Naomi Rose

Kirsten Esden

Description

An avid reader, ten-year-old Naomi Rose already knows the power of a good story. When her mother dies, Naomi's emotional struggle is exacerbated by her attempts to appease her father's demands for self-restraint and composure. With her father increasingly turning to the bottle for solace, Naomi seeks attention elsewhere, devising highly embellishedtales to shock her classmates and delighting in their reaction. When she is befriended by Ozzy, a charismatic, confidentTurkish boy, Naomi believes she has finally found someone she can trust. But when Ozzy embarks on a relationship withNaomi's nemesis, Molly, it leads to divided loyalties and, once again, Naomi is left alone and desperate.As her hopes unravel, she is drawn to Mr Adams, the popular young English teacher who applauds and nurtures hertalent for writing. Interest quickly turns to obsession and Mr Adams' naivety makes him an easy target. When a chancearises to command her father's attention whilst simultaneously punishing Mr Adams for his rejection of her, it is too goodan opportunity to miss.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mars 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838597443
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Kirsten Esden

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781838597443

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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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For Tim
Contents
Preface

chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two

Acknowledgements
About the Author
Preface
Although the events in this book are fictitious, the character of Naomi grew from the impression left behind by a girl I knew for just six days, or at least the version of herself that she wanted me to know.
A few years back, I found myself sitting on a jury listening as a young girl gave evidence. The details of the trial have faded and, in any case, are not mine to share, but the girl’s unusual character, her striking ability to perform so eloquently in such daunting circumstances, plus her father’s behaviour in response to the whole spectacle, remain with me.
I came away with many unanswered questions. I also came away with a fierce reminder that without trust in our own judgement, we are always at the mercy of the storyteller.

At the time, my actions were attributed to the death of my mother. Naturally. Because people like to have explanation and reason and cause at their disposal so that they can understand and make sense of everything; after all, the alternative is to accept that someone may behave in a despicable manner for no other reason than to please themselves and that would never do – much better to have an explanation.
What would they say about my behaviour now, if they knew? Would my poor mother still be blamed for the decisions I make in adulthood or is there a cut-off point when grief becomes an excuse rather than a justification? Not that I’ve ever much cared what people think, nor given time over to questioning the past; it’s the present which interests me and I was taught early on that analysing behaviour does little more than shift blame around.
God, it’s hot today. I push back from my desk and head over to the window, opening it out as wide as the safety catch will allow in the hope that the air will move, even just a little. The office was chosen solely for the view with no thought to it being west facing and on sunny afternoons the room becomes a furnace. Occasionally, it becomes too much and I close the windows and succumb to the annoying hum from the air conditioning unit; but not today, today I want to hear myself think.
I had my pick of office spaces because, at the time, the building had been largely empty. Now, it is full of PR firms and marketing companies and solicitors, with Esme and me sandwiched neatly between them all on the fourth floor. I could have gone higher (a status thing – the higher the floor, the higher the rent), but I didn’t want Esme to feel uncomfortable. Besides, I had no need for status, just a need for the view out onto the immaculately kept grounds of the clinic opposite. I like to keep an eye.
He’s returned from his three o’clock tea break and I see he’s decided to wear a wide, floppy hat to keep the sun off. Sensible, even if he does now resemble a cricket umpire. He works methodically, pulling at the leaves with his rake and shaking them into a growing pile. The grounds offer no shade and despite the hat, he stops frequently to run a shirt sleeve across his brow. Still wearing well-cut shirts, I note, though there is no expectation for him to do so. None of the staff wear uniform and so long as they avoid jeans, they have freedom to wear what they like. The one common accessory is the identification cards which swing about their necks on blue ribbon, something they really should change, I think; the shade is too similar to that of those worn by NHS staff, and the Wellbridge Substance Abuse Clinic is most certainly not part of the NHS – the dent in my bank balance is proof of that.
“Naomi, are you still with me?”
The rake falls to the ground and he wanders off towards the open shed beside the main building. He must be exhausted, poor thing.
“Still with you,” I say, keeping my gaze fixed on the man’s frame as he returns with a wheelbarrow. Is he starting to hunch over, or is it just the effort of pushing the barrow over the grass?
“So, I’ll schedule the interview for ten-ish tomorrow? You have Kat’s sports day and they want to start at twelve-thirty sharp before the kids get tired… you don’t want to cut it too fine.”
Sports day, for five-year-olds, whatever next? But the mention of my daughter is enough to pull me away from the window, and I turn to face Esme with a smile. “That sounds perfect; what would I do without you?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “You would become a sad, lonely woman. Your daughter would disown you for missing all of her important events and your books would only be read after your death because no one would know they’d been written until they were found gathering dust next to your body.”
“That’s cheery.”
Esme grins, showing off neat dimples either side of her mouth. She is sickeningly beautiful. The colour of her smooth brown skin has been deepened a little by the recent spell of good weather and her hazel eyes – green in certain lights – are framed by long, dark lashes. It’s usually her hair you notice first but today she has it scraped up into a tight, high bun. I like it best when it’s left to spiral out from her head in a cushion of caramel curls, then it reminds me of how she’d looked when I’d first met her. She’s always been beautiful, but adulthood has seen her develop a certain polish. As a child, her eyebrows were little fuzzy thatches which she would wiggle proudly, one at a time; now, they are teased and plucked and arranged into neat, symmetrical arches using the mirror which sits unashamedly on her cluttered desk. Esme is proud of her appearance and makes no apologies for it. I like that about her. In fact, she makes no apologies for anything and says exactly what she’s thinking and asks every question she wants an answer to with a blatant refusal to acknowledge anyone’s privacy. If I’m ever vague, she’ll look at me so intensely, one sculpted eyebrow raised up high, that I feel uneasy even if I’m telling the truth. Feeling uneasy is not something I am particularly familiar with; I can only liken it to going through customs at the airport and questioning whether I really do know the contents of my own luggage.
“Okay, cool,” she says, rising from the chair and scrolling through her phone. “Oh, one more thing,” she looks up to catch my expression, “Kat’s dad… should he meet you at the school or do you want him to pick you up?”
I sigh. “Call and say I’ll pick him up, that way I won’t get there smelling of kebab meat.”
Esme rolls her eyes. She likes Katerina’s father and thinks I’m too hard on him.
I return to the window. The sun is lower now and shadows are beginning to form across the lawn. The gardener is talking to a member of staff, the leaves all tidied away. Perhaps the older lady is his mentor. Does he even still have a mentor? It’s been a year since he was taken on under the rehabilitation scheme so perhaps he no longer qualifies. Patient to apprentice to member of staff – quite the success story. Good man; it takes courage to come back fighting.
“Right, I’m off.” Esme throws her phone into her enormous handbag. “I’ve got the release date to get out which I’ll do from home tonight… unless you want to do it yourself?” But she’s grinning; she knows better and doesn’t bother to wait for my reply. “How’s your dad doing, by the way?”
“Much better,” I nod, but I’m not thinking about my father, “things are going in the right direction.”
“That’s good… really good. Right, see you in the morning and don’t forget they’ll want new photos so wear your hair down.”
I poke my tongue out at her reference to my ears and she laughs her way out of the office taking the last of the sunshine with her.
A few years back, I’d plucked a teenage Esme out of a hole of impending depression and forced her to knuckle down and help me. She might have been a strange mix of glitter and gloom and “Whatevers” at the time but I had been determined to root out the clever, motivated girl who I knew was lurking inside. Now, at twenty-one, Esme is confident, bright and, despite being several years my junior, wholly indispensable.
The lady is laughing at something the