Who I Am Read online

  WHO I AM

  Sarah Simpson

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Who I Am

  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.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Who I Am

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  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

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Sarah Simpson

  Also by Sarah Simpson

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  Daisy and Harry Jackson, Lily and Mervyn Pouncey – this is for you.

  Always in my heart.

  When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.

  ―John Lennon

  Prologue

  Cornwall, May 2017

  There but for the Grace of God, go I?

  Where did that come from again? John what’s his name. John…? John Bradford, that’s it. Something about criminals being led to a scaffold to die, him looking on and thinking – it could have, should have been him instead? Something like that. So, she’s, the criminal being led to the scaffold, or is that the other woman, or is that me? I’m standing behind her now. Look at her, no one would ever know, except me. My eyes, boring through her like a spear, no wait – she’s turning in my direction, can she hear my thoughts, feel my glare? I reach down just in time, pretending to adjust my sandal strap until she turns away again. It makes me twitch, how precariously close to the edge she stands, eyes down, locked on the beach. Beneath her, sprawl – rocks, mottled, jagged stacks, capable of spearing or cracking a skull, should anyone accidently… slip.

  Silken hair clinging to oh-such bloody flawless skin, rain droplets dripping from the stuck-up, delicate, kitten nose. A nose I’d like to splatter across her face. Happy in thinking she’s unobserved, she begins to toss flowers to the offshore breeze, long stem daisy types, parachuting over the cliff. ‘One, two, three…’ she murmurs; sad, painful whisperings. Woeful mourning at a loved one’s grave? I could almost feel sorry for her. Loss, such a debilitating, terrible thing…

  What does she understand about pain?

  Ungracious, fickle, bitch.

  1

  Cornwall, August 2001

  I’m still here, I didn’t die. I’m not stuck in some warped after death experience – I really did survive.

  Pulling heavy arms from tight sheets, I clamp my ears, whirring subaquatic sounds thumping from one to the other, like listening to the sea in a shell but much louder. Do I want to be alive? I wriggle my toes; they feel odd against the numbness of my ghoul-like body. Would it be better to be dead? Slowly, I open unwieldy eyelids, shards of burning light penetrate, I’m about to leave the asylum of the dark. Part of me doesn’t want to, the other part of me aches to run despite impassive legs, heavy as steel. But run away from where? Where to? As who? I blink at the sudden light as two petite button shaped eyes greet mine. Then clamp my eyes shut again, oh my God, those questioning eyes. Tingling with goosebumps, my body, bit by bit, comes back to life. What do I tell those eyes? I daren’t look, but hold my breath, filling my chest with restless air, my heartbeat hastening. Then, rolling waves of images build to a crescendo before crashing through my mind, white foam satiating white matter, terror circling me like a conjured halo.

  Breathe for God sake, breathe.

  ‘Who are you, love?’ I hear, ‘What’s your name?’ A calming, gentle whisper. ‘You’ve been…’ My eyes snap open to see her peering over my head for inspiration, I need to hear this, I’ve been what… exactly? What does she know? ‘… asleep, love. Yes, that’s it, asleep for a while now.’ It’s okay, she doesn’t know. Which means – no one knows, yet. I made it to the hospital door, then I must have collapsed but the important thing is they’ve not put two and two together. Her peppermint shielded cigarette breath plugs the gap between us, nausea crawls over me as I try and think. It’s all too painful, if only I could crawl back into the darkness, I squeeze my eyelids tight as tears threaten, then swallow the rising bile. Who am I? Come on. Think. Who am I? Answer her, who are you? It’s a simple request. How difficult can it be? How are you ever going to cope, alone, if you can’t even speak your name?

  Tell her. Camilla. Camilla Stewart. This is who I am.

  ‘Natasha,’ I say, ‘Natasha Watts.’ Is this really how my voice sounds? Is this how I want it to sound? Yes – this is who I am, I remember now, Camilla.

  ‘Okay, lovely,’ she smiles, tilting her head. ‘Nata
sha, I’m Charlotte. Somehow,’ she blows out through her mouth, ‘you got yourself here, to Treliske Hospital, love. Thank goodness for that, eh. Do you remember?’ I shake my head. ‘Not to worry. Now, perhaps there’s someone we can call for you, a family member maybe? A close friend?’ I jump as she rests an incongruous cold hand on mine. Unruly, curved twiglets sprouting from above hazel coloured buttons, her cheekbones rising, ‘Looks like you’ve had quite a time of it,’ she reminds me. She needn’t have bothered, it’s all flooding back with each beating second. How could you do this to me? How did I not see who you were? What you were up to?

