Publication date 6th November 2018
I know everything about you
And you know everything about me… except
WHO I AM.
Andi met Camilla at university. Instantly best friends, they shared everything together. Until their long-planned graduation celebration ends in tragedy…
Years later, Andi is living a seemingly perfect life on the rugged Cornish Coast with her loving husband, happy children and dream home. Yet Andi is haunted by a secret she thought only she knew. Someone out there is bringing Andi’s deepest fears to life. And she knows there’s no escaping the past that has come back to haunt her…
You trusted me with your secrets, you told me everything, you thought I was your best friend... but you have no idea WHO I AM.
Gripping, unputdownable and packed with twists and turns from the first page to the very last, this stunning psychological thriller will make you question whether we can ever really trust the ones we love.
About the author
Sarah Simpson has a first-class honours degree in Psychology and has experienced working at a Brain Rehabilitation Hospital. She has spent time as a family consultant for Warwickshire and Oxfordshire solicitors and gained knowledge of the Family Court System. She now lives in Cornwall with her husband, three children and animals.
Twitter handle: @sarahrsimpson
It’s only 10.10 when I swing the car through the front gates, pressing the control I keep in the door pocket, they open and I sneak through. Understanding the growing list of tasks I need to address today is enough to persuade me to turn back around and disappear. I’ve still to finish my article for the magazine, with an ideal deadline cutting me off at 16.00 today, I shouldn’t have gone for coffee. I love our home, graced with wonderful outlooks across the Fal Estuary and beyond, my dream home. Perched on top of the banks near our small community of Flushing, we sit in surveillance of the more stretched out town of Falmouth. But more lately, I’m always anxious about being here. That perpetual jittery feeling, at the thought of being home alone.
Unlocking the oiled oak door, I pad in through the airy reception hall. A slight quiver slithers over me as my footsteps echo around the empty silence. I scamper through to the open plan kitchen and dining area, where a 360 degree wood burner is suspended from the ceiling. The dreaded breakfast crockery eyes me from the across the room, piled uncertainly high on the walnut kitchen workbench, am I becoming a slob too? Diverting my gaze away to the glass bi-fold doors, I spot Paul outside, tending to the pool, and a feeling of relief washes over me. I’m not entirely alone. I fold back the doors separating us, and offer him coffee. Anything to avoid what I need to get on with and some non-intrusive human contact, it’s reassurance I’m seeking – everything is normal? Carol has already called me since my abrupt departure from the restaurant, I didn’t take the call.
Walking back through the kitchen, I bump into the protruding dining chair, the loose papers for my article float to the floor and I step over them. Originally when I took on the role as a freelance features writer, it was my intention to be based in London but that was before I met Kyle. Back then still in my twenties, Cornwall for me was only ever meant to be somewhere I escaped to, a few months was all it was ever going to be, sufficient time to lay low, clear my mind. Come to terms with the loss of friends and anyone I could refer to as family. But then I decided to top up my English degree with a certificate in journalism. Which is when I met Kyle, who was taking a year out after his graduation with a business marketing degree to pursue his love for recreational photography.
Then, beyond even my hopes, I landed a position with a Health and Beauty Magazine whilst my training and qualifying continued. Apparently, only because of my first class honours degree, impressive work examples and the long list of work placements I achieved in Edinburgh during undergraduate times. Now, my reputation seems to work for itself, I still write for the same magazine and also for a Cornish magazine, focussed on the county’s tourism. In truth, I don’t need to work, Kyle earns sufficient for us all, being a marketing executive for a well known brand name in London.
Absent minded, I make coffee, then saunter back out to the terrace to find Paul. We engage in the usual small town banter before I return to the kitchen to mix myself a small salad, squeeze fresh orange juice and rummage through the drawers for any elusive paracetamol. Where are the blasted things? Surely I haven’t got through four packets in a week? Then I remember I’ve some next to my bed, my breakfast from this morning. This then is my new routine, wake, water, tablets, get up. Children, breakfast, school, kill time, avoid work, children, dinner, bed. I’m stuck on a carousel of life and I wonder sometimes if this is what I intended? Has everything been worth it? Or did what happen change why I did all this in the first place?
I’m pondering this as I tread my way upstairs in pursuit of pain relief, I’ve never been the same, how could I be? Stepping into our bedroom, I realise – Christ, I haven’t made the bed, in fact, I haven’t even opened the blinds. Quickly, I pad over to the outsized window dodging the beating I’m giving myself and press for the blinds to retract. Stepping backwards as the punishing rays penetrate my eyes. It takes a few moments to regain focus before peering out to the estuary, where the tranquil, glistening waters become more of a huge, teal blue tank of water. A small fishing boat rocks gently against a once brightly coloured buoy, now weather and life beaten. I squint to observe the small figure carelessly slung back on the deck, is he trying to escape too, stealing a moments reflection, peace and quiet from the daily white noise, hum of life? Does he feel as alone as I do, despite the people? My family. My husband. Does he have something dark lurking in the shadows?
Turning away, I spot the at the same time as the silver laptop thrown haphazardly on the unmade iridescent silvery blue sheets. Could it have been a dream in the hazy early hours of this morning? The alcohol, blurring my mind? How many did I guzzle, half a bottle, a bottle, and a half? Subconsciously, I touch my head, overly warm and thumping. Breaking through the foil backing of the pills, I tread back down the spiralling stone steps to the hallway. In the kitchen, I make my way to the fridge to fill a glass with cold water and ice, placing it back on the side next to the orange juice, catching sight of the Sauvignon Blanc from last night. Instantly, I’m hit by a flood of relief. An almost calm, beginning at the top then gently trickling its way through me – it can’t be long to go. I glance at the clock, it’s 12.05. I mean, it’s basically lunch time, if I lived on the continent it would be obligatory to partake in a petite something or other; un verre du vin. It even sounds more civilised said like that. The thought of it alone offers a window of respite.