All in Her Head: The gripping debut thriller that readers are going crazy for in 2020 Read online

  For my daughters, Charlotte and Liberty

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack

  NOW Alison

  Part Two

  THEN Alison – Day One

  THEN Jack – Day One

  THEN Alison – Day Two

  THEN Jack – Day Three

  THEN Alison – Day Four

  THEN Jack – Day Five

  THEN Alison – Day Five

  THEN Jack – Day Six

  THEN Alison – Day Six

  THEN Jack – Day Six

  Part Three

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack – Five months after Tilly’s birth

  NOW Alison

  THEN Jack – 10 Months after Tilly’s birth

  NOW Alison

  AFTER Alison

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  With what price we pay for the glory of motherhood.

  Isadora Duncan

  Prologue

  It’s much harder to grip the railing than I had expected. The cold metal bites into my hand until I can’t tell if it’s attached to my body, the last brittle anchor holding me in place. A crowd gathers a short distance away from me on the bridge; some watching through their car windows, others standing with their vehicle doors wide open. A woman points in my direction, her shouts muffled by the noise of the wind. The strands of hair that whip across my face sting my eyes, and I reach up to tuck them behind my ear. A sudden gust nudges me off balance and my stomach lurches, momentarily suspended, before I scrabble to retrieve the iron bar beneath my fingers.

  Ripples appear as tiny white flecks on the muddy surface of the river far below me. The two giant towers guarding each end of the bridge look on in anticipation and I draw strength from their solidity. I glance back at the ensemble whose numbers swell as their sense of urgency escalates. I wonder what Jack would say if he was here. What he would do.

  I’d watched him this morning as he’d pulled on his trousers and T-shirt, and had realised I was staring at a complete stranger. The urge to get up and unpeel his skin to see if I could reveal something familiar underneath, some evidence that would prove we were once connected, had been almost irresistible. He’d walked out of the bedroom without speaking, whilst I’d feigned sleep, my breath trapped under the edge of the duvet, warm against my chin.

  He’s been observing my every move, waiting for an opportunity to vent the anger that flows just beneath the surface of our daily lives. I know he’s hiding something from me. He denies it, but his eyes say he’s lying every time we look at each other. As soon as he left the room, I knew I would do it. Now I’m standing on the narrow girder, there is no fear.

  Someone in the crowd breaks away from the group and walks slowly towards me, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. The noise of wailing sirens grows louder. The stranger keeps coming, his confidence and pace increasing as he makes eye contact and smiles nervously. I turn my face back towards the river and look down. He sees the movement of my head and cries out. I hear his footsteps speed up as he tries to reach the barrier that separates us. He won’t make it.

  I let go of the railing, feeling the pressure of the wind against my face that offers up a final moment of contemplation. Then the breeze tapers off, as if acknowledging the decision has already been made, and I step forward into the silence.

  Part One

  NOW

  Alison

  The queue edges along the counter at the back of the canteen. Behind it stand the kitchen staff, wiping off beads of sweat with their stained oven gloves as they ladle out spoonfuls of gelatinous food. Everyone rushes to get here early as the choices are limited, even though there are officially two hours for lunch. I want to eat at my desk, but Mrs Painter made it clear that wasn’t an option. She doesn’t allow food to be consumed in the library. I sit in my usual seat, hoping not to be disturbed, rearranging my spoon so it’s exactly equidistant between my pot of yoghurt and my apple.

  A shadow falls across my line of vision and I sense someone is staring at me from the other side of the table.

  ‘Mind if I sit here?’ I look up but say nothing. ‘No objections?’ She’s persistent. ‘I’ll take that as a no then.’ She pulls the chair out and steps neatly into the gap. ‘It’s a nightmare trying to find a space today. Looks like the whole building is down here.’ My shoulders tense as her tray clatters onto the table. ‘You’d think they’d set specific times for different floors so that this wouldn’t happen. It’s the third time this week I’ve had problems finding somewhere to sit.’ She smiles. ‘I’m Sarah.’

  I chew on a mouthful as the silence wraps itself slowly round my throat, then swallow, forcing myself to respond. ‘I’m Alison.’

  ‘Right.’ She pulls her chair tightly underneath her whilst tucking a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear. ‘How’s the sandwich, Alison? Normally I go for the salad, but there wasn’t any left.’

  I glance at the dry pieces of white bread, spread with the thinnest layer of tuna mayonnaise. ‘It’s OK.’ Her face is familiar. ‘Have we met before?’ I ask the question, watching as she bites into the bread and tears off a mouthful, leaving smears of grease shining on the skin around her red lipstick. I reach for a napkin, then change my mind as she takes a tissue out of her

  pocket.

  ‘I get that a lot. I must have one of those faces.’ She grins and gestures at the packaging on her tray, adding, ‘These are really grim.’

  I smile briefly in tacit agreement. ‘D’you work here?’ I’m sure I recognise her, but I know that doesn’t mean anything; I’m often sure of things that turn out to be wrong. I’d been sure about Jack.

  She nods and points at the ceiling with one finger. ‘Upstairs. You?’

