Am I Guilty?: The gripping, emotional domestic thriller debut filled with suspense, mystery and surprises!

I started slightly again as the front door slammed and Greg’s voice drifted down the hallway.

‘In here!’ I replied and shut my laptop with a sigh. I clearly wasn’t going to get this finished now, and I needed to start thinking about dinner. There were some nice steaks in the freezer – maybe those with some baked potatoes? Or possibly a moussaka?

‘Mummy! Daddy bought me a new colouring book!’

Greg appeared in the doorway, rubbing his hands together, and Sienna pushed her way past him and leapt onto my knee, waving a brown paper bag, her pink woolly hat askew on her head.

‘Lovely, darling. Did you get Olly’s shoes, Greg?’

I pulled my daughter’s hat off, smoothing her hair down, and looked at my husband, who was glancing round the room. His eyes rested on Flora for a moment, then he spotted Nell and winked, and she grinned back at him. He was dressed in a tight blue sweater under a navy quilted gilet, and he looked fit and toned.

Greg is a few years older than me, in his early forties, but he still has a full head of hair, flecked with silver now at the temples and swept back off his smooth forehead. He has a strong jawline, with a hint of stubble, his weekend look.

He looked good, healthy, handsome, and I smiled.

Greg is the only man I’ve ever loved – the only man I’ve ever slept with too, something I’m not sure if I should be proud of or slightly embarrassed by. We met at university, and I knew I certainly wasn’t the only woman he’d slept with. It hadn’t bothered me back then, his obvious popularity, the envious looks from other girls when they’d see us out together, arm in arm. I’d enjoyed it, if I was honest – enjoyed the fact that he’d picked me, over everyone else, when he could have had anyone. But as the years had passed it had begun to worry me more. It made my anxiety go into overdrive sometimes, having a husband who looked like this, who was attractive and clever and nice and successful, crazy as that sounded.

I worried, frequently, about the women who might want to steal him from me, and I wondered sometimes if my fears were justified. There’d never been anything concrete – a hint of perfume, maybe, on a sweater, a musky scent wafting from the laundry basket as I crouched in front of the washing machine, stuffing the clothes in, trying to pretend I couldn’t smell anything. Or the occasional boys’ night out which ended in the early hours of the morning, Greg stumbling in through the front door, crashing out on the sofa downstairs instead of coming to bed, a vagueness the next morning about where he’d been until so late when all the bars closed at eleven.

I never pushed it, though, never asked. Greg worked hard, very hard, and he needed a release sometimes, just as we all did. He was moody sometimes, distracted, distant, but that was just how he was.

Recently though, things had been good. Great, in fact. And it was another good day. Today he’s here with me and the children and life is good and there’s nothing to worry about. I chanted the phrase in my head like a mantra, supressing a tiny tremor of anxiety, and smiled at my husband again. Me and my bloody insecurities.

‘Got them, yes. And he’s actually happy with them, amazingly.’

‘They’re cool, Mum! I put them upstairs, I’ll show you later. Is there anything to eat? Oh, hi, Flora.’

Oliver appeared, stomping across the room, heading for the biscuit tin, the laces of his high-top trainers trailing, jeans so baggy half of his bright purple underpants were on full view. Flora glanced at me and grinned, knowing what I was thinking. I’d moaned to her more than once about my son’s scruffy dress sense.

‘Hi Olly,’ she replied. ‘You’re seriously going to trip over one of these days you know. Ever think of actually tying your laces?’

He looked down at his feet with a puzzled expression, then back at Flora.

‘I forgot. Sorry.’ He crouched down, fumbling at the laces, tying them, and I looked at my assistant in amazement.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Now that’s a first. Look, Greg. Or even better, take a photo, go on. Our son, Olly, tying his shoelaces, live right now in our kitchen. It’s a miracle.’

‘It is. Good grief. Are you feeling OK, son?’ Greg’s voice was full of mock concern.

‘Oh shut up, parents.’ Oliver straightened up again, cheeks a little pink, and everyone laughed. Flora beamed and poked him teasingly on the shoulder, and he shrugged her off, his face growing even redder. Sienna wriggled on my knee then buried her face in my chest, joining in with the laughter even though she clearly didn’t understand what was so funny.

‘And you shut up too, brat.’

Oliver had directed the comment at Sienna, but she ignored him, as usual. My son and Millie had always rubbed along all right – well, as all right as a brother and sister three years apart in age generally could be expected to – but it was a different story with him and Sienna. It wasn’t even just that he had little interest in her: he seemed to actively dislike her, and it bothered me, my concern about it only slightly lessened by the fact that she in return cheerfully disregarded his presence, his verbal hostility towards her mostly going unnoticed.

‘Oliver, don’t talk to your sister like that,’ I said wearily. ‘Go on, help yourself to some biccies, if Millie and Nell haven’t scoffed them all. And stick the kettle on, will you? I’m sure Daddy and Flora would like a coffee.’

‘Oh, thanks, Annabelle, but I’m OK. I’m going for a shower. I’ll grab one later.’

Flora smiled at me, waved a hand vaguely at everyone else in the room and left. Millie waited until she’d gone then bounded over to Oliver, a cheeky grin on her face.

‘You like Flora! You like Flora!’ she chanted.

‘Shut up, Millie. I do not. You’re an idiot.’ Hands full of biscuits, he pushed roughly past her and she giggled, Nell grinning broadly by her side.

‘Geez. What is it with you kids?’

Greg rolled his eyes.

‘Leave him alone, Millie. Go on, thought you and Nell had schoolwork to do? Get out of here.’

He clapped his hands then gestured towards the door with his thumb and, clutching their drinks and balancing biscuit plates, the two girls followed Oliver to the door, still sniggering. I raised an eyebrow at Greg, shifting Sienna into a more comfortable position on my knee, and he winked, then left the room too, taking his gilet off as he went.

