Things We Never Say Read online

  THINGS WE NEVER SAY

  Sheila O’Flanagan

  Copyright © 2013 Sheila O’Flanagan

  The right of Sheila O’Flanagan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2013

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 7846 3

  Cover photography © Craig Fordham.

  Author Photograph © Laurie Fletcher

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  LONDON

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also By

  Praise

  Acknowledgements

  Part 1: The Past

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part 2: The Present

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 3: The Disclosure

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part 4: The Meeting

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part 5: The Will

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  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

  If You Were Me

  About the Book

  The irresistible new novel from No. 1 bestselling author Sheila O’Flanagan.

  Abbey Andersen is the last person to go looking for change. Yes, it’s tough that she barely sees her mother these days – but in San Francisco she has great friends, a steady relationship and a job she enjoys. When Abbey is contacted by Irish lawyer Ryan Gilligan she learns in an instant everything she believed about her roots is a lie. She must travel to Dublin to find out more – but she’s scarcely off the plane when she’s plunged into a new crisis. One that will change everything not just for Abbey but for the family in Ireland who had no idea that she even existed. Now Abbey has to make a choice that will affect everyone she knows. How can she be sure she makes the right one? And can life ever be quite the same again?

  About the Author

  Sheila O’Flanagan is the author of many bestselling novels, including Better Together, All For You, Stand By Me, The Perfect Man, Someone Special and Bad Behaviour, as well as the short story collections Destinations, Connections, and A Season to Remember.

  Sheila has always loved telling stories, and after working in banking and finance for a number of years, she decided it was time to fulfil a dream and give writing her own book a go. So she sat down, stuck ‘Chapter One’ at the top of a page, and got started.

  By Sheila O’Flanagan

  Suddenly Single

  Far From Over

  My Favourite Goodbye

  He’s Got To Go

  Isobel’s Wedding

  Caroline’s Sister

  Too Good To Be True

  Dreaming Of A Stranger

  Destinations

  Anyone But Him

  How Will I Know?

  Connections

  Yours, Faithfully

  Bad Behaviour

  Someone Special

  The Perfect Man

  Stand By Me

  A Season To Remember

  All For You

  Better Together

  Things We Never Say

  Praise for Sheila O’Flanagan’s bestselling novels:

  ‘A big, touching book sure to delight O’Flanagan fans’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A big, comfortable, absorbing book … bound to delight fans and guaranteed to put O’Flanagan on the bestsellers list – yet again’

  Irish Independent Review

  ‘Sheila O’Flanagan is one of the blinding talents on the female fiction scene’

  Daily Record

  ‘A very warm and touching book… Deserves to be a bestseller’

  Woman’s Way

  ‘Romantic and charming, a real must-read’

  Closer

  Acknowledgements

  A reader once said to me that it must be hard coming up with so many ideas for books. Truthfully, the ideas are easy, it’s doing justice to them in the final book that’s hard! The concept behind Things We Never Say has been rattling around in my head for a long time but eventually I felt I’d found the right characters to bring it to life. I hope I’ve done justice to their stories.

  I was – as always – helped along the way by some wonderful people:

  My agent, Carole Blake

  My editor, Marion Donaldson

  The fantastic team at Hachette/Headline in so many countries.

  The publishers and translators around the world who work so hard on my behalf.

  Even after all these books my family and friends are great cheerleaders and supporters and I thank all of them, especially my mum, Patricia, for staying with me on the journey.

  Big thank you to Colm for spotting the deliberate mistakes!

  A special thanks to Paula Duffy for the legal help on Wills (I know now why I never became a lawyer!). Any errors in law are entirely my own.

  Thanks to Alison Riordan for giving me the benefit of her knowledge and experience of medical emergencies.

  Thanks also to the booksellers and librarians who have supported me for so long.

  Most of all, thanks to all my readers, new and old, especially those of you who’ve got in touch with me through my website, Facebook or Twitter. It’s always lovely to hear from you. I hope you enjoy this one!

  PART 1

  THE PAST

  Chapter 1

  Tipperary, Ireland: 55 years ago

  Dilly was terrified but she was trying her hardest not to show it. She wanted to appear strong no matter how she felt inside. It was important not to give in. So she kept her eyes tightly closed, shutting out her surroundings and trying to imagine that she was somewhere else. In the meadow behind the farm, perhaps, with the smell of the newly mown hay on the breeze and the heat of the sun on her back. The meadow was a good place to be. But then, anything was better than here.

  ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  The words were icy cold and Dilly didn’t have to open her eyes to see the face of the woman she’d secretly nicknamed Fury. It was already fixed in her mind. Long and narrow. Lips clamped into a thin, angry line. Eyes f
linty grey behind steel-rimmed glasses which rested on a sharp nose. The nose was red with anger, the same anger that made the cheeks almost white. Dilly could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen that face not looking angry. And even then it never looked particularly happy. Dilly couldn’t understand why. Surely the woman should be happy? She’d chosen her life, hadn’t she? Unlike Dilly, who hadn’t exactly chosen hers.

  ‘I said look at me.’

  This time Dilly allowed her eyes to open slowly. The face was as she’d expected, although the mouth was even thinner than usual and the cheeks whiter than ever.

  ‘Where did you think you were going?’

  I was leaving, thought Dilly. Running away. It was a stupid idea, of course, because there was nowhere for her to run to. But even nowhere would be better than here. Wouldn’t it? She didn’t say the words out loud. Fury didn’t really want her to speak. She knew that already.

  ‘I do my best.’ There was a despairing tone to the woman’s voice. If anyone else had heard it, it would have seemed as though her patience had been tested to its very limits. As though she genuinely had tried and tried without success. As though Dilly had worn her down.

  ‘Wouldn’t you agree that I do my best?’

  This time an answer was expected. Dilly tried, but although she formed the words, her mouth was too dry to speak.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Dilly said nothing.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’ The voice was still despairing but there was an undercurrent of hardness. ‘What will make you understand that there are rules and you have broken them?’

  Dilly knew there were rules. Over the last few months her life had been framed by them. But they weren’t her rules, and she didn’t want to live by them. She wanted a different life altogether. She wanted freedom. To go wherever she chose. To be the person she’d dreamed of being. She wanted to walk outside the walls that surrounded the big granite building and to keep on walking until she reached the sea. Then she wanted to get on a boat. She didn’t care where it was going. And after that – well, maybe she’d keep on moving. There was no reason for her to stay after all.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Dilly hadn’t realised that she was on her knees. How strange, she thought, that I didn’t know that. That I didn’t realise she was towering over me because I was on the floor. My mind must be going.

  ‘Quickly.’

  But Dilly couldn’t move quickly. She used the arm of the big chair to haul herself to her feet. Then she fumbled at the threadbare band that held her golden hair back from her face, adjusting it so that there wasn’t a single strand out of place.

  ‘Still vain, I see.’ Now the voice was scornful. ‘A bit late for that, don’t you think?’

  That was a difficult question to answer. Dilly didn’t think she was vain, but she was perfectly aware that she was beautiful. People said it to her all the time, although not in a way that was designed to make her feel good about it. Usually they were pointing out that looks like hers were bound to get her into trouble one day. There weren’t that many golden-haired, blue-eyed girls in the Midlands. Certainly not many who had a slender body on top of endlessly long, elegant legs. Edel Mullins, her best friend, said that she was just like Marilyn Monroe. She was wrong about that; Dilly didn’t have Marilyn’s curves. But she did have a way of walking, and a way of peeping from beneath her hair, that was as sensual and voluptuous as anything Marilyn could manage. She wondered if Marilyn’s looks ever got her into trouble. Because they’d been right about that.

  ‘I’d like to say I’m disappointed in you, but then I didn’t hold out great hopes from the start.’

  Dilly maintained her silence.

  ‘Being lenient with you was a mistake.’

  Lenient? She nearly laughed out loud.

  ‘You need to be taught a lesson.’

  Dilly’s eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘Yes, you do.’ The woman reached out and took her by the arm. ‘It’s time for you to find out once and for all that you’re nobody special around here.’

  ‘Please.’ The word escaped from her involuntarily. She didn’t want to plead. Pleading only made things worse.

  ‘Too late for that.’

  No. This time she didn’t speak out loud but she thought it anyway as she realised that the older woman was unbuckling the thick leather belt around her waist. No.

  The white cheeks were pink now. Flushed with anticipation. Dilly caught her breath as the faintest flicker of a smile touched the woman’s lips.

  ‘You bitch.’ A spark of resistance suddenly flamed within Dilly as she found her voice properly. ‘You spiteful, evil, dried-out old bitch.’

  She heard the gasp as she turned and ran as fast as she could. But it wasn’t fast enough. She was only halfway along the corridor when she felt the thwack of the belt across her shoulders and she fell to the ground.

