Until now, I suppose. When we were undergraduates, he lectured in business studies with an emphasis in marketing while he was still studying for his PhD. A peculiar position to be in, straddling both roles – a staff member and a student, albeit a postgraduate one. He was fast on the uptake with new media and positioned himself as a bit of an internet and digital marketing expert, the things that the older lecturers were afraid of. I didn’t pick the media module so I was never taught by him, but he was a bit of a legend within the university. Charismatic, bold, far younger than most of the other members of staff. Lots of girls had a crush on him, Abi included.

      They started hooking up at the end of our first year. It was a clandestine affair to begin with. A chaotic on-off sort of thing. She never knew where she stood with him or the university. What were the rules? Them having a relationship wasn’t expressly forbidden, but it was certainly frowned upon. Truthfully, I think Abi enjoyed the sneaking around, the drama, his inaccessibility, his power. This, combined with his good looks meant he was irresistible. I gather from Wikipedia that they emigrated to America a couple of years after she graduated. He was offered some fancy job in a big advertising agency. Then, in a move I don’t quite understand (but no surprises there as I’m hardly the big businesswoman), he somehow managed to get involved in TV production. He now owns an enormous and extremely successful production company. He seems to have shares in actual TV channels and investment in several other media companies. The photos I’ve seen online always show them both to be more groomed, wealthy and glossy than anyone else I know. Shrouded in success. She’s become much thinner, not that she was ever heavy. He’s got bigger, broader, more substantial.

      This is not just a case of a pretty woman piggy-backing on her successful husband’s career. She’s worked hard. Chosen that life over a family life. Yet, it seems her career belongs to him. What a mess. Now she has nothing to tether her if she floats away. Nothing to cushion her if she crashes to the ground.

      That bit in the email about her father dying. That’s sad. I met Abi’s dad two or three times. He was very nice. Surprisingly unassuming, considering the daughter he reared. Luckily, my parents are in hail health, Ben’s dad died before I met him but his Mum, Ellie, is well. Abi’s bad luck makes me feel oddly guilty about my own good fortune.

      I haven’t seen Abi for seventeen years. She came to visit me once when Liam was a couple of months old, which was more than most did. It was an awkward visit, even though we both did our best for it not to be. Liam was born in June, around the time most of my friends were finishing second-year exams. Most of them had plans to be backpacking around Europe that summer, so I didn’t invite them to meet my baby to spare them the embarrassment, and me the hurt, of them refusing. Abi wasn’t backpacking though. She didn’t want to leave Rob alone in Birmingham. She just showed up.

      She brought Liam a cuddly goose. It was one of his favourite things for a few years. He inaccurately called it ‘Ducky’. I kept it. It’s at the bottom of a box in the attic, along with his first romper suit and a few other bits and pieces that I’ve hung onto for sentimental reasons. She chatted about our friends and tutors, brought me up to date on who was house sharing with whom, who was dating whom, who had done well in their exams and who had just scraped a pass. I was still talking about going back to uni and maybe if my degree had been a three-year course, I might have done. But it was a combined course, four years. I was only halfway through. Despite what I said, I think I already knew I wouldn’t be going back.

      My boobs leaked milk during her visit because I did not want to feed Liam in front of her. I didn’t mind getting my baps out – I was already becoming accustomed to that. It was more complicated. I didn’t want her to go back to uni and remember me as a feeding mother, pegged to the sofa, stewing in front of daytime TV, someone whose best friends were the six New Yorkers on the sitcom of that name. My breasts became miserably heavy, and I could smell my own milk leak on to my padded bra, then my T-shirt. Eventually, Liam woke up screaming. He was blissfully unconscious of my need to preserve some fragment of the old me in my friend’s memory. He hungrily rooted around my chest, staring at me with confused and furious eyes. Why wasn’t I feeding him? In the end, his loud and insistent crying drove her away. She made vague promises that she’d visit again but I didn’t hold her down to a date. The moment the door closed behind her, I collapsed into the chair and pulled out my boob, fumbling. I squirted milk into Liam’s eyes and nose before I found his mouth.

      Do I want to dredge all that up again? Is it wise?

      The 20th, that’s tomorrow.

      A small part of me would like to meet her for a drink. I’m not sure which force is driving me the most. Curiosity or kindness. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t live in London. Funny that she should think I do. She clearly hasn’t read my Facebook profile in any detail. I’m based in Wolvney, on a housing estate that’s sprouted up halfway between Coventry, where my parents live, and Northampton, where Ben works. I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question that I go to London to see her for an afternoon. It’s only just over an hour on the train. We sometimes take the kids there for a daytrip at the weekend but we tend to only do so for a special occasion. The last time we went was to see Matilda the musical. It was Imogen’s birthday. We all loved it, even Liam. Bless him. It would take a bit of organisation to hoof СКАЧАТЬ