This book is a work of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.
HarperElement
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperElement 2017
FIRST EDITION
© Casey Watson 2017
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Cover image © Jan Bickerton (posed by model)
Cover layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Casey Watson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at
www.harpercollins.co.uk/green
Source ISBN: 9780008127600
Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008217617
Version: 2017-08-24
Mid-September. To me, always a melancholy time of year. Summer clinging on in bursts, the sun still trying to keep the air warm – but undermined by the chill creep of autumn once it sets, increasingly bullying its way into its rightful place.
I try to like autumn, what with the spectacular colours and all those lovely piles of crispy leaves. But it’s not my favourite. In fact it’s my least favourite season; sandwiched as it is between summer and Christmas, which isn’t a season but, to my mind, ought to be. It always seems to take much too long to arrive and, once it does arrive, is always over much too quickly.
Still, autumn has a plus point, and that’s the telly. And amid a slew of programmes that had returned from their summer break was the Saturday night ritual of The Jonathan Ross Show, a family favourite since way back when. Which was why, when my mobile buzzed, given the day and the timing, I thought it must be Riley who was calling.
Mike laughed. ‘She knows you so well,’ he said, chuckling, as I got off the sofa to go and fetch it. ‘Heaven forbid you miss lover-boy.’
He was referring to the actor James McAvoy, who was one of the guests that night, and of course he was absolutely right.
‘Cheek,’ I called back to him as I disappeared into the kitchen. ‘I just happen to think he’s a particularly fine actor.’
‘Course you do,’ he answered as I reappeared in the doorway. ‘Just like I admire Fiona Bruce for her brilliant journalism.’
But by this time I already knew that it wasn’t Riley calling. The display on the phone said no number ID. Perhaps it was James McAvoy declaring his undying devotion.
It wasn’t.
‘Hello, is that Mrs Watson?’ asked a female voice. ‘Casey Watson?’ I told her yes. ‘Ah, good,’ she said. ‘Helena Curry here. EDT. Very glad to have managed to get hold of you. Am I right in thinking you might be available and free at the moment?’
I gestured with my hand that Mike should pause the TV. ‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘We don’t have anyone else in at the moment. Well, apart from our long-term foster son, of course.’
‘Tyler,’ she supplied, before I could. She’d done her homework.
Not that we thought of Tyler in that way any more. He was our permanent foster child these days, and just as he called us mum and dad, so the ‘foster’ tag had long since disappeared from the ‘son’ bit, at least in our heads.
With football training in the morning, Tyler was already up in his bedroom, having just gone up to catch up with one of his favourite crime programmes on his new laptop – the surprise sixteenth birthday present we’d presented him a couple of weeks back. To say he was pleased would be the understatement of the year. If not the century.