Author/Uploaded by Jenny Blackhurst
The Hiking Trip Cover Title Page Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Ele...
The Hiking Trip Cover Title Page 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 Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-One Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Chapter Sixty-Four Chapter Sixty-Five Chapter Sixty-Six Chapter Sixty-Seven Chapter Sixty-Eight Chapter Sixty-Nine Chapter Seventy Chapter Seventy-One Epilogue About the Author Also by Jenny Blackhurst Copyright Cover Table of Contents Start of Content Chapter One November 2019 It took just three little words to ruin my life the second time around. Human remains found. It’s a Saturday, which is a particularly inconvenient day for my life to be ruined, because I have both of the children with me. Faye, seven, and George, four, are sitting in the back of the car arguing over whether Mr Tumble is a poo-head as I line it up ready to reverse into the last parent and child space at Asda – score – when a guy in a black Mercedes drives from behind the spot, straight in. I slam on the brakes and wind down my window as Mr Mercedes jumps, child-free and blatantly conscience-clear, out of his car and presses the key to lock it. I lean out of the window and wave. ‘Sorry, I was just about to park there,’ I say, in case for some reason he can’t see my shiny silver people carrier stuck out in the road. Another car stops, the driver looking impatient for me to get out of the way, but she’s going to have to wait. ‘No worries, love,’ Mr Mercedes says. He’s wearing a suit that doesn’t quite hide his middle-age paunch and is tall, hair shaved because he thinks it will hide the fact that his hair has receded, with any luck into his nose and ears. He has that kind of all-year-round tan that he hopes will say ‘summer in the Med’ but instead screams ‘tanning bed three times a week’. ‘I didn’t actually mean that I was sorry,’ I say, opening my door to get out and ignoring the woman in the waiting car who has started to make frantic hand gestures. ‘I meant that was my space. And you don’t even have children. It’s a parent and child space.’ He looks at me as though I am a persistent mosquito and I swear I can feel my blood actually start to boil. ‘I am a parent,’ he says. ‘I just don’t have my kids with me. And I parked in the space first. You can see that, because my car’s in there, isn’t it?’ ‘But I was just about to—’ I start. ‘But you didn’t,’ Mr Mercedes cuts in, his voice infuriatingly low and calm. ‘So get back in your car and find another space. You’re causing a traffic jam and being very selfish.’ He carries on walking towards the supermarket. I stand watching him go, stunned. ‘I’m selfish?’ I shout to his retreating back. ‘I’m selfish? You utter PRICK!’ One of the drivers in the queue waiting leans on their horn heavily. I let out a huge huff and get back into the car, my face burning red. I spin the wheel around and drive past the line of cars, my hand up in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Swear jar, Mummy,’ Faye says sweetly. The space I find is about a mile from the front entrance, but it has a curb next to it so at least I’m able to open the door wide enough to heft George out without hitting anyone else’s car. As I lock the door, I slide the keyring into the palm of my hand, the key sticking out from between my fingers, the way women learn to hold them when they walk around after dark. Don’t play on your phone, don’t wear headphones, don’t drink too much and if anyone tries to grab you, jam your key into their eye. ‘Come on, babes,’ I say, taking George’s hand with my free one. Faye grabs his other one and we hurry across the car park. ‘Mummy, you’re going the long way,’ Faye complains. ‘The door is over there.’ ‘Yes, I’ve got something to do over here,’ I say, heading for the black Mercedes. As I pass it, I let my cardigan fall over my hand and jam the key in-between my fingers into the shiny black paintwork.