The Bad Mother: The addictive, gripping thriller that will make you question everything. Amanda Brooke

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ saw her not that long ago,’ Lucy said as she attempted to gauge exactly how long it had been. It was after she had moved in with Adam but before they had scurried off to Greece to get married last summer. ‘It wasn’t long after she had the baby.’

      ‘He’ll be turning one soon,’ Christine said. ‘I know you both have busy lives, but it would do you good to have someone else to talk to. Don’t you think so, Adam?’

      Before Adam could answer, Lucy said, ‘I do love Hannah, but don’t you think she’s a bit chaotic?’ An image of screaming kids and barking dogs came to mind when she added, ‘The boys were all over Adam last time we were there and he ended up spilling coffee all down his shirt.’

      ‘Lucy was convinced it was deliberate,’ Adam offered.

      ‘And you weren’t?’ asked Lucy, astonished that Adam should be smiling as if the memory had been a pleasant one. He had tried not to show his annoyance at the time but the atmosphere had turned thick, and Hannah hadn’t helped by making a joke of it, clearly used to such disasters. ‘You couldn’t wait to get out of there, and it was a wonder you didn’t get a speeding ticket on the way home.’

      ‘I don’t see how I could when it was you driving.’

      ‘No, it was def—’ she said, stopping herself when she saw the frown forming on Adam’s brow. She could have sworn he had taken the keys from her, but it was so long ago now, maybe she was thinking of a different time. ‘Was it me?’

      Adam winced as he looked to Christine. ‘Can you have baby brain before you’re pregnant?’

      ‘That’s why I think she should talk to Hannah, and New Brighton isn’t that far from you,’ Christine persisted. ‘Apparently she’s another one who thinks you need a visa to get back across the Mersey when you move to the Wirral.’

      Lucy didn’t need reminding that she hadn’t seen nearly enough of her family and friends of late, but she had been busy building a new life with Adam. He had to come first and, while she would willingly make the extra effort for her mum, she wasn’t sure if keeping in touch with Hannah was the right thing to do. Feeling slightly wrong-footed, she turned to Adam. ‘I don’t know, what do you think? I could always try to meet up with her without the kids around, and you wouldn’t have to come.’

      ‘It’s entirely up to you. If you’re sure it will help, of course you should.’

      ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said after some hesitation, to which Adam wrapped an arm around her and she relaxed into his shoulder. She heard him blow on her unruly locks, but if he had spotted a trailing cobweb he didn’t complain.

      ‘At the very least, speak to the midwife,’ Christine said. ‘I don’t mind taking the day off and tagging along with you for your next appointment.’

      ‘You don’t have to do that,’ Lucy said, knowing that her mum had used up most of her leave on the wedding and a couple of other holidays abroad. ‘And I promise, I will mention it.’

      ‘Make sure you do,’ Christine said. ‘Honestly, Lucy, it’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a temporary blip.’

      ‘That’ll last the next eighteen years,’ joked Adam. In response to the look his mother-in-law shot him, he added, ‘Am I bad if I like the new Lucy Martin – version 2.1. with all its idiosyncrasies? It keeps me on my toes.’

      ‘So my daughter’s one of your computer programs now, is she?’ Christine asked. Her voice was soft but firm when she turned to her daughter and added, ‘It won’t be forever, love.’

      Lucy was more inclined to agree with Adam’s prognosis, but she held her tongue and smiled, willing her mum to do the same. Adam didn’t always say the right thing, but there was no doubting his love and, more recently, his perseverance.

      ‘Why don’t you two go and relax while I crack on with lunch?’ Christine suggested. She had returned to the cooker to poke a fork into a bubbling pot of broccoli. ‘It won’t be long and afterwards you can show me the scan photos again. I think I’d like another look at her fingers and toes.’

      Lucy heard a noise escape Adam’s throat that was a half laugh. ‘Is that what I said?’ she asked, already knowing that she had. Her shoulders sagged. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? We were hoping to keep it to ourselves for a while longer.’

      ‘In that case, I think I might be about to have a memory lapse of my own,’ her mum said, her expression fixed with an innocent smile. Lucy wasn’t convinced and justifiably so because as she turned to leave, Christine squeaked, ‘A granddaughter!’

       2

      Lucy listened to the wind howling through the eaves and was extremely grateful that she had avoided an uncomfortable commute to work through torrential rain, unlike poor Adam. Converting the loft into an art studio had been her husband’s idea and had been undertaken shortly after Lucy had moved into the house in West Kirby a year ago. She could have continued to rent studio space in Liverpool but Adam knew how she hated driving through the Kingsway tunnel and it was a journey she was happy to surrender. She liked that she could set to work whenever inspiration struck, although her artistic flare seemed to be misfiring of late.

      Wrapping her hands around a mug of peppermint tea that was too hot to drink, Lucy inhaled the scented steam to ease her mind. It was late morning and she had yet to pick up a paintbrush, while Adam had probably fixed whatever system bug had caused him to rise at five thirty.

      He had left for work hours before Lucy had crawled out of bed, and she had lounged in her PJs, eating porridge and watching morning TV for far longer than she intended. When she had dressed, she had forgone her usual uniform of paint-splattered crop pants and T-shirt for an oversized shirt to make room for the swell of her belly that grew by the day.

      Setting down her drink on the workbench, Lucy tied back her hair with an old bandana and lifted the dust sheet covering her current work in progress. Her easel had been set up close to the Juliet balcony window to catch the natural light, but the storm had stolen the day and she wasted the next few minutes repositioning her work beneath one of the spotlights.

      Taking a step back, she took time to consider her latest commission. It was a portrait of a dog called Ralph, or at least that was the plan. Since leaving college, Lucy had made a decent living painting portraits and most of her work came from either personal recommendation or online requests. She painted people as well as pets, but preferred animal fur to flesh because it suited her style. The last time she had painted a cocker spaniel, it had been one of her best ever portraits and she had been excited by the prospect of doing another.

      What Lucy hadn’t realized from the initial enquiry was that Ralph was completely black except for the flash of white on his chest. The first photo her client had sent was impossible to work from, and even though Lucy now had a series of images pinned to the top of her easel, there was a chance that the end product would be no more than a silhouette set off by the spaniel’s sparkling – and admittedly adorable – eyes. The only aspect of the composition she was confident about tackling was the background. Her trademark was the inclusion of symbolic references, which in Ralph’s case was the window where he awaited his master’s return. There would also be a slipper caught beneath his paw with the toe torn to shreds.

      Having sketched an outline and blocked СКАЧАТЬ