Betray Her Read online

  Caroline England was born and brought up in Yorkshire and studied Law at the University of Manchester. She was a divorce and professional indemnity lawyer before leaving the law to bring up her three daughters and turning her hand to writing. Caroline is the author of The Wife’s Secret, also called Beneath the Skin, and the top-ten ebook bestseller My Husband’s Lies. She lives in Manchester with her family.

  To find out more about Caroline, visit her website www.carolineenglandauthor.co.uk or follow her on social media:

  Twitter: @CazEngland

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/CazEngland1

  Instagram: www.instagram.com/cazengland1

  Also by Caroline England

  The Wife’s Secret (previously Beneath the Skin)

  My Husband’s Lies

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-42278-7

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Caroline England

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Caroline England

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Two

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Part Three

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Acknowledgements

  For Simon – ‘solid as a brick’ – like our dad.

  PROLOGUE

  The current glints and sparkles as she gazes. It has been a good outing: fresh air, camaraderie and fun. Freedom from the house, too. Her whole body a little weightless, she’s contented, relaxed, happy. And high.

  The rain-speckled wind strokes her cheeks. Closing her eyes, she breathes in the musky fragrances of the countryside surrounding her – woody pine and damp conifers, rotting moss and wet grass. The pristine and crisp smell of the river too. Save for the hum of falling water in the distance, it’s silent.

  She stretches and smiles. In this instant she has everything she wants; it’s a moment to capture.

  A sharp gust and she’s teetering, then tumbling down. Oh my God, oh my God, she’s slipped.

  Instinctively holding out her arms, she gropes for something solid to protect herself from the fall. Nothing there but empty air, then the slap of the surface and shock of icy water. A powerless plunge into darkness hauls her down and down further. Liquid like bleach stings her nostrils, swamps her mouth, seals her throat.

  Raw survival setting in, she pins her lips shut and tries not to inhale. Swim, she needs to swim, get back to the top. Kicking out her legs, she tries, then again. Futile, so fruitless. Boots too heavy, blazer leaden with water.

  Weak, unduly weak. Paralysed limbs. Frozen flesh. No air left, no more room. A spasmodic breath and acid deep in her chest. So dark, very dark.

  Inescapable tugging, insistent sucking, a swirl of murky depths.

  The arms of the dead drag her in.

  Pure and transparent, the blackness turns white. With it, realisation, as clear as the river.

  She didn’t trip; she was pushed.

  Revenge, sweet revenge.

  The friendship, the bonding. The smile, the pretence.

  Cleverly biding her time.

  And finally winning.

  Part One

  1

  St Luke’s – September 1988

  It drizzled that first September day. Dad nearly missed the turning.

  Quickly swerving to the left, he accelerated the Jag up a long and surprisingly modern driveway. ‘Tennis courts, this must be it,’ he said, his first words through the hour and fifteen-minute journey.

  Mum was sitting next to Jo in the back. ‘Looks nice, love,’ she said.

  Jo’s new boater was still on her knee ‘for safekeeping’. She looked at it doubtfully. What was it for?

  Mum didn’t seem to know either. ‘Maybe you should put it on now, love,’ she said.

  The elastic snapping her neck, Jo pulled on the straw hat. It restricted her view, but that didn’t matter; she hadn’t been looking through the windows anyway, just at the back of her dad’s black wavy hair and catching his sad eyes in the mirror.

  Dad finally pulled up with a deep sigh. The car park was busy, large glossy vehicles lined in neat rows, their boots open. Girls were milling in grey suits or grey coats and grey socks, their hair tied in low bunches. They reminded Jo of the twins at her primary school whom no one could tell apart. The thought made her tummy turn.

  Mum patted her knee. ‘Are you ready, love?’ she asked in a wheezy voice. Then Dad opened the door, holding out his rough hand to take hers, which wasn’t like Dad at all.

  Grown-ups with umbrellas were standing back from their car boots, watching men lug out brown and grey trunks and drop them on trollies with wheels. But Dad lifted Jo’s trunk himself.

  ‘I think it’s this way, Stan,’ Mum said, pointing to a sign with an arrow saying, ‘Junior House’.

  Jo wanted to stop and breathe. The leather smell of Dad’s new car had made her feel sick all the long journey, and she’d been too hot in the thick coat, but she hadn’t said anything. And suddenly they were here; time was going too fast. Dad was striding up a patchwork path, his rolled shirtsleeves showing the tight muscles in his forearms as he carried the trunk towards glossy black doors.

  Feeling peculiar in her suit and grey belted overcoat, she clutched Mum’s hand. Her stiff shirt collar and tie were almost making her gag. The boater felt funny as well, the elastic too tight beneath her chin, but at least it kept her newl
y blown hair neat and dry, holding off the wild frizzy mass which sprung up every morning.