  ‘No,’ my words tumble out before I’ve time to check them for authenticity. ‘I’ve no family to call,’ she raises just one wispy eyebrow, ‘no-one,’ I shake my head, shooting pain stabbing my temples.

  ‘Oh,’ I see she pities me, she needn’t. Isn’t this what I wanted? ‘Not even a friend then, anyone? Just someone to, you know, love, someone to be with you?’

  Why can’t she let it go? Not everyone has someone. ‘No,’ I say, ‘really, no-one. Please don’t worry. It’s fine.’ It will be fine too, I can start over again.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, love,’ she doubts me, perhaps I’ve forgotten, not in a fit state of mind? ‘But listen, if you change your mind, be sure to let me know, okay? Or if you feel the need to talk, need any help at all, just shout. We can always put you in touch with our dedicated counselling service. Okay?’ She nods at me and I nod back.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to appease her, ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

  There’s an awkward silence while she wonders how best to deal with me, do I need help? Should she fetch the mental health team? She’s sailing far too close to the wind, so I look away. She fusses around me, pulling at the already tight bedclothes, pinning me down even further, I’m a sardine squashed in a sterilised cotton tin.

  ‘You will be fine,’ she breaks the silence, ‘despite…’

  I jolt my head back to her, where is she going with this now? Why doesn’t she spit it out, whatever she knows, instead of shaking her head?

  ‘Despite?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, you seem a little confused, love. You were soaking wet, when you… when you arrived, some nasty cuts and grazes. Look, I’ve got to ask…’ I feel my stomach roll, knowing what she’s about to ask. I heard all the commotion, it must be all over the local news by now. ‘Were you anywhere near—’

  ‘No,’ I jump in.

  ‘Oh, you don’t know what I was about to ask?’ she says.

  I do, I really do. ‘No, I mean, sorry, I was about to say – earlier, when I said I couldn’t remember anything, what I meant was, nothing other than taking a tumble off the harbour wall in Falmouth, stupid… wasn’t paying attention.’

  ‘I see. So no, you won’t know anything about the misfortunes if you were on the opposite stretch of coast.’ She moves towards the bedside cabinet. ‘Falmouth harbour, goodness, you’re very lucky then, with that bump on your head, being in water, alone and all that. You must have had your guardian angels with you.’ Somewhere behind me water glugs from a container, I’m shivering again, if I tense my muscles, will it stop? It’s only water. Water. Someone pouring water. ‘Yes, you’ve been incredibly lucky, Natasha, you really have,’ she continues. ‘Anyway, there’s some water, love,’ she flashes the thick, clouded tumbler before my eyes before placing it somewhere behind me, ‘should you need it. It’s here for you.’

  She called it lucky. Lucky. Could it be lucky?

  Her hand clasps mine, still holding the fold of the sheets at chest level. ‘One other thing,’ she says, ‘the police are here, they’d like to talk with you.’ Oh my God, the police? That humming in my ears again. ‘We’ve told them to wait in reception until you’re properly up to it. They’ve been here some time but they can always wait some more, they can. Until you’re good and ready.’

  The police? What did I expect? You fool, Camilla.

  ‘Though, I’m guessing they’re also thinking – you were maybe on the other coastline last night. You won’t have heard about it, I don’t expect. Yes, I think one of the reception staff must have called them when you arrived this morning. That’ll be it,’ She tuts to herself, ‘shocking, such a dreadful thing to happen.’

  Turning my head against the stiffness of the pillow, stones for a filling, my pain receptors fully awake now, I bite down hard, pressing the top jaw into the lower. I find something to focus on outside the window. A palm tree stretching out tattered green and rusty yellow fingers, gesturing to me with the summer breeze, azure light particles embracing its form. I don’t want to talk to the police, I don’t want to talk to anyone. Especially not the police. Breathing in deeply through my nose, I brace myself, holding it until my chest yearns, begging me to let go. But it’s still there, the lingering smell of the sea, I can taste it, sour salt smothering tiny taste buds, the same sour salt that has doused the pores of my hair, living on, beneath my skin, bear-hugging my lungs. Tighter and tighter. More than anything I want to scrub my pale, mottled skin with fragrant hot suds and new beginnings. New beginnings, no going back, hot fragrant suds, yes, focus on this. I turn to her, touching the soft bandage with my free hand, feeling across my forehead. ‘How large is this?’ I ask.

  ‘What, the gash, love?’

  I nod, ‘Yes. Feels huge, this bandage.’

  She reaches over, moving my hand away, ‘don’t you be worrying, now. You’ve several minor cuts, here and here,’ she waves her hand to indicate reciprocal areas on her own forehead. ‘So yes, at the moment, we can hardly see that pretty little face of yours, you’re all bandaged up for the time being, superficial though, love. Hopefully. Nothing more.’

