The Most Difficult Thing by Charlotte Philby


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The Most Difficult Thing

The Most Difficult Thing by Charlotte Philby
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 1.0 mb

The Most Difficult Thing : WHAT WOULD YOU SACRIFICE TO UNCOVER THE TRUTH? A Red magazine 2019 summer read ‘Chilling’ Erin Kelly ‘Enigmatic’ Louise Candlish ‘Compulsive read’ Harriet Tyce ‘Addictive’ Joanna Cannon ‘Brilliant’ Jon Snow, Channel 4 News On the surface, Anna Witherall personifies everything the aspirational magazine she works for represents. Married to her university boyfriend David, she has a beautiful home and gorgeous three-year-old twin daughters, Stella and Rose. But beneath the veneer of success and happiness, Anna is hiding a dark secret, one that threatens to unravel everything she has worked so hard to create. As Anna finds herself drawn into the dark and highly controlled world of secret intelligence, she is forced to question her family’s safety, and her own. Only one thing is certain: in order to protect her children, she must leave them, forever. And someone is watching. Someone she thought she could trust. Someone who is determined to make them all pay.

“My phone is plugged into the charger on the wall. Silently, I lift it, glancing at David’s sleeping body in the mirror – the soft line of which I could draw from memory – before tapping my password into a second phone, stashed in the pocket of my silk dressing gown. My fingers leave a streak of sweat across the screen. The phone is the same model, same sleek black cover as my other one. Same pin number – the date Harry and I first met. Fundamental differences you would have to peer inside to see.

Once again, I flick through a stream of messages from Harry, distracted for a moment by a chip in my blood-red nail polish. Hearing David stir in the bed, I expertly lock the phone while concentrating my face in the direction of the neat row of perfumes and creams in front of me, replacing it in the pocket of my gown as I stand.

‘What time is it?’

David’s voice drifts across the room, still thick with sleep.

‘Nearly six. My flight isn’t until twelve but I have work to catch up on; Milly’s off on maternity leave today.’

I picture my assistant, whose belly I have watched swell and groan under its own weight over the past months. I picture the young woman’s blotchy red cheeks, which she attempts, feebly, to mellow with slightly too-orange foundation; her increasingly uncomfortable gait.

Over the past weeks, I could almost feel her pelvic bones grating as she delivered proofs of the next issue of the magazine to my office.”

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