THE BABY GROUP Caroline Corcoran Copyright Published by AVON A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020 Copyright © Caroline Corcoran 2020 Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020 Cover photograph © Peter Hatter/Trevillion Images Caroline Corcoran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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Source ISBN: 9780008335120 Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008335137 Version: 2020-07-25 Praise for Caroline Corcoran ‘A rival to Gone Girl for its addictive, twisted plot’ STYLIST ‘[A] successful foray into Girl on the Train territory, replete with jealousy, stalking, gaslighting and control-freakery’ THE GUARDIAN ‘A deliciously twisted thriller’ RED ‘This atmospheric read really ramps up the pace as it nears its chilling end’ GOOD HOUSEKEEPING ‘Corcoran maintains suspense throughout and is brave enough not to opt for a fairytale ending’ DAILY MAIL ‘A well-paced, insightful but ultimately twisted look at modern life’ SUN ‘The narrative flows effortlessly as the tension ramps up’ MY WEEKLY ‘I could not put it down … a fantastically written, deeply dark story that raises important issues’ THE COURIER ‘A claustrophobic, creepy and atmospheric read’ WRITING.IE ‘A terrific debut, which gripped me from the very first page’ CASS GREEN, bestselling author of In a Cottage In a Wood ‘The writing is so vivid it’s frightening … an astonishingly powerful exploration of how our own minds can be the darkest, scariest places of all’ DAISY BUCHANAN, award-winning journalist and author Dedication The Originals: Mum, Dad and Gem Epigraph ‘Let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.’ Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Praise for Caroline Corcoran Dedication Epigraph Prologue: Scarlett Chapter 1: Scarlett Chapter 2: Scarlett Chapter 3: Scarlett Anon Chapter 4: Scarlett Chapter 5: Scarlett Chapter 6: Scarlett Anon Chapter 7: Scarlett Anon Chapter 8: Scarlett Chapter 9: Scarlett Chapter 10: Scarlett Anon Chapter 11: Scarlett Anon Chapter 12: Scarlett Anon Chapter 13: Scarlett Chapter 14: Scarlett Chapter 15: Scarlett Anon Chapter 16: Scarlett Anon Chapter 17: Scarlett Anon Chapter 18: Scarlett Chapter 19: Scarlett Chapter 20: Scarlett Chapter 21: Scarlett Anon Chapter 22: Scarlett Anon Chapter 23: Scarlett Chapter 24: Scarlett Chapter 25: Scarlett Chapter 26: Scarlett Anon Chapter 27: Scarlett Anon Chapter 28: Scarlett Chapter 29: Scarlett Anon Chapter 30: Scarlett Chapter 31: Scarlett Chapter 32: Scarlett Chapter 33: Scarlett Anon Chapter 34: Scarlett Chapter 35: Scarlett Anon Chapter 36: Scarlett Chapter 37: Scarlett Chapter 38: Scarlett Chapter 39: Scarlett Chapter 40: Scarlett Chapter 41: Scarlett Emma, guest on a parenting podcast Chapter 42: Scarlett Chapter 43: Scarlett Chapter 44: Scarlett Chapter 45: Scarlett Epilogue: Cora Acknowledgements Keep Reading … About the Author By the Same Author About the Publisher Prologue Scarlett It’s a strange thing, thinking about who released the sex tape of you while you eat a blueberry muffin next to your baby. My mind ticks away, somewhere else entirely while Cora, Emma and Asha – the friends I made at NCT antenatal classes – rock their own babies to sleep, pick up slobbery teacake from the floor, grumble about daily grinds, everyday problems. Not like mine, I think. Not life-destroying. A shriek from Cora brings me back to the present with a jump because I am nervous at the moment, edgy. I look at my friend, and see her mouth full of large veneers, white as toothpaste. It’s surreal that I’m still functioning here, in normality. ‘I told you!’ Cora yells at Asha, loving being right. ‘Told you it was her.’ Asha is standing up, trying to rock her baby back to sleep but disturbing the smooth rhythm with shoulders shaking in amusement. Emma points to Asha’s mint tea. Raises her eyebrow at her in silent question. ‘Yes please,’ Asha says, through her laughter. Her own hands are too full of baby to hold a drink so she sips from the tea Emma holds out to her as though she’s an elderly relative in the care home: mouth a little dry, darling. My own hands – barring the muffin – are free, a rarity. My daughter Poppy is sleeping next to me in her pram under a bright green blanket gifted to me through my parenting blog, Cheshire Mama. Poppy snores lightly through Cora’s shrieking, the whirring of the coffee machine and a contentious elderly book club on the next table. Lucky girl. Her mother can’t nod off despite blackout blinds and severe sleep deprivation at the moment. I think of the sex tape again. Feel my stomach plunge. Then I’m back, Cora brandishing her phone in my face. ‘See!’ she yells, victorious. ‘We do get exciting things happen here. Sally from Home and Away’s best friend circa 1995, just over there burping her baby. Like we do! She’s not even rubbed in her dry shampoo so her roots look grey! And her, a celebrity.’ I raise my own eyebrow. ‘I’m not strictly sure we’d call her a celebrity …’ I say. Cora rolls her eyes. ‘Here we go,’ she says. ‘Cue name-drops from Scarlett’s glamorous former life in the fancy millennial office in Manchester.’ Former life. That bruises. ‘Says the WAG,’ I mutter. My regular mocking of Cora for her pre-marriage days dating a subs’ bench regular from one of the lower league Cheshire clubs washes over her like a spray tan. She waves a dismissive hand, nails concluding at violent points in bright red. Squeaks as she crosses her legs, one over the other, in leather leggings. Suddenly a baby – not mine – lands in my lap. ‘Need the loo and he’s just woken up,’ mutters Emma, tiny hint of a Welsh accent. ‘Thanks, babe.’ I sit Emma’s son Seth up on my lap. Push my turmeric latte further away across the table so he can’t reach the hot drink. Seth smiles
