The secrets she keeps A novel

Review by New York Times Review

ANGELIC LITTLE BABIES make idiots of us all. A pregnant, unmarried grocery store clerk named Agatha dotes on her unborn child in THE SECRETS SHE KEEPS (Scribner, $26), Michael Robotham's insightful psychological thriller about the joys and fears of impending motherhood. Agatha is consumed by all things prenatal, and especially the pregnancy of Meghan, a well-offand beautifully turned-out married customer, also in her third trimester, who represents perfection to a woman whose absent boyfriend wants no part of fatherhood. Dreaming of a future life when she and Meghan have become friends, Agatha makes plans: "We'll do yoga classes and swap recipes and meet for coffee every Friday morning with our mothers' group." When Agatha and Meghan, who alternate as narrators, realize that their due dates both fall in December, a bond is forged. Meghan welcomes Agatha into her home and invites the kind of intimate exchanges she'll come to regret when her new acquaintance turns out to be a stalker. "I know her timetable, her friends, her habits and the rhythm of her life," Agatha says proudly. But if Agatha isn't as innocent as Meghan thinks, Meghan isn't as wonderful as Agatha fantasizes. Both women, in fact, are clutching secrets that can ruin friendships, destroy marriages and shatter lives. Agatha is the more interesting character, with her harrowing history and desperate yearning for a child to heal the wounds of past traumas. Her neediness may be fanatical and her assumptions psychotic, but her suffering is real. And she's still bitter about mothers who thoughtlessly assume that some women are simply "too selfish or too choosy" to have children. But beneath the chattiness of her parenting blog, "Mucky Kids," Meghan's uneasy narrative voice registers her fears for her newborn son and her own private qualms. "I am a cliché," she admits. "My blog sums up my existence - safe, uncontentious, and shallow." Both women are extremely articulate, but when the plot takes an unspeakable turn, they're no longer able to hide behind words. OF ALL THE places where you really do not want to come across a couple of nut cases with guns, a zoo full of wild animals would be high on the list. Gin Phillips taps into that primal fear with FIERCE KINGDOM (Viking, $25), a heartthumping thriller about a mother who finds herself and her 4-yearold son trapped when two marksmen start hunting down visitors. Joan is about to leave the park with Lincoln, a dear child who entertains himself by reciting college football chants, when the sound of shots sends her backtracking into the deeper parts of the zoo. Phillips dutifully sketches out a back story for the gunmen, but once Joan's maternal instincts kick in, she summons her survival skills, and the thrust of the narrative turns to her nerve-plucking race for safety, past "wild things in boxes." Packing 40 pounds of human cub on her hip, she sprints from one habitat to the next and in the face of unexpected danger gives new meaning to the term "tiger mom." Compressed into a little over three hours, the story flies by like a gazelle being chased by a lion and is easily consumed in a single sitting. VICTORIAN LADIES IN distress always consult Sherlock Holmes. Their plebeian sisters must settle for the seedy sleuth in Mick Finlay's first mystery, ARROWOOD (Mira, paperback, $15.99), who lives in a squalid district of South London and caters to clients like Miss Caroline Cousture, whose brother has disappeared from his kitchen job at the Barrel of Beef chophouse. William Arrowood is a Falstaffian fellow who lives behind a pudding shop and prides himself on being "an emotional agent, not a deductive agent," like his famous nemesis. "I see people," he boasts. "I see into their souls." His assistant, Norman Barnett, is content to study the filthy streets teeming with "nighttime people" who "stagger and shriek," blind with drink and despair. Gin is both medicine and religion for many of these slum dwellers, who privately believe that Jack the Ripper is "God's punishment for the drink." WOULDN'T A HAIRDRESSER know not to take a hair dryer into the bathtub? That's not the only thing fishy about the death of Lorna Belling, whose husband and lover are equally horrid in NEED YOU DEAD (Macmillan, $27.95), the latest mystery in a scrupulously maintained procedural series by Peter James. And of course, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, a decent and damned attractive senior officer with the Sussex Police, is too shrewd to write offLorna's death as a classic domestic abuse case. Despite the glaringly obvious clues pointing to her jealous husband, no Roy Grace mystery can be resolved without one of the detective's intense interviews, which he compares to "games of poker," having perfected the fine art of bluffing, along with the unnerving skill of reading a subject's body language. But he may have met his match in 10-year-old Bruno, the son he never knew he had until his first wife broke the news posthumously in a suicide note. Grace is a detective known for his human touch, but a moody little boy may prove to be his toughest challenge. MARILYN STASIO has covered crime fiction for the Book Review since 1988. Her column appears twice a month.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 27, 2017]

