Page 31 of The Girlfriend

L ATER, LAURA WOULD NOT REMEMBER IT AS BEING HER BIRTHDAY —although she’d never have another one without brushing up against that wild terror, a sensation of stopped breathing, of panicked, unasked questions and an overwhelming, animalistic need to be with her son—but she would remember it by the smell of roses.

It had been a scent that she loved, but that would soon have the power to plummet her into a dark place.

Stooped in the garden, near the fence, she’d been pruning the dead heads away from the new blooms when the phone rang.

She distractedly picked it up, still snipping away with the secateurs.

“Hello, can I speak with Mrs. Cavendish, please?”

She remembered being mildly irritated, half-expecting some marketing company who’d gotten hold of her number or the dentist calling to remind her of an annual checkup date.

“Mrs. Cavendish speaking.”

The voice paused a millisecond, and in that moment, it got her attention.

“Mrs. Cavendish, I am a nurse, Nurse Hadley, from Wrexham Maelor Hospital in Wales. I’m afraid I have some bad news about your son.”