  Chapter 2

  Dublin, Ireland: 10 years ago

  It wasn’t fair, thought Fred, as he stood beside the priest, the cool easterly wind tugging at the few remaining strands of his grey hair. It simply wasn’t. After all the hard years he’d put in, all the tough times that had gone before, he’d thought that he and Ros had deserved to take it easy together. He’d made the money, after all, from the sale of the company, and he’d made plans for it. Plans for them. He’d spent a long time deciding on new places to go, new things to see.

  In his seventy-one years he and Ros had only been abroad a handful of times, mostly to Spain or the Canary Islands because she liked lying on the beach and he liked cheap drink, and both of them enjoyed the buzz of the resorts where everyone spoke English and there was always a fry-up for breakfast. The holiday he’d been planning until recently was a round-the-world cruise. He’d reckoned it would be a way of experiencing new things without any risk. He didn’t mind risk. But not the kind of risks you could run in foreign countries where you didn’t know the customs or the language, and where you’d be clearly marked out as a tourist and therefore fair game to be ripped off.

  Fred didn’t like being ripped off. He’d based his whole life on being shrewd and careful. As a result, after more than forty years of building his business from a yard at their home in East Wall to a thriving enterprise with locations around the city, the offer to buy him out had finally come. Fred dealt in security systems – mainly car and household alarms – and the ambitious company that had taken over CallRite had paid a high price for his loyal customer base. Old enough for a pension, and with Ros’s pleas for him to give up control in favour of their eldest son, Donald, ringing in his ears, Fred had finally decided to cash in and live the good life. He’d been anxious about retiring because despite Donald’s belief in his own entrepreneurial skills, Fred didn’t rate him that highly and he didn’t want to see the company he’d built up sink beneath the weight of his son’s lack of smarts. But the buyout meant that he didn’t have to worry. Donald was carrying on the family tradition by remaining as sales director, while the new company’s management would build on what Fred’s hard graft had accomplished.

  The first thing he did after his retirement was to buy a spacious split-level seventies-style home in a spectacular location at the summit of Howth Hill. Growing up, he’d seen split-level houses on American TV shows and they’d always seemed the height of glamour to him. He’d never dreamed that he’d be able to afford one in one of Dublin’s most exclusive suburbs.

  Stepping over the threshold of Furze Hill was a validation of everything he’d ever done. He knew that his children had been shocked by its purchase at his age. But Fred didn’t care. He could afford it now and it was better late than never to have a crack at living the dream. Besides, being in your seventies wasn’t old any more. And Ros was only sixty, with plenty of spring in her step. They were entitled to know that the home they now owned had a lounge which was bigger than the entire downstairs floor space of their East Wall house. Fred loved sitting in it and seeing (almost lit
erally, because of its panoramic views) how far he’d come.

  He took out a large white hanky and blew his nose. He could feel the eyes of his children turn towards him. They wouldn’t think he was crying, of course, because they knew that Fred wasn’t a man for crying, even at the funeral of his wife, when it was practically mandatory.

  It was hard for Fred to believe that she’d gone. She’d always been a strong person. She’d been the one to keep things going in the bad times, when money was scarce, when Fred was struggling to find customers. She was the one who’d held it together for the children, making sure that when they went to school they had all the right books and the right uniforms, even though it had been a struggle. She was the one who’d put food on the table, kept the house warm, remembered birthdays and anniversaries. She’d picked him up when he was down, forgiven him when he’d strayed and comforted him when he’d had tests for chest pains a few years back which had scared the living daylights out of him.

  And yet it was Ros who – at a time when she should have been enjoying life – was being buried that morning. Ros had been an almost daily Mass-goer, but Fred couldn’t help thinking that whatever God she prayed to had pulled a damn sneaky trick in taking her before she’d ever had the opportunity to sit at the captain’s table on the Seascape Splendour and know that she deserved to be there as much as anyone else.

  The priest had finished praying and was looking at Fred. He hesitated for a moment, and then picked up a handful of dry clay to throw on to the coffin, which had been lowered into the open grave. He followed the clay with a red rose. He’d felt it was expected of him to have the flower, even though roses hadn’t been his wife’s favourites. But tulips were out of season, and besides, chucking one into the grave probably would’ve looked silly.

  ‘Come on, Dad.’ His daughter-in-law, Deirdre, took him by the arm and he winced. He never liked being called Dad by her. He wasn’t her father. In fairness, he didn’t know how he’d prefer her to address him, but Dad wasn’t the right word. He hadn’t been a particularly good father to his children, he knew, so it seemed wrong that someone else would want to use the title for him.