The Fallout Read online

  THE FALLOUT

  Rebecca Thornton

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Copyright © Rebecca Thornton 2019

  Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Jacket photograph © Johnny Ring (women on bench); Shutterstock.com (all other images)

  Rebecca Thornton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008373122

  Ebook Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9780008373146

  Version: 2019-11-14

  Dedication

  For Walter and Dom

  Epigraph

  ‘Silent lies are more venomous than cruel truths’

  — Ben Oliveira

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Five Years Later

  SARAH

  LIZA

  SARAH

  LIZA

  SARAH

  Liza

  SARAH

  LIZA

  SARAH

  LIZA

  SARAH

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  Gav

  SARAH

  LIZA

  SARAH

  LIZA

  One Year Later

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  2 September 2014

  WhatsApp group: NCT West London Ladies

  Members: Victoria, Liza, Sarah, Miranda, Ella, Camilla

  Victoria: Hi guys. We are absolutely delighted to announce that Otto Arthur Stuart-Brown was born yesterday to a very proud Mummy and Daddy. Hit the September baby mark. Phew! Weighed 6 pounds and 5 oz. We are totally in love. Oxytocin, ladies! It’s the stuff of dreams.

  Camilla: Lovely news, Victoria. Elodie was born too, yesterday. Whopper at 9.9 oz.

  Miranda: Ah congrats everyone. I’m still waiting for my little bundle to arrive.

  Sarah: Me too

  Liza: Me three

  Victoria: Oh you ladies will be absolutely fine. Just remember. Breathe, let nature work its magic. Nothing to be worried about. And remember – they’re sensations. NOT contractions.

  Liza: How was it? We’re all dying to hear.

  Victoria: Good thanks! Bit tricky trying to type with one hand whilst I feed. Just enrolling him into schools!

  Miranda: Oh god. Schools? Really? Do you think I’ve missed my chance already? Where did you put him down?

  Victoria: @Miranda – I’ll ping you separately. Yes. I’d get on it. Got to do it now ladies, or you’ll miss the boat!

  Ella: Typing …

  WhatsApp group: Renegades

  Members: Liza, Sarah

  Liza: @Miranda, I’ll ping you separately – in our newly-named WhatsApp group. SMUG MUMS.

  Sarah: Hahaha I know!

  Liza: Shit I thought I sent that to the wrong group.

  Sarah: I’m so tired I think I might die.

  Liza: You’re tired now? Wait till you get this fucker out. THEN YOU’LL KNOW THE MEANING OF TIREDNESS. Joking.

  Sarah: Oh god. Wtf is with that school thing btw? Is she for real?

  Liza: Yup. She’s been banging on about it since the first step she took into our NCT class. Thank god you were there. And normal.

  Sarah: I’d have to sell a kidney first. Not that they’d be worth much at the mo.

  Liza: Me too.

  Sarah: £6k a term or something for the one she’s been talking about. PS Ella keeps typing then dropping off.

  Liza: Sure she’s fine. We would have heard by now if not. Think she’s just … not into socialising too much.

  Sarah: *with us*

  Liza: Yup.

  Sarah: haha.

  Liza: Coffee later?

  Sarah: Mella’s? Half an hour?

  Liza: See you there. I’m bringing plastic bags to sit on.

  Sarah: Ping me if you hear anything from Ella before then? So weird she hasn’t been in touch. I’ve WhatsApped her separately but nothing – she’s read it though.

  Liza: Yeah will let you know. Although she’d have pinged you before me anyway. She’s a bit of a mystery that one.

  Sarah: She is indeed. Do you think we did anything to offend her? She’s posting on Facebook. Just seen pics of her and Christian from this morning!

  Liza: Weird. Must be us then. Something someone said, or did. Like I said, Ella Bradby is a total mystery.

  Sarah: Hmmm. She sure is. Ok see you in thirty, yeah? X

  Liza: Yeah X

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  West London Gazette Online, 21 July 2019

  Author: J Roper

  A nine-million-pound refurbished health club, The Vale Club, has just opened to the well-heeled residents of West London. Based on the Acton/Chiswick fringes, the club boasts an Olympic-sized pool, a crèche, soft-play, six tennis courts and an outdoor playground.

  Kirsty Macdonald, Director of Sales, says two thousand members have already joined, with staggered waiting lists already full.

  ‘Our clients are mainly families and working professionals and we hope to provide a fantastic service to everyone in the area to keep them healthy and fit, whilst also being a great place for socialising.’

  The residents are also thrilled to have this new West London club on their doorsteps.

  Cordelia Banks, a lawyer and 39-year-old mother of three, says that the club will be a ‘much needed central hub – a place for both children and adults to keep fit and entertained in a safe environment’. And Finlay Brown, a 27-year-old marketing executive, says that The Vale Club will ‘keep the residents of West London active’, and he is looking forward to meeting ‘like-minded healthy people there’.

