Out of the Shadows Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Susan Lewis

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Since Susannah Cates’ husband was sent to prison three years ago, life has been a constant struggle to provide for herself and their teenage daughter. Nothing ever seems to go right and the most she hopes for now is that nothing more will go wrong.

  Worried by her mother’s unhappiness, thirteen-year-old Neve decides to take matters into her own hands. And when Susannah’s closest friend Patsy discovers what Neve is up to, she immediately lends her support. As their plans start to unfold they have no way of knowing what kind of fates they are stirring, all they can see is Susannah’s excitement, because at last a way seems to be opening up for her to escape her bad luck.

  However, the spectre of horror is all the time pacing behind the scenes and never, in all Susannah’s worst nightmares, could she have imagined her happiness causing so much pain to someone she loves…

  About the Author

  Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-nine novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day and One Day at a Time, the moving memoirs of her childhood in Bristol. Having resided in France for many years she now lives in Gloucestershire. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com

  Susan is a supporter of the childhood bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish: www.winstonswish.org.uk and of the breast cancer charity, BUST: www.bustbristol.co.uk

  Also by Susan Lewis

  A Class Apart

  Dance While You Can

  Stolen Beginnings

  Darkest Longings

  Obsession

  Vengeance

  Summer Madness

  Last Resort

  Wildfire

  Chasing Dreams

  Taking Chances

  Cruel Venus

  Strange Allure

  Silent Truths

  Wicked Beauty

  Intimate Strangers

  The Hornbeam Tree

  The Mill House

  A French Affair

  Missing

  Out of the Shadows

  Lost Innocence

  The Choice

  Forgotten

  Stolen

  No Turning Back

  Losing You

  No Child of Mine

  Don’t Let Me Go

  Memoir

  Just One More Day

  One Day at a Time

  To Susan S

  From Susan L, Thank you

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thank you to Clare and Ian Blaskey whose beautiful home provided the inspiration and setting for the Larkspur Centre. Also for Clare’s expert advice on all things equestrian. My sincere gratitude to Liz Garrett, Managing Director of Coty Prestige for her guidance through the corporate world of fragrance and beauty. Many, many thanks to Dr Chris Garrett for his invaluable medical advice. A huge thank you to Jenny Vigneau for the generous use – both fictional and real – of her Paris apartment.

  My love and thanks to James Grafton Garrett for his unwavering support and patience and for being so utterly wonderful in every other way.

  Lastly, my thanks go to Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Kate Elton, Rob Waddington, Trish Slattery, David Parrish, Louise Campbell, Charlotte Bush, Averil Ashfield … a fantastic and formidable team without whom nothing would be possible.

  Chapter One

  ‘CHOOSING THE WRONG man is a bit like winning the lottery then finding out you’ve lost the ticket. The hopes, the dreams, the journey to the stars, are all the same. Then the truth hits and the disappointment is beyond crushing. For losing the ticket you want to shoot yourself. In his case, you want to shoot him.’

  Susannah often talked this way to herself when she was stressed. It had started even before her shining light of a husband had short-circuited in magnificent fashion and been carted off to prison, but it had become more frequent now, mainly because she didn’t have many people to talk to. ‘Choosing the wrong man is like giving up on the golden opportunities life’s throwing your way – except at the time you think he is the opportunity.’ Or, ‘Choosing the wrong man is a mistake you’ll only make once – or so you like to think.’ She’d never go there again though. She was as sure about that as she was about sitting here on the number 44 bus, surrounded by people who must surely have been sucked into a run of bad luck in their time, but she didn’t want to know about them, any more than they did about her.

  Actually, so far the day was going well. Not that anything wildly exciting had happened, or even mildly promising come to that, but that was fine, because nor had anything gone disastrously wrong. However, it was still only four o’clock and the post hadn’t arrived before she’d left that morning.

  Since barely a week went by now without another problem, or mishap, or unpayable bill landing on her doorstep like some grisly paving stone marking the road to all-out catastrophe, she rarely tempted fate by thinking she might be off its nasty little hook yet.

  Wouldn’t it be great if she could just throw in her hand and tell life she’d had enough, she wanted out of the game. Being dealt one bad card after another might be fun for the great god-banker in the sky, raking in her spirits as though they were high-stake chips – for her it was as though she’d used up all her credit and was now teetering over the void in six-inch heels. When she looked in the mirror she could see the energy draining out of her as though someone had pulled the plug. She could be one of those fast-motion films of flowers budding, blooming, then withering and dying. Her life was passing before her eyes. She was still only thirty-six, but felt closer to fifty, and probably even looked it, which was a disaster all of its own when what little success she’d once had was, at least in part, due to her looks.