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Set in London, this emotionally charged domestic thriller from Edgar-finalist Robotham (Life or Death) sets up dueling narratives between part-time supermarket shelf stocker Agatha and her frequent customer, Meg. Both women are in their third trimester of pregnancy-but that's where the similarities end. Beautiful, elegant Meg has two perfect children and a handsome and successful husband. Agatha's life has been filled with horror and heartbreak: she's been raped, been forced to give a child up for adoption, suffered a miscarriage, divorced, and watched her young half-brother die after being hit by a car. Both mothers-to-be are hiding dark secrets, and when Meg's baby is stolen just hours after being born, the media frenzy that ensues threatens to expose Agatha and Meg's respective transgressions and destroy their lives. Despite the disturbing subject matter, Robotham's narrative is intimate and insightful. Brilliantly rendered characters, relentless tension, and numerous plot twists make this a winner. Agent: Richard Pine, Inkwell Management. (July) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Robotham, best known for his gritty Joe O'Loughlin crime thrillers (Close Your Eyes, 2016, etc.), makes a successful literary departure in this engrossing psychological thriller focusing on two women and the dark places their relationship leads.Every day, Agatha watches Meg from the window of the London grocery store where she works. Meg is pregnant, beautiful, and privileged, with a handsome husband, two lively children, and a perfect homeand a popular blog where she memorializes it all. For Agatha, who wants a life like Meg's and instead comes home to an empty and shabby apartment, life would be infinitely better if she could lure Hayden back. A communications technician in the Royal Navy, Hayden dumped her when he deployed and now wants nothing to do with her, but Agatha has yet to tell him that she's pregnant, due in early December, as is Meg. Meanwhile, Meg's husband, Jack, a TV sports journalist, has been less than enthusiastic about Meg's current pregnancy, and their marriagedespite what Agatha thinksis far from perfect. Meg is also hiding a secret: she slept with a family friend and former lover, Simon, following a big fight with Jack. Agatha takes the opportunity of their joint pregnancies to talk to Meg one day, and they soon grow better acquainted, but Agatha keeps Meg in the dark when it comes to her own troubled past as well as the real reason she and Hayden aren't together and why having a baby is so important to her. Told in Agatha's and Meg's alternating, distinct first-person voices, the story of how the women's lives overlap as Meg's marriage and Agatha's life both unravel starts with a gradual glimpse into the two women's worlds, then escalates into something much more sinister. Robotham captures the physical misery that often characterizes late-term pregnancies and writes convincingly in a female voice, but where this book excels is in the increasing sense of threat he crafts so well. With its interestingly imperfect characters and escalating sense of urgency, this novel will keep you reading as fast as you can. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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The Secrets She Keeps AGATHA I am not the most important person in this story. That honor belongs to Meg, who is married to Jack, and they are the perfect parents of two perfect children, a boy and a girl, blond and blue-eyed and sweeter than honey cakes. Meg is pregnant again and I couldn't be more excited because I'm having a baby too. Leaning my forehead against the glass, I look in both directions along the pavement, past the greengrocer and hairdressing salon and fashion boutique. Meg is running late. Normally she has dropped Lucy at primary school and Lachlan at his preschool by now and has joined her friends at the café on the corner. Her mothers' group meets every Friday morning, sitting at an outdoor table, jostling prams into place like eighteen-wheelers on the vehicle