  For further information, or to book a private tour, please visit The Vale Club website.

  SARAH

  ‘Sarah,’ Liza hisses. ‘Quick. Oh my God. Look who it is. My three o’clock.’ She throws her head towards the soft-play, kids hurling themselves off the plastic inflatables like they’re on some kind of kamikaze mission.

&nbs
p; ‘Georgina Bard?’ replies Sarah. ‘Yes, she’s here all the time. With that perfect, peachy bottom of hers.’

  ‘No. Not her. No, look again. Behind the blondes. Hurry, she’s going. Bloody hell.’

  It’s rare, but Sarah’s not in the mood for a gossip. It’s just one of those days where everything feels wrong, like a too-tight pair of trousers, except she doesn’t have the relief of opening the top button.

  She’d googled her symptoms this morning in bed. Mood swings, tiredness, heavy periods. Her diagnosis had said: perimenopause. She shivers remembering what she had read next. Perimenopause can last for ten years during which time fertility declines. Ten years! It seems so unfair. She’s only thirty-nine after all.

  She can’t really see who Liza could possibly be talking about anyway. Everyone looks the same here. Block-printed athleisure-wear leggings with Olivia Cunningham’s brand-new Motherhood Mania clothing-line tops. Brightly coloured slogan tees – Mother’s Little Helper! – complete with lozenge-shaped pills underneath. She jolts when she realises she cannot see Casper, his blond, bowl-haircut flying up and down as he leaps from level to level, before she remembers he’s safely ensconced in his Champions Forever tennis lesson.

  ‘See her now?’ says Liza. ‘It’s a good ’un.’

  ‘Nope.’ Sarah wonders why Liza is staring at her so intently, waiting for her reaction. A Z-list celebrity, she wonders. Unbearable if it is. But, all she can really think is: why is everyone still smiling? Three days into the autumn half-term and she’s done in. Yet here they are, all the other women (and where are all the bloody men today?) bouncing around. Long, lean legs, feet in pristine trainers, chatting so animatedly. Why aren’t they exhausted? She knows she’s probably just jealous – but what’s wrong with them? She’d never stopped to think that maybe they’re all normal and it’s actually her with the problem. She rubs a mark off her own leggings. Weetabix, she’s guessing, from Casper’s breakfast.

  She inspects all the other women as she tries to find the target of Liza’s attention. She’s distracted by Thomasina Hulme, who’d been extremely frosty with her in Zumba the day before last.

  ‘Come on Allegra.’ Thomasina sounds increasingly shrill. ‘Come on. You can jump by yourself, without Mummy’s help. Go on.’

  Sarah wishes Thomasina would shut up and stop thinking that she is instilling confidence into her little one. Allegra jumps onto a red, squishy mat. Thomasina lets out a triumphant ‘Oh!’ and looks around, hoping for some semblance of shared joy at her daughter’s leap into the unknown. To Sarah’s utter satisfaction, no one else seems to be watching.

  ‘I can’t see anyone new, Liza. Just tell me who it is.’ She tries to disguise the impatience in her voice. Both she and Liza had had a field day when the club had recently opened. After all, The Vale Club is the spanking new place to be for the parents of West London and their little monkeys; so far, she and Liza have pretty much spotted and done a recce on all of the members already (their best one yet being some of the cast of Strictly Come Dancing on rehearsal) and apparently they’ve since shut the waiting list.

  She can see why the place is in such high demand. There’s a soft-play, a gym. There’s even a crèche and kids’ classes, boxing, tai-chi and all, so the children can pump their little fists on punch bags instead of Mummy and Daddy.

  Just as she’s about to swivel her gaze back to Liza and tell her she can’t see anyone, she spots her. She’s in the corner, behind the soft-play, picking up a large bag with two tennis rackets sticking out. In her right hand is a bottle of half-finished water and, in the other, an iPhone. Sarah can see it has been personalised with a photograph on the back. She gasps. Liza’s right. Bloody hell indeed.

  Ella Bradby.

  Of all people. Here. Sarah doesn’t know why she hadn’t expected it. She must have just joined.

  It’s just like Ella to waft in after everyone else. To check things at the club are tickety-boo. Ella isn’t a leader of the pack in that sense. More that she would always wait. Keep everyone on their toes. Wanting to see if it is actually good enough for her. Sarah’s mind is pulled back to their antenatal class, five years earlier. The way Ella had waited for a text message from someone, before she deigned to follow on to the restaurant that had been chosen for their final NCT lunch. Just let me know what the food looks like, will you? Before I come all that way. And of course that part of the discussion had taken up most of lunch, as everyone had been too scared to put their heads above the parapet – just in case it wasn’t good enough for Ella Bradby.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s her!’ says Sarah. ‘I thought there was a massive waiting list.’

  ‘See? I told you it was a good spot. The mysterious Ella. Back again in our lives.’