  Her tired now, but once exquisite, sloe eyes used to be known for their vivid aquamarine sparkle, thanks to a series of make-up ads in which they’d featured; and her full-lipped, dazzlingly white smile had, for a while, earned her a certain amount of fame for its appearance in a toothpaste commercial. Her figure had managed its fifteen minutes too, modelling swimsuits and sun beds at a trade fair in Brighton. Not exactly the high spot of her career – in fact it had turned into one of the lowest when her employers for the week, and some of their clients, had assumed they could manhandle her as freely as the goods. It was not for this that she’d spent three years at the Webber Douglas Academy of Dramatic Art after her A levels instead of going to university, but she’d soon learned that promotional work paid well – when she could get it – and was something many unproven actresses did until they were discovered.

  And she had been dis
covered, back then, because one day, like the proverbial knight in shining armour, Duncan Cates had ridden into her life and carried her off over the horizon into the world of her wildest dreams. As an up-and-coming young director, alive with charm and ambition, and overflowing with talent, he’d already tasted the heady flavours of success with a West End triumph of a brand-new play. When he crossed Susannah’s path he was casting a new production entitled Blondes, for which she was perfectly qualified with her long, silvery mane. However, the leading lady also needed to possess all the sensuous glamour and acting skill of a young Bardot. By the time Susannah had finished her audition Duncan had declared his search at an end and himself in love.

  When Blondes first opened, in Bath, its reception wasn’t exactly what its writer had hoped for, since the reviews were mixed, mostly bad for the play, but full of praise for the director whose unusual staging and use of music had ‘lifted the piece beyond the script’s failings.’ As for Susannah, the critics went into overdrive with their raves, gushing about her heart-wrenching delivery and the captivating, but tender, beauty ‘that seemed to have a power all its own.’

  After the tension of the build-up, Duncan’s elation had soared past all sober limits. He was so high on success, and love, and cocaine that he’d insisted he and Susannah should celebrate by getting married that very week. As far as he was concerned they were Roger and Brigitte; Greta and Mauritz; Spencer and Katharine – any great love or mentor story from stage or screen would do. They were on their way to the top and nothing could stop them now.

  During the following year their journey from being overnight sensations to the hottest properties on the market didn’t go quite the way Duncan expected. In fact, it seemed to take an unscheduled detour down the one-hit-wonder street, which was so shocking to him that in his most bewildered moments he blamed Susannah. During his more lucid periods (when he was all coked up and raring to go) his zest for life and belief in them both remained as electrifying as ever. However, his growing dependency soon began to wreak its devastating havoc on his career, finances and looks, but most of all on his moods. If he couldn’t get a fix he’d become maudlin and resentful and even, as time went on, angry and violent. Though he rarely raised a hand to Susannah, when things got really tough he did, and she often heard him threatening people on the phone. One night he came home with a bloodied face and cracked ribs and refused to say how he’d got them. It hardly mattered, because by then it was perfectly clear that his habit had become an all-out addiction, so it was doubtful he could remember the attack anyway, never mind who’d carried it out. He was no longer capable of holding down any kind of job, least of all one that demanded his creative talent. As for her, though she was still managing to cram auditions into a hectic schedule of waitressing, telemarketing and shelf-stacking, anything to make ends meet, no spectacular or well-paid parts were coming her way.

  Then suddenly Susannah’s star zoomed off on the ascent again. It was on her twenty-third birthday that her agent rang to say that Michael Grafton, one of the nation’s leading TV producers, wanted to see her for a part in a major new drama serial.

  ‘It’s not a lead,’ Dorothy told her, ‘but apparently she’s a key character, and the money’s fantastic, so get yourself along there and wow the hell out of the man. This could prove the turning point for you, sweetie, and God knows you need one.’

  Susannah put her heart and soul into the audition, wanting the part more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. To her joy, even in the brief ten minutes that she was allowed to demonstrate her understanding of the role and how she would play it, she sensed that Michael Grafton was impressed. And it turned out she was right, because he cast her, but by the time the decision was made she was no longer in a position to accept the part. She was almost four months pregnant, meaning that she’d be giving birth around the same time as principal photography was due to begin.

  So, with a grim and inexorable inevitability, her and Duncan’s dreams of international fame, sprawling mansions and flashy cars materialised in the form of unemployment, Oyster cards and a three-up, two-down in Battersea. The struggle seemed endless. Months turned into years and things only got worse. The only real joy in her life was their daughter Neve, whom she adored, and who she was determined wouldn’t be dragged down by her father’s addiction. To his credit, even Duncan supported the idea of sending their daughter to private school when she was seven, and for a while he even managed to help pay for it. But things were soon back on the slide, and the depths he began sinking to following a high became so harrowing and frightening that Susannah frequently had to take Neve to her Aunt Lola’s for fear of what he might do to them. Threats of murder and suicide became a regular refrain, and there seemed nothing he wouldn’t stoop to to finance his habit. One night he even put a knife to Susannah’s throat to try and get Neve’s school fees out of her. That was when Susannah packed her bags for the last time and took Neve, who was by now close to ten, to live with Patsy, her best friend, and Neve’s godmother.

