The Most Difficult Thing. Charlotte Philby

Chapter 5: Anna

Chapter 6: Anna

Chapter 7: Anna

Chapter 8: Anna

Chapter 9: Anna

Chapter 10: Anna

Chapter 11: Anna

       Chapter 12: Anna

       Chapter 13: Anna

       Chapter 14: Anna

       Chapter 15: Anna

       Chapter 16: Maria

       Chapter 17: Maria

       Chapter 18: Maria

       Chapter 19: Maria

       Chapter 20: Maria

       Chapter 21: Maria

       Chapter 22: Maria

       Chapter 23: Anna

       Chapter 24: Anna

       Part Two

       Chapter 25: Anna

       Chapter 26: Maria

       Chapter 27: Anna

       Chapter 28: Anna

       Chapter 29: Anna

       Chapter 30: Maria

       Chapter 31: Anna

       Chapter 32: Anna

       Chapter 33: Maria

       Chapter 34: Anna

       Chapter 35: Maria

       Chapter 36: Anna

       Chapter 37: Anna

       Chapter 38: Maria

       Chapter 39: Anna

       Chapter 40: Maria

       Chapter 41: Anna

       Chapter 42: Anna

       Chapter 43: Maria

       Chapter 44: Anna

       Chapter 45: Maria

       Chapter 46: Anna

       Chapter 47: Maria

       Chapter 48: Anna

       Chapter 49: Maria

       Chapter 50: Anna

       Chapter 51: Maria

       Part Three

       Chapter 52: Anna

       Chapter 53: Anna

       Chapter 54: Maria

       Chapter 55: Anna

       Chapter 56: Anna

       Chapter 57: Maria

       Chapter 58: Anna

       Chapter 59: Anna

       Chapter 60: Maria

       Chapter 61: Anna

       Chapter 62: Anna

       Chapter 63: Maria

       Chapter 64: Anna

       Chapter 65: Maria

       Chapter 66: Anna

       Chapter 67: Maria

       Chapter 68: Anna

       Chapter 69: Maria

       Chapter 70: Maria

       Chapter 71: Anna

       Chapter 72: Maria

       Chapter 73: Anna

       Chapter 74: Maria

       Chapter 75: Anna

       Acknowledgements

       Keep Reading …

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      I felt my abdominal muscles twinge as I lowered myself to sit. The bench by the lamp post at the foot of the bridge, just as planned.

      It had been almost two months since the surgery but still the scar was so raw that I felt tearing across my abdomen if I so much as lifted one of the twins at the wrong angle. Letting my eyelids drop for a moment, I pushed the thought of the girls out of my mind.

      Open the box, close the box. Just as the doctor had taught me.

      They were not so much benches that lined the stretch of pavement along this part of the Thames. More slabs, like a procession of concrete coffins quietly guarding the water.

      It was dusk. Winter. The terminal gloom had long set in, and with it the sort of damp cold that gnawed its way into your bones. A thin gust of wind snuck through the opening in my cardigan as I pulled the grey cashmere closer across my breasts, still swollen.

      ‘For God’s sake, Harry,’ I cursed him silently, my eyes rolling up towards the stone-coloured sky.

      For as long as I can remember, I have always been early. It is a pathological politeness that brings with it control; no one wants to be the last person to step into a room. It was one of the things we shared, at the beginning, he and I. How many times had I arrived early to meet him, before all this had started, only to find him already lurking under an amber glow at the end of the bar?

      Yet it was nearly five, and the pavement around me was virtually empty but for a steady stream of deflated tourists and office workers scuttling towards the Tube.

      What was he playing at? David would be home from work by six, as had been his wont since the babies had arrived and, almost overnight, he too had been reborn, his naturally attentive, easy parental love a reminder of everything I could never be.

      I had told Maria I was just going shopping for babygros. What was Harry doing? Careful not to make any sudden movements, which I had come to accept would be followed by a sharp stab of pain, I pulled my phone from my navy leather handbag, my hand trembling.

      No new messages.

      My fingers were a bluish-red. I had hardly left the confines of the house since the birth, two months ago, aside from those ritualistic processions along the darker recesses of Hampstead Heath, under the instruction of the nanny. The Nanny. The truth was, she was always so much more than that. Ever-competent Maria silently heaving the double buggy down the front steps, seeing me off from the shadows of the doorway.

      I loved the way the air chilled my lungs. Even the buildings on Millbank, which loomed over us from the other side of Lambeth Bridge, seemed to shiver. I had forgotten how cold it got out here. How easy it is to forget.

      Hoping I’d maybe missed something in the string of messages that had passed between Harry and me, I flicked my fingers across the screen. Nothing. How many times had I reread his messages? How many times had I crept across the hallway while the girls slept, my toes curling into the carpet, sliding the lock closed behind me, carefully retrieving the phone from where I kept it, stuck behind the drawer