  Sarah doesn’t want to give Liza the satisfaction of reacting in exactly the awe-struck way she is anticipating.

  ‘Well, she hasn’t changed much, in all these years, has she? We still don’t know where she went.’

  ‘Nope. You’ll catch flies in a minute,’ Liza laughs. ‘She’s one of us now. No helping it. Ha. You going to ditch me now?’

  ‘No, course not,’ she replies, distractedly. ‘Shall we talk to her?’

  ‘You can. Happy to observe. But I don’t want to go back in time. It’s all history now.’

  Sarah doesn’t really know what ‘history’ Liza is referring to but she glosses over it, in favour of thinking about Ella Bradby. She had been fascinated by her for the few weeks they’d been in NCT class together, and afterwards too. She thinks about the second she’d first laid eyes on Ella. How every single man and woman in the room – including her own husband – had been looking at those never-ending legs, that self-contained smile of hers. Sarah had felt that curious pull of wanting to both look and be like her, yet feeling simultaneously threatened. The fact that Ella, too, had forgotten Sarah’s name – not once, but twice – only served to make her allure even stronger.

  And after that, she’d googled her obsessively and discovered with absolute glee that, back in the day, Ella had spent two dazzling years with West London-based actor, and St Paul’s alumni, Rufus North. Sarah had told Liza she had known with an absolute certainty she’d recognised Ella from somewhere. And there it was! Her relentless poring over the Mail Online’s Sidebar of Shame had paid off. All along, she’d been right on the money.

  Afterwards, Sarah had remained intrigued for the eight weeks that Ella had been on the NCT West London Ladies WhatsApp group, before she’d quietly and deftly removed herself.

  None of the other members of the NCT had said a word to each other about it. Too proud. Nursing their indignation by swiftly moving on to other matters. Nappy-rash. Tongue-ties, the colour of their newborns’ faeces. (Often accompanied by a photograph. Sorry in advance. TMI, but I’m having a massive freak out! Why is it the colour of mustard?)

  But now Ella’s child, Felix, is in the same year at school as Sarah’s son, though of course in a different class. And despite having looked high and low, Sarah’s never once spotted Ella at the school gates.

  She remembers eagerly skimming through the Reception enrolment list for The West London Primary Academy School before the start of autumn term. The way her heart had skipped when she had seen the name: Bradby, Felix. And she’d known, right away. She’d texted Liza straight off and had felt a swell of validation that they’d also managed to get Casper into the local primary – even though they are precisely three quarters of a kilometre away from the school. It had still been touch and go for a minute. She had been so thankful that she and Tom hadn’t had to delve into their life savings, just to be able to afford one term’s fees of the private school The Little Falcons. Tom had been relieved when she’d imparted the news and, because Ella Bradby’s child had also been sent to the local primary, Sarah had never again felt that she had to justify her choice to her mother – who constantly asked if Tom’s job was ‘going well’. A lecture would then follow, on how she and Sarah’s father had worked themselves into the ground
to send Sarah to her private school. She had clutched at this newly acquired information about Ella and Felix like it was a toasty hot-water bottle.

  And now Ella is here too, at the club. Only a few metres away. She feels the lift of her earlier malaise.

  It isn’t that Sarah necessarily still wants to be Ella Bradby like she had when she’d first laid eyes on her at NCT. Not in the same way that, aged sixteen, Little Miss Average Sarah Biddlecombe, at her West London private school, had wanted to step into the glittery, platform trainers of Little Miss Popular Cassie Fox.

  No. Not in that way. Or at least so she tells herself. She’s had enough experience now to know women like Ella had enough trouble in life, what with the judgement that comes with their ice-cool looks and trendy jobs. The pressure of it all. No, it is something else entirely. She just wants to be near her, and breathe in the cool, calm essence of her. Her energy that says: I don’t really give a damn if you like me or not, which of course, makes Sarah want Ella to like her even more.

  Fuck, she thinks, smoothing her T-shirt over her belly. Fuckety, fuck fuck. Is this how utterly sad her life has become that she’s getting off at the prospect of talking to one of the other school mothers?

  ‘Oh, well, she’s already gone,’ says Liza. ‘Ghosted us. Again. Remind me why we sat here?’ She throws her head towards the soft-play.

  ‘So we have prime seats so that when the kids are back with us, they can watch even more telly and we can be inside and warm.’ Sarah turns to the blaring TV screen and watches Mr Tiny Tots in his weird, spotted bowtie, grinning and gurning like he’s just necked a load of class A drugs. ‘Hey. Want a coffee?’

  ‘If you go, can you check on Jack? Outside? In the playground.’

  ‘I sure will,’ Sarah tells her. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Liza lifts Thea out of her pram. ‘He’s just there.’ She points at the window, towards the sandpit. ‘This little monster just needs a quick feed.’

  ‘No probs. Cake?’ Sarah nearly trips over the aggressively large bundle of bags, toys and coats that they’d used to lay claim to the seats.