  Hardly see that pretty little face. I can do this.

  Get it over and done with, talk to the police. Then I needn’t talk to anyone, not ever, not about this. Ever. A fresh start. One day at a time, small delicate steps. I can make it happen.

  ‘Natasha,’ she squeezes my hand again, ‘what shall I tell the police? Shall I fetch you a warm drink first, then maybe you’ll be up to it, lovely? Or would you like more time? It’s your call. From what you say, I suspect, you’ll not be able to help them anyway.’

  ‘Okay,’ I hear myself say, eyes clinging to the palm tree, ‘I’ll see them. Now, best I do it now.’ After all, I’ve nothing to tell them, not really. They probably understand more than I do. Wrong place at the wrong time? Misled by someone I thought to be so genuine? Either way, I’m unable to help them. I haven’t had the chance to run it through my own mind yet, never mind provide answers for anyone else. How did I not see it coming? How did I not see her? Who she really was? If I can get the questions over and done with, while shock still has a firm grip, before this stage of severance falls away, I may stand a chance.

  ‘If you’re absolutely sure you’re up to it? Don’t feel pressured, love. They’ve waited this long, it won’t hurt them to wait a little longer. Perhaps have that drink first, eh?’

  I turn my face further into the pillow, ‘Thanks, but I’d rather get it over and done with. Then, I’ll be ready to leave, please. I’m feeling much better already.’

  I sense her eyes softening on me, I daren’t look.

  ‘Hey, slow down there!’ She chuckles, ‘One step at a time – it’s far too soon for you to be leaving. You’ve not long opened your eyes. We’ll need to keep you in for the night at least for observation. You need some looking after, bless you. You’ve no-one to go to either, from what you’ve said,’ I shouldn’t have told her I’m alone. She moves closer still, ‘We’ll take good care of you, promise,’ she whispers.

  Seconds later, her rubber mules creep away from the room. To inform the police – she’s as ready as she’ll ever be, no doubt. Go carefully, she’s extremely fragile. Not thinking straight either. It will be the bump to the head, probably.

  I am leaving. As soon as I’ve satisfied the police, I’m leaving. To be away from Cornwall before the tide turns. Before they find out. Bef
ore I change my mind I roll my head to face the opposite wall, towards the sound of a disapproving clock, tick, ticking at me. A train will be leaving platform two from Truro Station at precisely 16.12. If I’m to get away with this – I need to be on it.

  I’ve a very long journey ahead of me.

  2

  Edinburgh, December 1999

  Camilla

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, steps to my proposed life. I pause, poised at the top, absorbing the moment. Breathing deeply through my nose, drowning in pure grandeur.

  Finally, I have arrived. Do you see me now? Do you?

  Six ridged Corinthian columns stand to attention beside me to mark the occasion. Listen to me, will you. These columns are swathed in Christmas foliage, supporting the ancient Greek style roof. So this is how they live, not bad, not bad at all. And no longer do I peer in through the window from outside, in the cold, I’m as good as inside, where I belong. Such stunning decadence, I hear myself think – impressed I am, a mere footstep separating us. Gathering my poise, clutching it tight, I sashay through the reflective entrance. Appreciating the expression of upmost respect from the suited and booted doormen. I feel so good, no not good, more – worthy, so right, so me.

  Smarting feet in frivolously high sandals, guide each wincing tread. So imperative to gain the extra inches to grace my dress, a bargain from TK Maxx, last year’s – yes, but stinking of affluence. Filthy dirty expense, only what I should have had, if I hadn’t been born to two losers. I mean, other than my bank balance, what do these people hold over me? Nothing I can’t learn. Pinning back my shoulders, I shimmer through a reception dressed in golds, reds and bronzes – towards the hum of people. A slight flutter in my belly. An adrenaline high, mind. Control. Focus. Belong.

  These people don’t hang out like they do down at The Malt Shovel, there’s no sticky floor to wince over, a dripping counter of spilled pints. Not here, only highly polished wood flooring, leading to the crowds decorating the bar. Halting in the doorway, I take another deep breath, savouring the moment. Devouring with every sense. My eyes darting between perimeters, hungrily feasting on unadulterated glitz. A circular bar graces the centre of the room and from it, rise enormous pillars, Graeco-Roman stilts to the summit, entwined in lavish wreaths and twinkling lights. Exactly as their website promised, but better. The ceiling is a glass dome, where a mass of crystal droplets hang loose with no shame. I’ve been here before in my dreams, so many times, I’ve tasted this air of expensive perfumes and pungent cocktails before.