Information about the book
Prologue
Cheltenham, 29 March 1991
Flora kicked off her shoes, pulled her dress over her head and tossed it on to the bed. She was about to remove her underwear too, when a glance in the gilt-framed cheval mirror stopped her.
Dressed, she still looked quite trim for a woman of forty-eight, but naked she was flabby and her skin pale. She couldn't bear the thought of anyone seeing her like that. Not even in death.
She opened a drawer, took out the ivory silk slip which matched her bra and knickers and put it on. 'That's better,' she murmured.
Removing the band holding her hair back, she ran her fingers through it till it tumbled down over her bare shoulders. Her Titian-red wavy hair had always been her best feature, and even now, as desperate as she felt, she was proud of it.
The bath was already run in the en-suite bathroom, she was primed with a couple of sleeping pills and some brandy, and no one was due home for at least three hours. She was entirely resolved upon what she intended to do, yet it hadn't occurred to her until now that it would have been kinder to the children if she'd checked into a hotel room so that a stranger found her.
It was the bedroom which prompted this thought. From the expensive red and gold wallpaper that Andrew had raged over to the French gilded bed and sumptuous carpet and curtains, it reflected her true character. It was the only room in the entire house which really did, as Andrew despised what he called 'bordello' style. Everywhere else was muted shades of cream and taupe, as befitted a Georgian country house.
But she wanted to die here in this room which she'd fought long and hard to keep as she planned it. He'd driven her to this point by forcing her to bend to his will about everything else. He claimed he loved her, that everything he'd done was for her, but in reality he'd stifled her true personality and creativity to the point where she could barely remember who she'd once been.
In her early twenties she'd claimed that suicides were cowards. She'd loved life so much then that she despised anyone who didn't embrace it as she did. But she didn't know then what heartache could do, or that a bad choice in a weak moment could change the whole course of your life.
But it was too late for regrets now; she was feeling woozy, and Andrew would be home first so it would be he who found her. As she went over to the dressing table to take one last look at the framed pictures of her children, she was very unsteady.
Sophie and Ben, seventeen and eighteen respectively, grinned cheerfully back at her. The picture of the two of them had been taken on Boxing Day, at the pre-lunch drinks party they had every Christmas for neighbours and friends. They were very alike: tall, slender and dark-haired. They had inherited Andrew's looks, but she hoped they would never become mean-spirited control freaks like him.
In a separate frame was one of Eva. It had been taken on Boxing Day too, but it was not a very flattering picture. She was smaller than the other two, curvy and pretty with lovely blue eyes, but the purple dress overwhelmed her delicate colouring and made her look plump and closer to thirty than only twenty. It pricked Flora's conscience.
'I should've picked a dress out for you,' she sighed. 'Pink or pale blue – that would've done you justice. I also should've told you never to try to be what you think other people want of you. I'm a good example of where that leads. Be true to yourself, and remember I loved you.'
She kissed each one of their faces, biting back tears. Time was running out; she could feel her head swirling, and she still had to write a note for them. She picked up the pen and notepad she'd left by the bedside, but could no longer remember the words she'd planned to say.
'Forgive me,' she began. But nothing more came to her, and in some strange way that seemed enough.
She left the note on the bedside cabinet and went into the bathroom. The new sharp craft knife was ready on the side of the bath. She climbed into the hot water, lay back for a few moments to brace herself and then picked up the knife.
She hesitated. The steel knife felt cold and heavy in her hand. Could she really do it? It was the pain she was afraid of, and of not cutting deep enough to open her veins.
'No more guilt,' she murmured. 'No more pretending. It will all be gone for ever very soon.'
With the knife in her left hand, she quickly drew the blade sharply across her right wrist, then changed hands and cut the left one before the pain could stop her. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt; and the way the blood began to pump out, she knew she'd cut them deeply enough.
She let her arms sink into the hot water and watched the water turn red.
It was done.