  Mum and Dad stopped. Adjusting her hat, she looked up. Made of dark greenish stone, the building was tall and old, not unlike a spooky Scooby-Doo haunted mansion. A woman with inky hair and a white face was standing at the door. Wearing a lilac jumper and matching cardigan, she was looking down from the top step with closed thin lips and a smile Jo wasn’t sure of.

  ‘Ah, the Wragg family. Welcome to Junior House,’ she said in a posh, smooth voice. ‘I’m Miss Smyth, Housemistress.’ Her pale eyes rested on Jo and Jo felt them pierce her. ‘You must be Joanna. You’re from Barnsley, in Yorkshire, I believe.’

  The woman’s face was thin, nothing like Mrs Brown’s nice, friendly dimples. In fact, she looked remarkably like the wicked housekeeper from an old black-and-white film Jo had watched with Mum only last week. Wondering how on earth the woman knew who they were, she turned to Dad, but his face was tight, his eyes fixed on the trunk.

  Miss Smyth stood back and wafted an arm inside the building. ‘Come through and see Joanna’s dormitory and then quickly say your goodbyes.’

  The woman said it in a sweet voice, but Jo thought it was crispy underneath. Still holding the trunk, Dad lifted his head and opened his mouth, but Miss Smyth interrupted. ‘Thank you, Mr Wragg, but leave it there. The porters will deal with it.’

  The boater at an angle, Jo followed, climbing the steps into what Mum would call a ‘busy’ room. An old piano stood at one end, a tall cupboard at the other; one wall had two small windows with orange curtains inside, the opposite was lined with rows of books. They were higgledy-piggledy, she noticed. At least she liked that.

  ‘These are my rooms,’ Miss Smyth said, gesturing to an opaque glass door on her left. Then, with her thin smile, she nodded to the hardbacks. ‘This is the library, Joanna. I hear you like reading and we cater for all sorts, I’m sure you’ll find something suitable and spend many enjoyable hours here.’ She peered again at Jo. Her face was all powdery but the talcum didn’t hide the funny lump at the side of her nose.

  Dad’s hands were in his pockets, surveying the room. Mum briefly took Jo’s and gave it a squeeze. Jo just knew her mum wanted to mention the long list of classics she had already read, albeit the abridged versions, but it didn’t do to brag and Miss Smyth was hurrying them along.

  ‘This way, please.’ Then, looking back with a sigh, ‘Mr Wragg? This way, please. Joanna will sleep upstairs. To begin with at least.’

  She led them along a musty corridor lined with wellington boots and large hooks. ‘This is where we leave our cloaks,’ she said. She picked one off and spread it out. Jo hoped hers was safely in her trunk. Ben had claimed it for this year’s Halloween. (‘All I need now is a broomstick and a hat!’ he’d said with a suitable cackle.)

  ‘Joanna? Are you listening?’ Miss Smyth’s gaze was still on her. ‘I was explaining to your parents that we have the plain hoods for Junior House.’ She leaned forward and showed Jo the hood buttons. She smelled of mothballs and a flowery aroma Jo couldn’t quite place. ‘Do you see? When you go into senior school, you just buy a new coloured hood. Depending on which House you choose.’ Her eyes flicked to Mum, looking apologetic. ‘Unless Joanna grows very tall, of course. But perhaps you could buy second-hand.’ She gave Jo a little shove to the left. ‘Up the stairs, dear, then your mother and father can bid you goodbye.’

  Miss Smyth on her heels, Jo climbed the stairs.

  ‘Here we are, Joanna,’ she said with that smile when they reached the top. ‘Home sweet home.’

  Still worrying whether Ben had stolen her cloak, and what would happen if she grew very tall, Jo followed Miss Smyth into a cold and empty bedroom. She turned to her parents who hovered at the door, as though they were waiting for an invitation to come in.

  The request didn’t come, so Jo stepped out, dread slowly spreading from her chest, down her skinny legs to the tips of her toes.

  ‘Time for goodbye, dear,’ Miss Smyth said.

  Dad wrapped her in his thick arms and held her ever so tightly. ‘Bye then, love. Be a brave lass, just like your brothers.’ He began to pull away, but Jo held on, suddenly realising she needed to remember his smell. Seeming to understand, he reached in his pocket and slipped his folded hanky in her palm.

  Then Mum handed over the brown bag she’d been carrying, cupped Jo’s face and kissed her cheeks several times. Her eyes were like pebbles just plucked from the river. ‘I’ll write as soon as I’m home, love. It’ll fly by. Just you see.’

  Miss Smyth cleared her throat. Jo had forgotten she was there. ‘The next new girl will be due any minute, Mrs Wragg. Let me show you down to the back entrance. You’ll soon find your way to the car park.’ She gave Jo a small push towards the bedroom. ‘Off you go now, dear. Matron will be along soon.’

  Alone in the room, Jo took off her hat, stared at the narrow bed, then rushed back to the landing. But Mum and Dad had gone, down the rickety stairs to the world outside, or to freedom, as she soon came to name it.

