What the publisher says:
Powerful storytelling with a deliciously dark centre…
Sally Lachlan has a secret that has haunted her for a decade, although perhaps it is time to let it go. A chance meeting with the charismatic geneticist, Anthony Blake, reawakens her desire for love and at the same time, her daughter, Charlie, shows signs of wishing to know more about her father. Both the past and the future are places Sally prefers not to think about.
But if she wants to move towards a new love, she will first have to come to terms with her long-ago marriage.
Only then will she be able to be honest with Charlie. And herself.
Alison Booth was born in Born in Melbourne and brought up in Sydney,
She worked for many years in the UK. Alison is a published novelist with PRH (The Jingera Trilogy). Her debut novel, Stillwater Creek, was Highly Commended in the 2011 ACT Book of the Year Award, and was also published in French (two editions) and in Reader’s Digest Select Editions in Asia and in Europe. Her
subsequent novels were The Indigo Sky and A Distant Land
THEN The body lay on a gurney in the middle of the room. When the coroner’s assistant uncovered the head, my heart began to knock against my ribcage and I could feel the thump-thump-thump of a migraine starting.
The assistant stood back and I stepped forward. The body was his all right. They must have cleaned him up. I put out a hand to touch the pale forehead. It was icy cold from the refrigeration. There were fine lines around his eyes and his blond hair was tousled. He was beautiful still, in spite of what had happened to him.
I waited as the minutes passed by, almost expecting to see his chest rise and fall, almost expecting to see the eyelids flutter open. I forgot about the coroner’s assistant until she gave a discreet cough. Turning away from the body, I nodded to her. As I walked past, she took a step towards me and lightly patted my forearm.
Outside, sadness and relief wavered through my head like paper kites tossed about in a high wind. I bought a copy of the Evening Standard from the newsvendor on the corner. On the front page there was yet another picture of that woman. Behind the piles of newspapers was a wire rack with yesterday’s headlines that I knew I’d never forget.
A blast of diesel fumes from a passing bus precipitated my migraine. I leaned against the mottled trunk of a plane tree. When the nausea came, I stood at the edge of the pavement and threw up in the gutter. No one appeared to notice, certainly no one stopped.
I carried on retching until my stomach hurt. After a while, a smartly dressed woman asked if I needed help. Her kindness made me weep, hot silent tears. ‘Is there someone I can call?’ she said, her arm around my shoulders. I hiccoughed a couple of times and accepted the tissues she was holding out. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, after wiping my eyes.
And I was. That part of my life was well and truly behind me now. I could do with a drop of water though. My mouth felt parched and I could barely swallow. But before I could get on with my life there was the coroner to deal with. She was waiting for me on the steps to the mortuary building.
All I wanted was some peace for Charlie and me. But there was no guarantee that would come easily.