deck of a ferry. One skinny cappuccino, one chai latte, and a pot of herbal tea . . . A red bus goes past and blocks my view of Barnes Green, which is opposite. When it pulls away again I see Meg on the far side of the road. She's dressed in her stretch jeans and a baggy sweater, and carrying a colorful three-wheeled scooter. Lachlan must have insisted on riding to his preschool, which would have slowed her down. He will also have stopped to look at the ducks and at the exercise class and at the old people doing tai chi who move so slowly they could almost be stop-motion puppets. Meg doesn't appear pregnant from this angle. It's only when she turns side-on that the bump becomes a basketball, neat and round, getting lower by the day. I heard her complaining last week about swollen ankles and a sore back. I know how she feels. My extra pounds have turned climbing stairs into a workout and my bladder is the size of a walnut. Glancing both ways, she crosses Church Road and mouths the word "sorry" to her friends, double-kissing their cheeks and cooing at their babies. All babies are cute, people say, and I guess that's true. I have peered into prams at Gollum-like creatures with sticky-out eyes and two strands of hair, yet always found something to love because they're so newly minted and innocent. I'm supposed to be stocking the shelves in aisle three. This part of the supermarket is usually a safe place to slack off, because the manager, Mr. Patel, has a problem with feminine hygiene products. He won't use words like "tampons" or "sanitary pads"--calling them "ladies' things" or simply pointing to the boxes that he wants unpacked. I work four days a week, early morning to three, unless one of the other part-timers calls in sick. Mostly I stock shelves and sticker prices. Mr. Patel won't let me work the cash register because he says I break things. That happened one time and it wasn't my fault. With a name like Mr. Patel, I thought he'd be Pakistani or Indian, but he turned out to be Welsher than a daffodil, with a shock of red hair and a truncated mustache that makes him look like Adolf Hitler's ginger love child. Mr. Patel doesn't like me very much and he's been itching to get rid of me ever since I told him I was pregnant. "Don't expect any maternity leave--you're not full-time." "I don't expect any." "And doctor's appointments are on your own time." "Sure." "And if you can't lift boxes you'll have to stop working." "I can lift boxes." Mr. Patel has a wife and four kids at home, but it hasn't made him any more sympathetic to my pregnancy. I don't think he likes women very much. I don't mean he's gay. When I first started working at the supermarket he was all over me like a rash--finding any excuse to brush up against me in the storeroom or when I was mopping the floor. "Oops!" he'd say, pressing his hard-on against my buttocks. "Just parking my bike." Pervert! I go back to my stock cart and pick up the price gun, careful to check the settings. Last week I put the wrong price on the canned peaches and Mr. Patel docked me eight quid. "What are you doing?" barks a voice. Mr. Patel has crept up behind me. "Restocking the tampons," I stutter. "You were staring out the window. Your forehead made that greasy mark on the glass." "No, Mr. Patel." "Do I pay you to daydream?" "No, sir." I point to the shelf. "We're out of the Tampax Super Plus--the one with the applicator." Mr. Patel looks queasy. "Well, look in the storeroom." He's backing away. "There's a spill in aisle two. Mop it up." "Yes, Mr. Patel." "Then you can go home." "But I'm working until three." "Devyani will cover for you. She can climb the stepladder." What he means is that she's not pregnant or afraid of heights, and that she'll let him "park his bike" without going all feminist on his arse. I should sue him for sexual harassment, but I like this job. It gives me an excuse to be in Barnes and nearer to Meg. In the rear storeroom I fill a bucket with hot soapy water and choose a sponge mop that hasn't worn away to the metal frame. Aisle two is closer to the registers. I get a good view of the café and the outside tables. I take my time cleaning the floor, staying clear of Mr. Patel. Meg and her friends are finishing up. Cheeks are kissed. Phones are checked. Babies are strapped into prams and pushchairs. Meg makes some final remark and laughs, tossing her fair hair. Almost unconsciously, I toss mine. It doesn't work. That's the problem with curls--they don't toss, they bounce. Meg's hairdresser, Jonathan, warned me that I couldn't get away with the same cut that she has, but I wouldn't listen to him. Meg is standing outside the café, texting someone on her phone. It's probably Jack. They'll be discussing what to