  ‘Hello, I’m Catherine Bayden-Jones, but you can call me Kate. I’m from Barton in the Beans. That’s in Leicestershire and I have two older sisters, Clare and Annabelle who are both in senior school. We each have a pony. Oh, and Daddy’s much older than Mummy and his hair’s growing thin. He was married before, but she died. Oh, don’t you have strange hair?’

  Still wearing her boater, they were Kate’s first words to Jo in the small dormitory. She had arrived before Jo, emerging from the upstairs bathroom with a pink nose and a handkerchief (embroidered with tiny hearts, Jo noticed) not long after Jo’s mum and dad had left.

  Jo supposed that was how introductions were made and the room fell silent, Jo trying but failing to think of something to say, anything that would remotely match the splendour of Catherine Bayden-Jones’s name, let alone her words and the way she pronounced them.

  Kate and Jo had been allocated adjacent lockers in the cramped room, but the other girls hadn’t arrived yet, so they sat dumbly at the end of their beds, their suit jackets still fastened. Kate kicked her (slightly) chubby legs against the thin mattress and Jo glanced around, wondering what they were supposed to do now. (Wait for Matron, Miss Smyth had said, though why they’d need a nurse, she had no idea. St Luke’s was meant to give her ‘the best education’, not teach her how to wrap bandages. Besides, she knew how to do that already.)

  Giving a little sniff as she peered, she tried to identify the smell. The pong of old things, she supposed. Which wasn’t surprising. The room was pretty ancient, the white walls like painted sandpaper. Limp brown curtains hung each side of the old-fashioned windows. (Sash, Mrs Brown used to call them, a gentle word which sounded wrong for the monstrosity she now stared at. The prettier ones at her old school were ‘painted shut’. She wondered if these would open; a vague notion of escape already there, despite the horizontal rods at the bottom.)

  Feeling a shiver, Jo turned to her bed, wondering whether to put the grey overcoat back on. Like the one in her old classroom, there was a yellowing slatted radiator and a thick pipe up the wall, but she doubted they would be almost too hot to touch without gloves. This room was freezing, colder than outside. And yes, the smell was definitely fusty, nothing remotely like her modern warm bedroom at home.

  From the alarming stories of boarding-school life told by her brothers in the holidays, Jo had expected military commands from Miss Smyth, but she’d only mentioned Matron. (Jo had the bossy Matron from an old film firmly in her mind. She’d watched it with Dad one Sunday afternoon and he’d chuckled the whole way through.) Were she and Catherine Bayden-Jones allowed to move, to look out of the barred window, let alone explore the garden outside? (Assuming there was one.) And what about their trunks? Could they go astray? Auntie Barbara had travelled to Torremolinos with two suitcases and come back with only one (and a Spanish man with too many teeth). Jo had preferred the suitcase.

  She eyed up Kate. She was still kicking her
heels silently and her slightly upturned nose made her look as posh as she sounded, but she seemed nice. Her boater had slipped to the back of her head like the hat of a friendly cowboy and there was no doubt in Jo’s mind that she was pretty. She was plump (in a good way), had neat small teeth (not even approaching her tombstones) and dimples (like Mrs Brown – anything like Mrs Brown was a good thing); she had freckles and long golden hair in two plaits.

  Jo looked down at her own scrawny frame. Her new school shoes were already scuffed (how had that happened? Mum had kept them off until the car), her knee-length socks were gathering at the ankle, and the thin legs protruding were bruised and brown from playing outside all summer. Noticing Kate’s continued glances at her hair, she patted it. It had been cut too short and was waving in all the wrong directions already. She willed it to grow as long and as shiny as Kate’s, preferably overnight.

  ‘It’s because my mum cut it yesterday,’ she stated, picturing the dark chunks of hair on the kitchen lino. ‘It gets all knotty, so Mum cuts it short.’

  Kate leaned forward, her hands on her knees as she inspected the offending tresses at close quarters. ‘How funny!’ she said, suddenly brightening again. ‘Mine gets a little knotty too but Mummy, whose name is Hilary by the way, sprays mine with a conditioner. It’s called “No More Tears” and you squirt it on when it’s wet and it works like magic!’ She nodded, her face pinking with pleasure. ‘I’ve brought some with me. It’s in my trunk. I’ll share it with you if you like.’

  It was a defining moment for Joanna Wragg. Not only did Kate look and speak like a princess, she was friendly and kind and she was willing to be her friend. Jo didn’t make close friends particularly easily, but once made, it was a friendship for life and she never let go.

  ‘What’s in that bag?’ Kate asked politely, her gaze wide with interest.

  Jo was surprised her new friend had seen it. Hoping it would be hidden from prying eyes, she had slotted the brown bag between her bed and the wall. It contained the china ornaments she’d selected with her mum’s permission from the glass sideboard at home. She hadn’t been able to decide between the calf and the baby donkey, so her mum had let her bring both.