  ‘First floor. In the library. Have you been in recently?’ I’m trying to remember where I’ve seen her before.

  She takes a large gulp of coffee and makes a face. ‘Ouch. Too hot. Not recently. My office is up on the fourth. I don’t get much time for reading. At the moment I barely get enough time to eat lunch.’ She checks her watch. ‘I need to go. I’ll take this with me. It’ll take forever to cool down.’ As she grips the cup, I notice her nails are perfectly manicured, painted in a dark red colour. I move my hands off the table onto my lap. I’ve tried to stop biting mine, but the tips are barely visible, tiny slivers of white on top of raw skin. She stands up and attempts to grab the crumpled tissue as it floats off her tray onto the floor. ‘Maybe see you here tomorrow?’ She bends down to retrieve it and walks off.

  I glance at the clock, wondering why she’d sat down at all. Officially, I have ten more minutes of my lunch break, but Mrs Painter doesn’t tolerate lateness. It’s one of the many things that irritate her. She’s always punctual and she insists on everyone else living up to the same standard. I need to get back.

  Edging past the tables full of diners, I tip the remnants of my sandwich in the bin and walk towards the heavy doors leading out of the canteen. The air in the corridor is cooler, untainted by the smell of fried food, and the reception area is empty
apart from the few staff who stand chatting behind the main entrance desk. They glance at me, but I hurry past them, ignoring the lift, through the doors that lead into the stairwell. Sliding my hand over the polished wooden handrail, I head up the stairs to the rear entrance of the library.

  There are a few of us who work here, but most days we’re on different shifts, apart from Mrs Painter, who’s here all the time. I sometimes wonder if she’s ever done anything else, or whether she’s dedicated her entire life to keeping the books she looks after in some kind of order.

  ‘You finished already, Alison?’ She emerges from underneath her desk, pulling out a small bag. I nod. We’re pleasant enough to each other during the day, but there’s an unspoken boundary in our relationship. She’s Mrs Painter to me, never Julia, although she always insists on calling me Alison. ‘I’ll take my break now then.’ She doesn’t mind if I go down to the canteen first as she always brings in her own packed lunch.

  She heads towards the lift and I wait until the doors close before walking across the library floor to watch through the windows as she appears outside. She sits alone on one of the wooden benches, carefully opening her cling-film-wrapped sandwiches before brushing the errant crumbs off her skirt. She can’t see me, but I recognise the loneliness she tries to hide beneath a familiar routine; taking the same Tupperware box out of her bag each day, nodding briefly at other staff who walk past, allowing herself to hope they might stop to chat.

  I’ve never met her husband – I wonder whether he sees a side of her that she doesn’t show when she’s here. Or perhaps she’s one of those people who always looks ill at ease wherever she is, as if she’s constantly expecting the worst to happen. Even when she’s sitting at her desk, she’s always clicking her biro or twisting her glasses chain to keep her hands occupied. I remember being like that after I found out what Jack had done. Picking at the fringe of the blanket on our sofa until I’d made small holes along the edge. And then he’d tried to pretend that everything was normal, and the holes had got bigger, spreading out from the material into our lives in the questions I hadn’t wanted to ask.

  I walk over to Mrs Painter’s office while she’s out. She likes to call it an office, but it’s really a desk and chair near the counter that forms the main entrance to the library. Sitting in her seat, I can see straight down the rows of bookshelves, past the cluster of tables where visitors are allowed to sit, all the way through to the double-glazed windows that are always shut at the back of the building. As the library is air-conditioned, there’s no reason for them to actually open, but I suspect they might be fake, like those decorative drapes that resemble proper curtains until you try to draw them.

  Someone presses the bell on the counter to get my attention and I wander over, recognising the man from the canteen. He’d been sitting on the table behind me, his green top a splash of colour amongst all the black and grey. He stares at me with a blank expression, his fingers tapping impatiently on the plastic cover of a book. I reach out to take it and Mrs Painter appears at my shoulder, slightly out of breath, still holding her bag, her Tupperware lunch box poking out of the top. She puts her hand on my arm.

  ‘I’ll deal with this, Alison.’ She glances at the book cover, then back at the man standing in front of me, before taking the paperback and asking him to follow her. His gaze doesn’t leave my face as she walks towards her office. Checking to see that I’m still watching him, he opens his mouth to reveal a chipped front tooth and runs his tongue over his lips in a slow circle before reaching down and stroking his crotch. My cheeks burn. He grins, revelling in my evident discomfort, and strolls after her. I don’t respond as the next person in the queue smiles and holds out their book to be scanned, fearful of encouraging a similar reaction. My face is hot and I’m worried everyone can see my embarrassment. I want to rewind the last five minutes and replay them slowly so I can turn away at an appropriate moment, walking off before he has a chance to see my reaction. I hate the fact I’ve let his pathetic gesture disturb me, but the crudeness of it has lodged under my skin, like a stone in the bottom of my shoe that I can’t get rid of.

  Mrs Painter stares over the top of her glasses as the man heads empty-handed out of the library. ‘There’s always one, isn’t there?’ she says.