  Six months later Duncan was arrested and charged for his involvement in supplying dodgy amphetamines to a fifteen-year-old boy who’d overdosed and almost died. Happily the boy survived without brain damage, but this was the crime for which they were all now paying: Duncan in his prison cell, where he’d been for the past three years with another seven to go if he served his full time; Susannah, now back in the little terraced house with Neve, struggling to keep things together, and starting to fail – and Neve, who almost never mentioned her father. She even pretended not to mind that he didn’t write, or use up one of his precious phone calls to find out how his family was managing.

  Now, as Susannah stepped down off the bus into a huddle of impatient travellers, all waiting to get on, she tried to push aside the fear of mounting debts that was threatening to overwhelm her. Something would come good soon, she kept telling herself, some miracle or un expected windfall would waft their way, because it just had to. However, she wasn’t holding her breath.

  It was typical February weather as she hurried along Battersea Bridge Road towards home, raining and cold, with small piles of slush clogging the gutters after a frenzied snowstorm at the weekend. For a precious few hours on Sunday afternoon, after the wind had died down, and everything was still looking picture-postcard and pristine, she and Neve had ventured over to Battersea Park to build a snowman, and make snow angels. To Neve’s delight they’d ended up joining in a raucous snowball fight with some of their neighbours, but when it was over and the others took off to the warmth of the cafe for toasted sandwiches and steaming mugs of hot chocolate, Neve and Susannah had sat on a bench shivering as they drank cocoa from the flask they’d brought with them.

  After popping into the local mart for some milk and apples, Susannah continued on down the main road, past the dismal grey council estate where she and Patsy had grown up, in one of the tower blocks, and where her beloved old aunt Lola who’d brought her up still lived – in one of the newer low-rise flats now. Her mind was darting about frantically, reaching for the scattered list of things she must do before leaving the house again at six.

  She hated having to work at night, but without her job at the club she’d never be able to meet Neve’s school fees even with the bursary they’d recently been awarded, and after all the uncertainty and upheaval Neve had been through during the worst times with Duncan, the last thing she needed was any more change in her life. She deserved the stability of the school she’d known for so long, every bit as much as she needed her friends. So Susannah was prepared to work all hours, and at all kinds of jobs, in order to make Neve’s world as safe and secure as she possibly could, and to give her at least some of the luxuries and privileges other girls her age enjoyed. Not that Susannah had given up on her dream to act, but since having Neve she’d only been cast in a handful of low-budget commercials, apart from a few years ago when she’d won a second-lead role in an afternoon soap. It had died almost as soon as it hit the screen, but at le
ast the money had helped get them over the crisis of the time, before they’d lurched on to the next.

  Now she almost never heard from her agent, and even if she did, working so hard meant she had next to no time, or indeed energy, for auditions, let alone to take on a part. In her lowest moments, when she allowed herself to consider the career she might be having had everything not gone so disastrously wrong, the grief was as profound as if someone had died. And in a way this was so, because she was no longer the easygoing, vibrant young woman she used to be, full of optimism and joie de vivre, she was someone else now who was fast losing the battle to stay afloat.

  Hearing her mobile ringing somewhere deep inside her bag, she began rummaging for it while rounding the corner into their terrace which curved off into a warren of similar terraces, where the houses were packed as tightly as teeth and were as uniform in their Victorian-ness as they were varied in their colours and decor. Though theirs was in desperate need of a fresh lick of paint, it was cosy and warm inside, and whilst not as splendidly updated as some on the street, it wasn’t as grimly run-down as others. Anyway, it was home, which was all that mattered to Susannah, to have a roof over their heads that currently wasn’t leaking or showing imminent signs of caving in, and she loved the place, in spite of the bathroom being downstairs off the kitchen, and the front door opening straight into the snug little sitting room.

  Failing to find her phone in time, she gave up the search and had just reached the curve of the terrace when she spotted something outside her house that hadn’t been there that morning. An irregular thump started in her chest. Either she wasn’t seeing straight, and the For Sale was actually next door, or it was a mistake.

  She walked on, and with each step she could feel herself turning hotter and more prickly with fear. The sign was definitely bolted to her front gate, but it must have been put there in error because in spite of being two months behind with her mortgage the building society would surely never put the place on the market so soon, or without warning her first.