I sat for a moment, arms wrapped around Sienna, thinking. Olly probably did have a bit of a crush on Flora, but that was pretty normal, at his age, and she seemed to take it in her stride, if she’d even noticed. We’d been so busy recently there was every chance she hadn’t though, and I suddenly decided I needed to do something to thank her for all her hard work. I’d take her out for dinner, one night this week, somewhere nice in town. Our midweek schedule wasn’t looking too bad, so a night out would be nice, and Greg would be happy to stay in with the children.

I might finally ask her, too, I thought. I might ask her if she minded telling me about what happened at Thea’s – what happened the day Zander died. I knew a bit, of course, the basics. Millie and Greg had been there, after all, and then there had been all the stuff in the papers. But to hear about it from somebody who was there all the time, living with Rupert and Thea when it happened … oh gosh, was that really horrible of me? Why did I want to know so much? Why did I have such a morbid fascination with Thea, think about her so often? OK, so I’d think carefully about it first, that’s what I’d do. I’d only ask Flora if it felt right, if I could find the right moment …

‘Mummy? I want to colour a picture. Where are my pens?’

Sienna was sitting up straight again, face upturned to mine. I kissed her forehead and gently lifted her off my knee and onto the floor.

‘They’re in the living room, darling. You go and get them and start, and I’ll be in in a few minutes. Daddy will help if you can’t find them, OK?’

‘OK.’ She scampered off, and with a sigh I stood up and started thinking about dinner.

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FLORA (#ulink_7dce00ea-3088-5f1c-97ed-88c10eec2b57)

The closing titles of Made in Chelsea rolled and I yawned and picked up my phone to check the time. Just after nine o’clock. I could definitely fit in another couple of episodes before bed, I decided. The show was my guilty pleasure – the antics of rich kids in the wealthy west London borough made me laugh, but it was also aspirational. I wanted that sort of life one day – the carefree existence that money seemed to bring, the endless travel, the designer clothing, the casual sipping of champagne in exclusive clubs.

I picked up the glass of sparkling water from the table in front of me and took a sip of that, instead, for now, wondering how long it would take before I could work my way up into the sort of income bracket that would allow me to afford the Chelsea lifestyle. Or even the Cotswold lifestyle, come to think of it. Houses like the one I was currently sitting in didn’t come cheap. Six bedrooms, acres of gardens … I’d checked online on one of those property search websites, just out of interest, shortly after I’d moved in with the Garringtons, and guessed that this place was worth at least a million and a half. Maybe more.

Still, Annabelle and Greg deserved it. They were both locals, from modest backgrounds as far as I could gather, and they’d worked hard – she with her business, him advertising director for a major London agency, running their Gloucestershire branch – and I had no problem with doing the same. I’d get to where they were, one day, and in the meantime Annabelle paid me well, and this room was all I needed, for now at least.

It was at its nicest tonight, curtains snugly drawn against the January cold, a couple of fragrant candles – lime and vanilla, my favourites – flickering on the little side table, and me cuddled up on the sofa with a faux fur throw across my legs and trashy telly to watch, my belly full from the luscious moussaka Annabelle had insisted I share with the family downstairs earlier, the taste of the cinnamon-spiced lamb, aubergine and creamy white sauce still lingering on my tongue.

Yes, I was twenty-five years old and probably should have been out partying somewhere, on the pull like most young single women, but I was content to be right here tonight, safe and cosy in my room, tired after another busy week. I didn’t have many friends, not around here – I’d always found it hard to relate to people of my own age, and the sort of stuff they liked to do, which seemed to revolve around shopping, taking selfies and partying. I wasn’t much of a drinker anyway, and the kind of men you met in pubs and clubs did nothing for me – young, immature, boozed up, slobbery, wanting only one thing and doing it badly when they got it.

I’d always preferred older men myself, and for a moment I let my mind drift back to earlier in the kitchen, to the look Greg had given me when he’d arrived back from shopping with the kids. It had only been a glance, a quick up and down, but a little shiver had gone through me. He is nearly twenty years older than me, but he is … well, hot, quite frankly. And there was something, sometimes, when we were in the same room … was frisson the word? An exchange of looks, eyes meeting for just a fraction too long. It made my stomach flip, my hands shake a little, my mouth go dry. I blew out hard through my mouth, dispelling the thoughts. I was definitely not going to go near Greg, not in that way. No, I wasn’t even going to think about it. I’d made that mistake before, elsewhere, and I wasn’t going to do it again.

Maybe he had some friends though? Someone he could introduce me to? I leaned back on my cushions, pulling my throw up to my chest, running my fingers across the soft fibres, and idly wondered if I could ask Annabelle if she knew of any attractive, single older men when she took me out for dinner this week. It had been nice of her to offer, and I’d been happy to accept, but I already knew the meal would come at a price. I’d noticed it for a while, every time Nell was around or Thea’s name cropped up – the way Annabelle almost seemed to be holding herself back, clamping her lips together, desperate to ask me for the full story but not quite able to bring herself to form the words. She’d do it on Wednesday, though, I knew she would, and I’d resigned myself to it. It would do no harm to talk about it, not now. And there were too many secrets in life, too many things not talked about. So I would tell her, I decided, on Wednesday, if she asked me. When she asked me. I’d tell her what she wanted to know, finally. I’d tell her what happened to Zander.

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ANNABELLE (#ulink_1b8ea718-e4a9-5f7a-a161-e6859c012ba9)

‘Marvellous, my dear. Simply marvellous. Do you have a card? I may need you one day myself. I’d love to throw a little party, but never have the time to organize them.’