Page 1 of The Mistake
Prologue
There have been rumours for years that these woods are haunted. That screams and cries echo through the trees once the sun has gone down, legends of a maid murdered by a lover, of a servant man found hanging from the old oak that grows beside the stream, its roots stretching out far below the waterline. The cry that splits the air now is sharp enough to make your blood run cold. The shrill, insistent cry of a baby.
The wails, high-pitched and frantic, rise up towards the thick summer leaves of the old oak before being swallowed by the rush of water. The stream is swollen by the rain of the past few days, August storms that split the skies with thunder and lightning, fat raindrops bouncing off pavements. The stink of the river fills the air, thick with sulphide. The baby cries again, her face red, her fists pumping as rain drips from the canopy above her, splattering the mulchy leaves, her face, the blanket that covers her. No onecomes.
An owl takes flight, swooping across the night sky, its white wings an elegant blur. A rat, whiskery and pointy, sniffs the ground a few feet away before stepping towards the bag the baby lies in. Sleek and fat, the rat tugs at the plastic with its razor-sharp teeth, nipping and tearing. The baby cries again, a cry of distress and panic that would cut a mother to the bone, and the rat whisks away, sloping into the hollow of the oak tree. The clear night air is chilly and damp, despite it being the tail end of summer, and the baby hitches in a breath, her chest heaving. Her chubby hands fall to her sides, rustling against the bag covering her tiny body, damp from the rotting leaves seeping through a hole in the plastic, soaking the edges of her sleepsuit. Cries turnto whimpers, faint and whispery, drifting away towards the stream before they can rise into the night sky. Whimpers turn to gasps, the gasps to silence.
And still nobody comes.
The Pregnancy
Natalie
Natalie splashes her face with cold water, pausing for a moment when she thinks she hears the sound of the doorbell, the faint chime breaking into her thoughts. Reaching for a towel, she presses it to her cheeks, swiping away the water and avoiding her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror. She still feels nauseous, and there is no mistaking the dark circles under her eyes. The ring of the doorbell comes again, followed by a frantic rapping at the door, and Natalie hangs the towel back up and hurries to the top of the stairs.
The knocking repeats, sharp and fast, and Natalie can feel the crash of her own pulse in her ears, her heart thundering in her chest. There is something urgent about it, and she wonders if it’s Pete, if he forgot his keys. She’s sure Pete is out on a site visit today, looking over the contract details of the new housing development going up on the other side of the woods, on the newer side of West Marsham village. He never usually comes home in the day when he’s out on site. Running down the stairs, trying to ignore the churning in her stomach, Natalie reaches the front door and yanks it open, breathless.
‘Eve!’
‘Hi, love.’ Eve leans over to kiss her on the cheek as she squeezes past, heading towards the kitchen. Natalie’s eyes go to the clock on the wall. It’s only 12.30 p.m. She wasn’t expecting her best friend until one o’clock. ‘I did ring the door but there was no answer, so I thought I’d better knock. I thought you must not have heard the bell.’
‘Sorry, I was in the bathroom.’ Natalie eyes the Camembert Eve is pulling out of a plastic bag and placing on the kitchen worktop, inhaling its faint musty scent. She’s not sure if she can eat that.
‘I know, I’m early.’ Eve grins. ‘My eleven o’clock client cancelled on me. We haven’t had a proper catch-up for ages.’
‘You’re not worried they cancelled?’ Natalie doesn’t know how Eve does it. She couldn’t be a bereavement counsellor, listening to other people’s heartbreak all day long.
‘People cancel all the time.’ Eve pulls out a baguette, some fancy charcuterie meats, grapes and a bottle of red wine. Natalie thinks about the quiche in the fridge that she’d been planning on serving up with a salad for their lunch. Maybe Pete can take it to work tomorrow. ‘You OK? You look a bit peaky.’
‘Just tired. Hectic week.’
‘You sit down, let me sort lunch.’ Eve bustles around the kitchen as if it is her own, sliding the cheese into the oven with the bread, and arranging the meat on a wooden board Pete bought on a whim in a fancy kitchen shop at Bluewater, as Natalie sinks onto a stool at the island.
‘I got us a bottle of that nice Chianti,’ Eve says, placing two wine glasses beside the place settings. ‘The one we drank two bottles of last time.’
Natalie pauses, her hands fluttering below the table. ‘Not for me.’
‘Emily’s picking Zadie up from school for you, though, isn’t she? We can just have one bottle, I promise it won’t turn into a late one.’ The women meet regularly for lunches that go on until dark, if Pete, Natalie’s husband, is around to watch the kids. Natalie doesn’t go out much – much less than some of the other mums from school – so lunch with Eve is her only chance to get some time to herself. Sometimes they meet in Maidstone, in one of the little cafés; other times they take it in turns to host at home, on the days when Natalie only works half a day at the HR department for a national charity. On rare occasions they head up to Stratford for lunch at Westfield, giggling on the train home with the taste of too much wine on their tongues. Usually she wouldn’t be bothered about whether it turned into a late one.Usually Natalie would have opened the wine while she waited for Eve to arrive.
‘No, honestly. Just sparkling water for me.’ Natalie slides from the stool and heads for the huge American-style fridge, pulling out a cold bottle of water.
‘Are you OK?’ Eve frowns, as she moves to the oven to check on the food.
‘I’m fine. I don’t fancy it today, that’s all.’
Eve waits until they are both sat at the island, the Camembert steaming in front of them, before she speaks.
‘What is it?’ Eve leans across the worktop, reaching for Natalie’s hand. ‘What’s going on? Is it Pete?’
‘No, it’s not Pete. Pete’s great. He’s won the contract for that big housing development on the other side of the village. You won’t believe who owns the development company.’
‘Who?’
‘Vanessa Taylor.’
Eve’s eyes widen. Like Natalie, she’s never met Vanessa but she knows exactly who she is. ‘ThatVanessa Taylor? As in Pete’s ex-girlfriend, Vanessa Taylor?’
‘The one and the same.’ Natalie had had the same reaction when Pete told her, shaking his head in disbelief.