  I nod, unsure whether she witnessed his gesture, or whether she’s referring to something completely different. She runs her hands over the front of her skirt, smoothing out the imaginary creases to help hide her anxiety. I wish that trick worked for me. We’ve got more in common than she realises, despite her authoritarian manner that makes it impossible to cultivate a proper friendship.

  Last month she’d called round uninvited to my flat one evening after I hadn’t been to work for a week. I’d opened the door a couple of inches and had glanced at her through the crack until she’d been forced to ask if she could come in. I hadn’t felt that I could refuse and had watched as she’d stared a little too long at the blank white walls and spotless

  surfaces.

  ‘I don’t like mess,’ I’d told her, wiping a mark off the counter with a tea towel.

  ‘I can see that.’ Mrs Painter had stepped forward awkwardly and for a moment I’d thought she was going to hug me, but at the last second she’d hesitated and instead handed me a small bunch of pink carnations tied with an elastic band. My dad had used to buy me the same flowers on my birthday; they seemed to appeal to people of a certain age. I’d always found the fragility of their small feathery petals disturbing. They reminded me of scrunched-up tissues with an unpleasant peppery scent, but I’d never had the heart to tell him as I’d loved the fact that he had made the effort to remember. I hadn’t told Mrs Painter either. She’d sat on a chair in my kitchen and sipped the water I had given her.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ she’d said, ‘but you seem to be a bit better. There’s been a few nasty bugs going around at work. I’m sure I’m coming down with something.’ She’d reached for a handkerchief out of her bag and dabbed her nose. I’d been sure she had only been visiting me so that she could pry into the life I didn’t share with her at work. ‘When do you think you’ll be back in?’ I’d known she wouldn’t be able to resist asking the question.

  ‘Hopefully in a couple of days.’

  She had pushed her glasses down her nose and I’d waited for her to vocalise her disapproval, but she’d leaned across, patted my hand and had begun to tell me something about the library scanner playing up. I hadn’t focused on the exact details; I’d been too busy resisting the urge to get some kitchen roll to mop up the ring of water her cup had left on the

  table.

  A buzzer sounds in the library to mark the end of my shift which interrupts my thoughts and I pick up my bag. ‘I’m off now,’ I tell her.

  She glances up from some paperwork. ‘OK. See you tomorrow, Alison.’

  It’s a short walk home to my flat and I spot the letter lying on the floor as soon as I step over the threshold. It’s a piece of paper which I drop in alarm as soon as I turn it over and see his familiar scrawl twisting its way across the page. The floor swims in and out of focus. I’m not sure how long I stand there, not daring to move. I half expect him to appear, but the corridor remains deserted and the silence echoes around me, waiting in expectation. It can’t be from him. He wouldn’t write to me. Not after what he’s done.

  I pull at a loose thread on the cuff of my cardigan, watching it unravel as I wait for the wave of panic to recede. I glance at the floor. It’s still lying there, one corner curled over as if it’s already been read. I was hoping I’d imagined it. I force myself to breathe more slowly, winding the blue thread round my fingers as I count to ten, pulling it tight until the tips bulge dark purple and the thin white line below the cotton matches the colour of the paper on the floor. I wait until the tingling is unbearable before I loosen it.

  Bending down to touch the carpet, the stiff fibres reassuringly unyielding beneath my hands, I pick up the letter, pushing the door shut behind
me.

  Ali,

  I’m not sure I should be writing to you. I know I’m not allowed to see you, and apparently, I have to respect that decision. Twelve years has got to be worth something, hasn’t it? You were such a big part of my life, I need to see if we can find some sort of closure. I’m sorry for hurting you and wish I could turn the clock back.

  Jack

  I read it twice, then crumple the paper up into a small ball and drop it in the bin. My hands are ice-cold as I trace over the scar on my wrist, still livid after a year. How has he found me? I shiver. Anyone searching for me would find that Alison Reynolds has disappeared. The library pass hanging round my neck confirms it: Alison Reid. It’s typed in bold black letters underneath my photo. Jack wouldn’t recognise me now; I’ve changed so much since I last saw him. I’m at least a stone heavier and the lines between my eyebrows at the top of my nose have deepened into furrows. My blonde hair has been cut into a short bob and without any of its former highlights, has morphed into a dull brown colour.

  I retrieve the letter from the bin and smooth it out. He said he’s sorry. Is he? Jack is never sorry. He doesn’t do regret. Even when he’d torn us apart, he’d pretended he had nothing to apologise for. That everything could continue as normal. I stare at the piece of paper before ripping it into narrow strips. I shred the strips into smaller squares until the pieces are too tiny and damp to get hold of properly. When I’m done, I throw everything down the toilet, the white fragments floating on the surface like tiny islands. I press the flush again and again, twisting a piece of my hair round and round into ringlets whilst waiting for the cistern to refill, until the water is finally clear. I’m not sure what to do with the clump of brown strands I find myself holding, so I wrap them in toilet roll and stick them in the bin. I crawl into the safety of my bed, not bothering to undress, and pull the duvet around me in an effort to thaw the chill in my stomach that feels like I’ve swallowed a mouthful of ice cubes.