Marshmallows for Breakfast

INTERNATIONAL PRAISE FOR
MARSHMALLOWS FOR BREAKFAST

“So darn good that we had to read it all in one evening…
Marshmallows for Breakfast
will make tears run down your face, but leave you feeling that whatever happens, there's always hope. Five stars.”

—
Heat
(UK)

“A dramatic, heart-tugging tale of love, pain, and survival.”

—
Daily Record
(UK)

“A poignant page-turner. Four stars.”

—
Closer
(UK)

“Great stuff.”

—
OK!
(UK) “Hot Stars”

“Another hit… moving, and at times harrowing.”

—
Daily Express
(UK)

“Searingly painful but ultimately hopeful… Enjoy being moved by this story and give in to its irresistible charm and wit.”

—
Woman
(UK) “Book of the Week”

“If you like tears interspersed with laughter, then this roller coaster of a book is for you…. Dealing with issues like death, betrayal, and forgiveness,
Marshmallows for Breakfast
is much more touching than your average chick lit. Expect to cry from start to finish but it's worth the tears.”

—getlippy.com

“From beginning to end, this emotional roller coaster of a book confounds expectations and bombards the reader from all sides. … Koomson writes like a kitten with a ball of wool, playing skillfully with traumatic events, dark secrets, potential love affairs, and the heartrending innocence of childhood. Each character is a masterful reflection of reality: the twins behave like regular kids and the grown-ups are beautifully flawed and awkward.”

—
Good Reading
(Australia)

Also by Dorothy Koomson

My Best Friend's Girl

For Tess,
who inspired this story

ERM, EXCUSE ME …

Publicly expressing gratitude is one of the best things about being a writer. Please indulge me, I love doing this, so here goes…

My fantastically fabulous family:
Samuel, Agnes, Sameer, Kathy, David, Maryam, Dawood, Maraam, Muneerah, Yusuf, Ahmad, Muhammad, Ameerah, Liah, Skye, Aysah, Habiba, David, Jade. All of you are so special to me, not least of all for your support.

My astounding agents:
Antony Harwood (aka GAM), “above and beyond the call of duty” should be your middle name— thank you for
everything.
James Macdonald Lockhart, you're, like, the calmest man alive and I adore you for it.

My perfect publisher peeps:
Jo Dickinson (aka MGE), every writer should be as lucky to have you as their editor— thank you, especially for staying in touch during your maternity leave. Louise Davies, bless you for being so patient and understanding. Jennifer Richards—really do love ya work. Kirsteen Astor—love ya work, too. Plus Kerry Chapple and Emma Stonex—thanks for keeping me in gossip and books.

My brilliant British-side buddies:
Richard Atkinson (thanks for being the first to read the “new Dorothy Koomson”); Emiliy Partridge; Andy Baker (thanks for being the only one to visit me in Oz); Rhian Clugston; Sharon Wright and David Jacobson and Luc; Marian, Gordon, Jonathan and Rachel Ndumbe; Stella Eleftheriades; Jean Jollands; Emma Hibbs; Bibi Lynch; Adam Gold; Rob Haynes; Janet Cost-Chretien; Tasha Harrison; Denise Ryan; Sarah Ball; Martin, Sachiko and Connor O'Neill; Tanya Smale (thanks for being my Kamryn); Colette Harris; Nuala Farrell; Maria Owen; Sharon Percival.

My amazing Aussie-side amigos:
Lucy and Olivia Tumanow-West; Lindsay Curtis; Rebecca Buttrose; Rebecca Carman; Jen, Danny, Dylan, Isabella, Sunny, Jolie, Gemma and Violet (aka the Adcocks); Erin Kisby

And, to all the people who were so gracious in telling me their stories that went into this book, a deep, heartfelt thank-you for your honesty and bravery.

PROLOGUE

This is like the moment between heartbeats. The space where nothing happens. Where the blood slows in your veins, your breath catches and your mind spins out into that huge blank space of unreality.

I'm talking to him on the phone.

It's him. It's really him.

“We need to talk about our baby,” he says.

I would throw down the phone if I could move. If his voice hadn't snaked its way through my body and caused all my muscles to petrify.

“Kendra?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”

The line crackles slightly because calling from a mobile, a phone is ringing somewhere across my otherwise empty office but I can hear him. Of course I can hear him. Every word is clear and precise, his low voice as deep and smooth as a vat of warm syrup. I can hear him and the memory of him flashes through my mind.

His large, muscular hand reaches out to stop me from stumbling; his steel-like grip encases my throat. His mouth smiles as he says he'll do anything for me; his breath is against my ear as he promises to kill me.

“Kendra, can you hear me?” he repeats to my silence.

“Yes.” I push out the words. “Yes, I can hear you.”

“We need to talk about our child … You need to tell me about him or her.” He pauses, sucks in a breath. “I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl. That's not fair. I have a right to know. I have a right… Kendra, you have to talk to me. You owe me that much at least.”

I say nothing.

“I'll meet you,” he says. “After you've finished work. I'm outside your building now but I'll wait. What time do you finish?”

Like a nest of disturbed bats, panic rises up inside and becomes a blanket of thick, black leathery wings, dampening all other sensations. He's outside? He's outside—now?

“I'm busy tonight,” I reply, trying to sound normal. Trying not to let my voice expose my fear.

“I don't care if you're busy,” he hisses. “Nothing is more important than this. We have to talk.”

“I, um, I, erm …” I falter. I have to take back control of this situation. He can't do this to me.

“I know where you work, how long do you think it'll be before I find out where you live? I'll show up at your house. I'll come to your work every day and then go to your home. I won't leave you alone until you talk to me. You can avoid all that if you meet me now.”

He means it. I know he means it. I know what he does when he doesn't get what he wants.

“I'll meet you outside at quarter to five,” I say. “I can give you half an hour.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, his tone soft, reasonable and calm. “I knew you'd do the right thing. I can't wait—”

“Bye,” I blurt out and cut the line, almost throwing the white handset back into its cradle.

Five minutes ago I never thought he'd find me. Five minutes
ago it never occurred to me he was looking for me. Five minutes ago the most pressing thing on my mind was about which supermarket to visit for the shopping.

And now this.

His hand crushes my throat; his honey voice crawls in my ear.

He's really going to kill me this time, isn't he?

CORNFLAKES, ONE TEASPOON SUGAR & ICE-COLD MILK

CHAPTER 1

Y
ou're black.”

Surprisingly, I didn't scream, yelp or collapse into a quivering heap when I was confronted by an intruder in my home. I reeled back as my heart lurched to a stop; I stared at her with wide, shocked eyes, but I didn't scream.

It was early on a Saturday morning. I'd just stepped out of the shower and had been about to dash across my flat to the bedroom to get dressed when I'd found the intruder— intruders, actually—standing in the area outside the bathroom, staring at me. The intruder who spoke to me was about three feet tall, six years old with green eyes that were as dark and glossy as eucalyptus leaves, and shoulder-length black hair—one side bunched with a red elastic band, the other falling in waves to her shoulder. Beside her stood her male mirror image—he had shorter dark hair but was the same height, the same age and had the same green eyes.