Good Girls

Brookfield Amanda

Description

*Shortlisted for The People's Book Prize*

'No one gets to the heart of human relationships quite so perceptively as Brookfield.' The Mirror

Who can you trust with your darkest secrets...

Everyone that meets Kat Keating is mesmerised. Beautiful, smart and charming, she is everything a good girl should be.

Her sister Eleanor, on the other hand, knows she can't compete with Kat. On the awkward side of tall, clever enough to be bullied, and full of the responsibilities only an older sibling can understand, Eleanor grows up knowing she’s not a good girl.

This is the story of the Keating sisters - through a childhood fraught with dark secrets, adolescent rivalries, and on into adulthood with all its complexities and misunderstandings. Until a terrible truth from the past brings the sisters crashing together, and finally Eleanor begins to uncover just how good Kat really was.

Good Girls is a mystery, a love story, a coming-of-age story, and a tear-jerker. But most of all it’s a reminder of who to keep close and who to trust with your darkest secrets. Perfect for fans of Jane Fallon, Celeste Ng, and Julie Cohen.

Praise for Amanda Brookfield

'Unputdownable. Perceptive. Poignant. I loved it.' bestselling author Patricia Scanlan on Before I Knew You

'If Joanna Trollope is the queen of the Aga Saga, then Amanda Brookfield must be a strong contender for princess.' Oxford Times

What readers are saying about Good Girls:
'The depth—the beauty—of this evocative story is almost too difficult to encapsulate.'

'Simply put, this book is superb.'

'I adored this book; it's sad, it's thought provoking and ultimately very uplifting. A lovely read that I recommend highly.'

'The character development was faultless.'

'A very beautiful and at times suspenseful story. As always Amanda Brookfield writes a beautiful tale.'

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants
• Relations familiales
• Mashups
• Siblings
• Literary
• Women
• Motherhood
• Coming of Age
• Literature
• Contemporary history
• Sibling
• General officer
• Parenting
• Woman
• The Women
• General
• Contemporary
• Family Life
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 08 octobre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 6
• EAN13: 9781838893118
• Langue: English

Extrait

Good Girls


Amanda Brookfield
To my darling Ben and Ali, you are why the world makes sense.
Contents



Part I


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

Part II


Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part III


Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part IV


Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowedgements

Book Club Questions


More from Amanda Brookfield

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
‘I am no bird. No net ensnares me. I am a free human being with an independent will.’
Jane Eyre
Part I
1
January 2013