have for dinner, or making plans for the weekend. I like her maternity jeans. I need a pair like that--something with an elasticized waist. I wonder where she bought them. Although I see Meg most days, I've only ever spoken to her once. She asked if we had any more bran flakes, but we had sold out. I wish I could have said yes. I wish I could have gone back through the swinging plastic doors and returned with a box of bran flakes just for her. That was in early May. I suspected she was pregnant even then. A fortnight later she picked up a pregnancy test from the pharmacy aisle and my suspicions were confirmed. Now we're both in our third trimester with only six weeks to go and Meg has become my role model because she makes marriage and motherhood look so easy. For starters, she's drop-dead gorgeous. I bet she could easily have been a model--not the bulimic catwalk kind, or the Page Three stunner kind, but a wholesome and sexy girl-next-door type; the ones who advertise laundry detergent or home insurance and are always running across flowery meadows or along a beach with a Labrador. I'm none of the above. I'm not particularly pretty, nor am I plain. "Unthreatening" is probably the right word. I'm the less attractive friend that all pretty girls need because I won't steal their limelight and will happily take their leftovers (food and boyfriends). One of the sad truths of retailing is that people don't notice shelf-stockers. I'm like a vagrant sleeping in a doorway or a beggar holding up a cardboard sign--invisible. Occasionally someone will ask me a question, but they never look at my face when I'm answering. If there was a bomb scare at the supermarket and everyone was evacuated except me, the police would ask, "Did you see anyone else in the shop?" "No," they'd say. "What about the shelf-stocker?" "Who?" "The person stocking the shelves." "I didn't take much notice of him." "It was a woman." "Really?" That's me--unseen, inappreciable, a shelf-stocker. I glance outside. Meg is walking towards the supermarket. The automatic doors open. She picks up a plastic shopping basket and wanders along aisle one--fruit and veg. When she gets to the end she'll turn and head this way. I follow her progress and catch a glimpse of her when she passes the pasta and canned tomatoes. She turns into my aisle. I push the bucket to one side and step back, wondering if I should nonchalantly lean on my mop or shoulder it like a wooden rifle. "Careful, the floor is wet," I say, sounding like I'm talking to a two-year-old. My voice surprises her. She mumbles thank you and slides by, her belly almost touching mine. "When are you due?" I ask. Meg stops and turns. "Early December." She notices that I'm pregnant. "How about you?" "The same." "What day?" she asks. "December fifth, but it could be sooner." "A boy or a girl?" "I don't know. How about you?" "A boy." She's carrying Lachlan's scooter. "You already have one," I say. "Two," she replies. "Wow!" I'm staring at her. I tell myself to look away. I glance at my feet, then the bucket, the condensed milk, the custard powder. I should say something else. I can't think. Meg's basket is heavy. "Well, good luck." "You too," I say. She's gone, heading towards the checkout. Suddenly, I think of all the things I could have said. I could have asked where she was having the baby. What sort of birth? I could have commented on her stretch jeans. Asked her where she bought them. Meg has joined the queue at the register, flicking through the gossip magazines as she waits her turn. The new Vogue isn't out, but she settles for Tatler and a copy of Private Eye. Mr. Patel begins scanning her items: eggs, milk, potatoes, mayonnaise, arugula, and Parmesan. You can tell a lot about a person from the contents of a shopping cart; the vegetarians, vegans, alcoholics, chocaholics, weight watchers, cat lovers, dog owners, dope smokers, celiacs, the lactose intolerant and those with dandruff, diabetes, vitamin deficiencies, constipation, or ingrown toenails. That's how I know so much about Meg. I know she's a lapsed vegetarian who started eating red meat again when she fell pregnant, most likely because of the iron. She likes tomato-based sauces, fresh pasta, cottage cheese, dark chocolate, and those shortbread biscuits that come in tins. I've spoken to her properly now. We've made a connection. We're going to be friends, Meg and I, and I'll be just like her. I'll make a lovely home and keep my man happy. We'll do yoga classes and swap recipes and meet for coffee every Friday morning with our mothers' group. Excerpted from The Secrets She Keeps by Michael Robotham All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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