The Other Mother

THE OTHER MOTHER MIRANDA RIJKS Published by Inkubator Books www.inkubatorbooks.com Copyright © 2023 by Miranda Rijks ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-143-8 ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-144-5 ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-145-2 Miranda Rijks has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work. THE OTHER MOTHER is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. CONTENTS Inkubator Books Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Free Short Story Offer THE INFLUENCER A LETTER FROM MIRANDA Also By Miranda Rijks JOIN THE INKUBATOR MAILING LIST You will be the first to learn about new releases plus the many FREE and discounted Kindle books we offer! bit.ly/3dOTSW2 1 JANE Dear Aurora Rae, My heart is broken, and I don’t know if I can carry on. My boyfriend dumped me last week. He didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. He sent me a Snapchat message. Mimi, my best friend, says he’s hooked up with Kelly. She’s in the year above me, and she’s the school slut. I can’t believe he’s broken up with me for her!!! What have I done wrong? I know he’s my soulmate. Mum says I’m too young to know real love, but this is REAL. My world has ended. Please help me get him back. Love, Suki x I’m writing up the notes from my morning clients when my phone rings. I’m tempted not to answer it, but Naomi’s a good friend who doesn’t normally call during the day. ‘Jane, sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you could do me a massive favour.’ Naomi speaks in a low but breathless voice. ‘I’m in a training session, one of those dreadful continual learning things that we all have to do, and it’s going on longer than I’d expected. They’ll fail me if I don’t stay to the end. Florrie’s got a dentist appointment at 2.45 pm, so I was going to collect her early from school. Is there any chance you could pick her up for me, and I’ll meet you at the dentist? It’s White Light Practice; that’s the one you go to, isn’t it? I’m sure you told me you were finishing at lunchtime today.’ I hesitate. Naomi’s right, I don’t have any clients this afternoon, but I still have hours’ worth of typing up notes, writing referral letters, responding to my agony aunt column, in addition to a mountain of household chores. She senses my hesitation. ‘Please, Jane. I’m really sorry to do this to you, but I’ve got no choice. I can’t leave now.’ ‘Of course I’ll collect her,’ I say, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. ‘Thank you so much. I’ve already rung the school secretary and told her you’ll be collecting Florrie, and I’ve had to send an email because you’re not on my approved list. I’ll meet you at the dentist. Thank you! Thank you!’ She hangs up on me. I groan. Naomi is a physiotherapist, and although she’s a few years younger than me, she’s become a close friend. I’m surprised that she’s been so presumptuous as to notify the school that I’m collecting her cute little four-year-old. What if I’d said no? I glance at my watch. I’ve got fifteen minutes, so I’d better get a move on. Florrie attends Bluebell Primary School at the far end of the village. My two were already in secondary school when we moved to Bluebell Heath, but most of the people we know moved to this area because of the primary school. It consistently scores outstanding in its Ofsted reports, and even people who can afford to send their children to the fancy private schools in the area have Bluebell Primary as their number one choice. Naomi brought out the champagne when Florrie was accepted into the school last year. I hope that little Florrie won’t mind leaving school with me. She knows me well enough and calls me Aunty, but I’ve never looked after her, and she hasn’t spent any time in our house. Mostly she’s tucked up in bed when us women go over to Naomi’s for a curry and wine. I shrug my coat on and grab my handbag, but just as I’m closing the lid on my laptop, my work phone rings. I listen to the message: ‘Hello, you’ve reached Jane Wildman, psychologist. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’ ‘Jane, it’s me. Lydia Spink.’ I can hear the trembling in her whisper-like voice, the hesitation. ‘Jane, I need to talk to you.’ I grab the phone. Normally I wouldn’t answer, but I’m seriously worried about Lydia’s mental health. I’ve referred her to see a psychiatrist as a matter of urgency, but I don’t think she’s had her first appointment yet. ‘Lydia, how are you?’ ‘Oh, I’m so glad I’ve caught you.’ We talk for ten minutes or so, just long enough for me to be confident that Lydia isn’t about to do anything stupid. I promise to slot her in for another session tomorrow, and she thanks me profusely. By the time I’ve added her to my online diary, given our black Labrador, Pumpkin, a bone and locked up the house, I know I’m going to be late. I race to my car, which is in our small driveway, and reverse out onto the road. Bluebell Heath is as idyllic