Eleanor decided to take a taxi from the station, even though she knew it would cost ten precious pounds and mean a wait. Being so rural, only a handful of cars served the area, but she didn’t want to be a bother to Howard, her brother-in-law. She texted both him and Kat to say she would be there within the hour and stayed as warm as she could in the small arched station entrance. It was a cold, dank morning, not raining for once but with air like icy metal against her skin.
The taxi driver who pulled up some twenty minutes later exuded an attitude of reluctance that made Eleanor disinclined to make conversation. When they hit a tail-back, thanks to a loop round the old Roman bridge, still not fixed from the heavy flooding over the New Year, he thumped his steering wheel. ‘A bloody joke. We can land men on the moon and still it takes three weeks to fix a few old stones.’
Eleanor murmured agreement, but found that she didn’t mind much. The fields on either side of the road were still visibly waterlogged. After the grimy mêlée of south London, it was a visual feast – ethereal, shimmering silver bands engraved with the black reflections of leafless trees and smudgy January clouds.
The usual criss-cross of feelings was stirring at being back in such proximity to the landscape of her childhood. Just twenty miles away, her father was a resident in a small care home called The Bressingham, which he had once included in his rounds as a parish priest, days long since lost to him through the fog of dementia. Howard and Kat’s substantial Georgian house was ten miles in the opposite direction, on the fringes of a town called Fairfield. They had moved from Holland Park seven years before, a year after the birth of their third child, Evie. At the time, Eleanor had been surprised to get the change of address card. She had always regarded her little sister and husband as life-long townies, Kat with her posh quirky dress-making commissions to private clients and Howard with his big-banker job. It was because they saw the house in a magazine and fell in love with it, Kat had explained at one of their rare subsequent encounters, in the manner of one long used to plucking things she wanted out of life, like fruits off a tree.
But recently life had not been so cooperative. A small tumour had been removed from Kat’s bowel and she was in bed recovering. Howard had reported the event earlier in the week, by email, and when Eleanor had got on the phone, as he must have known she would, he had said that the operation had gone well and that Kat was adamant that she didn’t need sisterly visits. No further treatment was required. She would be up and about in a matter of days. Their regular babysitter, Hannah, was increasing her hours to plug gaps with the children and he was taking a week off from his daily commute into the City.
‘But I am her sister,’ Eleanor had insisted, hurt, in spite of knowing better. ‘I’d just like to see her. Surely she can understand that.’ Howard had said he would get back to her, but then Kat had phoned back herself, saying why didn’t Eleanor pop down on Saturday afternoon.
‘Nice,’ said the driver, following Eleanor’s instructions to turn between the laburnums that masked the handsome red-brick walls and gleaming white sash windows and pulling up behind the two family cars, both black, one a tank-sized station wagon, the other an estate. He fiddled with his satnav while Eleanor dug into her purse for the right money.
I am not the rich one , she wanted to cry, seeing the visible sag of disappointment on his sheeny unshaven face at the sight of her twenty-pence tip; I am merely the visiting elder sister who rents a flat by a Clapham railway line, who tutors slow or lazy kids to pay her bills and who has recently agreed to write an old actor’s memoirs for a sum that will barely see off her overdraft .
Howard answered the door, taking long enough to compound Eleanor’s apprehensions about having pushed for the visit. He was in a Barbour and carrying three brightly coloured backpacks, clearly on the way out of the house. ‘Good of you to come.’ Brandishing the backpacks, he kissed her perfunctorily on both cheeks. ‘Brownies, go-carting and a riding lesson – pick-ups in that order. Then two birthday parties and a bowling alley. God help me. See you later maybe. She’s upstairs,’ he added, somewhat unnecessarily.
‘The Big Sister arrives,’ Kat called out, before Eleanor had even crossed the landing. ‘Could you tug that curtain wider?’ she added as Eleanor entered the bedroom. ‘I want as much light as possible.’
‘So, how are you?’ Eleanor asked, adjusting the offending drape en route to kissing Kat’s cheek, knowing it was no moment to take offence at the Big Sister thing, in spite of the reflex of deep, instinctive certainty that Kat had said it to annoy. At thirty-eight she was the big sister, by three years. She was also almost six foot, with the heavy-limbed, dark-haired, brown-eyed features that were such echoes of their father, while Kat, as had been pointed out as far back as either of them could remember, had inherited an uncanny replication of their mother’s striking looks, from the lithe elfin frame and flinty-blue feline eyes, to the extraordinary eye-catching tumble of white-blonde curls. ‘You look so well,’ Eleanor exclaimed, happiness at the truth of this observation making her voice bounce, while inwardly she marvelled at her sibling’s insouciant beauty, utterly undiminished by the recent surgery. Her skin was like porcelain, faintly freckled; her hair in flames across the pillow.
‘Well, thank you, and thank goodness, because I feel extremely well,’ Kat retorted. ‘So please don’t start telling me off again for not having kept you better informed. As I said on the phone, the fucking thing was small and isolated. They have removed it – snip-snip,’ she merrily scissored two fingers in the air. ‘So I am not going to need any further treatment, which is a relief frankly, since I would hate to lose this lot.’ She yanked at one of the flames. ‘Shallow, I know, but there it is.’
‘It’s not shallow,’ Eleanor assured her quietly, experiencing one of the sharp twists of longing for the distant days when they had been little enough and innocent enough to take each other’s affections for granted. They had been like strangers for years now in comparison, shouting across an invisible abyss.
She took off her cardigan, hanging it round the back of the bedroom chair before she sat down. The room was hot and smelt faintly medicinal. Several vases of flowers, lilies, roses and carnations sat on the mantelpiece, between get well cards. Above them hung a huge plasma television screen; enough to put her off reading, Eleanor decided, let alone any other pleasurable nocturnal activities.
‘So how did you know something was wrong? If you don’t mind my asking.’
Kat pulled a face. ‘ Changes , which I have no wish to go into. Blood in the stool,’ she went on breezily nonetheless, ‘– as the doctors so delicately like to call it – being one of the many highlights, together with “going” too much, or not at all. Little wonder I was in no hurry to discuss it with our GP. But then Howard said I was an idiot and he was right. I like my husband.’ She grinned, leaning down to retrieve a pillow from the floor and slapping Eleanor’s hand away when she leapt out of the chair to try to help. ‘Sorry, but I just don’t want a fuss. Everybody is fussing and it’s driving me fucking nuts.’
Eleanor leant against the wall by the bed while Kat settled herself. Spotting their father’s old Bible on the bedside table, she picked it up, absently riffling through its pages. ‘And how are the children?’
Kat’s face lit up, as if a bulb had been turned on inside her. ‘Fantastic, thanks. Little monsters all. Annoying. Demanding. Wonderful. Luke has gone geeky and has a quiff and a last word for everything. Sophie is in love with horses, I think she would literally marry one if she could. And Evie… well, Evie is just Evie.’ She sighed dreamily. ‘On her own planet, as every seven-year-old should be.’
‘Her asthma?’ Eleanor ventured, painfully aware of how little she really knew of her sister’s family life, the result of years of learned wariness, the age-old sense of being kept at arm’s length.
‘Oh, that’s all gone. She grew out of it. Thank God.’ Kat picked up a glossy swatch of her hair and scrutinised the ends. ‘So, will you be visiting Dad? Kill two birds with one stone. So to speak.’ Her sharp blue eyes flicked from Eleanor’s face to the Bible in her hands, dancing but steely.
‘I’ve come to see you, not him,’ Eleanor replied levelly, putting the book down. As she did so an old empty envelope dropped out of its back pages. Scrawled across it in the big spider writing that Eleanor immediately recognised as having once flowed from their father’s gold-tipped desk fountain pen was a note to their mother: Darling Connie, it said , came home for a 10-min lunch. I love you. Vx.
‘Hey, look at this.’ She held the note out to Kat.
Her sister nodded. ‘Yes, it’s been there, lik