Private Lives полностью

About the Author

After studying at Edinburgh University, Emily Edwards worked for a think tank in New York before returning to London where she worked as a support worker for vulnerable women at a large charity. She now lives in Lewes, East Sussex, with her endlessly patient husband and her two endlessly energetic young sons. Her previous novel, The Herd, was a number one bestseller.

Also by Emily Edwards

The Herd

Emily Edwards

PRIVATE LIVES

To my sisters

The dogs of Waverly are the first to sense something is wrong.

Then a group of people, confused by what they heard, congregate in the dark roads, wrapped in dressing gowns, feet shoved into gardening clogs. 

‘Retribution.’ A man nods, knowingly, his phone in his hand like a prayer book. ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’ 

The others stare at him and then nod at each other, their faces glowing and uncertain beneath the street lamps, sirens already screaming close by.

Someone’s taken this too far. Much too far. 

‘You see it on the news all the time, don’t you?’

Some think it was shots they heard, a gunman rampaging through cobbled streets, some loner in military gear, ammunition looped like beads around his neck. A few weeks ago they might have guessed it could be that guy who works at the newsagent’s but never talks, maybe. Or what about the drunk who is often weeping, always alone in the park? But now, of course, they know exactly what this is about.

‘But Waverly?’ they ask each other. ‘I never would have thought anything like this could happen in Waverly!’

What they really want to ask is: does this mean their luck’s run out? Has the good fortune that led them all to this historic town, snuggled away from the chaotic world, safe and warm as a pocket in a cashmere cardigan, finally soured?

Others briskly close their curtains, shake their heads at the noise and say, ‘It’s a trick, that’s all. Just a stupid trick.’

But the air is grey with flotsam, full of loss.

‘We mustn’t feel guilty!’ a woman says, putting her arm around her neighbour, who shakes then nods her head, unsure in her confusion how to agree.

Some silently reach for the hands of loved ones, while others stand alone. 

‘I mean, the stuff they’ve been saying online – it was really only a matter of time …’

And they all do their best to ignore their quietest voice, the one that whispers from deep within them that they might not have been the ones who lit the match – but that doesn’t mean they didn’t all have a hand in burning that family to the ground.

Chapter 1

Seb and Rosie walk in silence, side by side, to Eddy’s party.

Eddy adores his birthday, but it has been the same every year for the last decade. In the weeks leading up to it, Eddy will shake his curls and say he doesn’t want to celebrate, but then a few days before he’ll tug his beard and change his mind. And on cue, every year, his wife, Anna, will pull together a last-minute dinner party.

Now, outside their friends’ Victorian terraced house, almost identical to their own, Rosie turns to Seb and offers him the tennis racquet she wrapped with their four-year-old daughter that afternoon. ‘Here, you give it to him – it was your idea.’

The wrapping paper gapes and bags around the thin frame like ill-fitting clothes. Their fingers briefly touch as he takes it, and Seb catches a flash of panic in her eyes, as if she’s worried, worried he’s going to bring up everything from last night. She just shakes her head and turns towards the gate. This is their dynamic now. Their relationship more like that of passive-aggressive colleagues than the happy couple they lead everyone to believe they are. It’s normal, Seb silently reminds himself. They are just relearning how to be together without their three kids – Sylvie, eleven; Heath, nine; and Greer, four – dangling off them, screaming and needing them. That’s all. So normal.

As he follows behind her, stepping over a compressed mash of autumnal leaves, he runs through his options to lift the mood. In the final moment before they reach the front door, he opts for a classic.

‘Hey, Ro,’ Seb says, suddenly a bit shy as she turns back to him. ‘You look beautiful.’

Rosie looks down at herself. Perhaps a little surprised and a little disappointed to see herself still there, dressed in her favourite black jeans and blue silk shirt. ‘My body feels like a bag of spanners,’ she says glumly.

Seb laughs. Relieved she’s making a joke. ‘Well, I adore every single one of the spanners in your lovely bag.’

Rosie smiles, grateful, and Seb reaches for her hand, the one not holding a wine bottle, and squeezes quickly. He feels another wash of relief, because looking into her dark eyes in that moment they silently agree to let last night go.

The door opens with a big whoosh and Seb and Rosie lift their arms to the sky, calling in sing-song voices, ‘Happy birthday!’