Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist. Sam Hepburn

Чтение книги онлайн.

       9

      Gracie pushes open the door of the steamy little trattoria in Meard Street and feels a choke of relief as she sees Daphne Dawes, lifestyle journalist, regular pundit on the daytime TV circuit and Elsie’s sporadically enthusiastic godmother, sitting in a dimly lit booth at the back, her face partially hidden by a fall of dyed red hair. Wine glass in one hand, phone in the other, she taps the toe of a shiny ankle boot against the table leg; an exotic oddity in this world of vinyl-covered banquettes, oversized pepper mills and autographed portraits fading in their frames. But Stefano’s is where she and Gracie come to thrash out their problems, attracted by the comforts of the unreconstructed menu and the certainty that they will never bump into anyone they know.

      Gracie feels steadier as she squeezes towards her through the closely packed tables. Oddly, Daphne has had this effect on her since the day she teetered past Gracie’s cake stall in Broadway market, caught a kitten heel in a rise in the road and fell over. Despite her smudged makeup and mussy beehive there was a wobbly dignity about the way she ignored her bloodied knee, pulled herself into Gracie’s chair and lit a cigarette; and something brave and heartening about her snappy response when Gracie asked her if she was OK. ‘No. I’m bloody not. I’m hungover, I’ve just been dumped and my editor wants eight hundred words on the latest leisure trend by tomorrow. Oh yes, and it’s got to be sharp and funny.’

      They agree that it was one of those moments when fate snaps her fingers and everything changes, though ten years on they still argue about whose idea it was for Daphne to devote her column to the joys of baking. Either way, Gracie couldn’t believe it when Daphne rang the next day to set up a photo shoot and asked for the address of her website. Still in her pyjamas, she managed to race to her laptop and pull the name Gracie’s Kitchen.com off the top of her head, twenty seconds before she clicked ‘confirm’ to buy the domain name. She’s still got that article, along with the letter it prompted, asking her to audition for an occasional baking slot on a daytime TV chat show.

      ‘Sorry I missed the launch,’ Daphne says, eyes still on her phone. ‘How’d it go?’

      Gracie slides into the seat opposite. ‘All right.’

      ‘We’re running the first extract on Sunday. They’ve agreed to a sidebar plugging the series.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘You could sound a bit more enthusiastic.’

      ‘It’s started again,’ Gracie says shakily. ‘One of my coral earrings and a note saying, “Hello Gracie.”’ Daphne’s thumb pauses. ‘Only this time the packaging was different, so I didn’t realise what it was till I’d opened it.’

      ‘Have you told Reeves?’

      ‘He’s gone off on secondment. They sent this other guy, Jamieson.’

      ‘Cute?’

      ‘Kind of creepy.’ Gracie picks up the menu, the red plastic cover slightly sticky beneath her fingers. ‘Tom thinks it’s a copycat. Jamieson thinks it’s the old stalker back to his,’ she takes a breath, ‘or her, old tricks.’

      ‘What do you think?’

      Gracie keeps her gaze on the blurring selection of pizzas. ‘I think it might be a new her,’ she says. ‘And new tricks.’

      ‘Really?’ Daphne presses send. ‘Why?’

      ‘Tom slept with one of the interns in his office.’ Saying the words out loud is like kicking off a crippling pair of shoes and pressing her aching feet against a slab of marble. She looks up slowly, a pained expression on her face. Daphne is Tom’s friend too, her rackety affairs and caustic observations part of the fabric of their lives.

      ‘You’re kidding.’ Daphne drags her eyes from her phone. ‘When?’

      ‘While I was in New York.’

      ‘Christ! What a shit.’ Daphne fills Gracie’s wine glass and lowers her voice. ‘You think it’s her who sent the earring?’

      Gracie nods. ‘Tom told her it was a mistake and she went off on a crazed power trip, threatening to tell me and the board if he didn’t let her work on one of his projects.’

      ‘Good for her.’

      ‘Daph!’

      ‘Well honestly, it serves him bloody well right. It’s not 1972.’

      ‘And she’s not some poor little innocent. She practically jumped him when he was drunk.’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake. No one forced him to screw her.’

      Gracie grows still. Imagining Alicia. Imagining Tom.

      ‘How did she get hold of your earring?’ Daphne’s voice is sharp, wrenching Gracie back from the vision of her husband and his lover.

      ‘He … he slept with her in our house.’ Gracie drops her head as if she is the one who should feel ashamed. ‘In our bed.’

      Daphne sucks her breath. An elderly red-faced waiter arrives. Daphne orders two plates of rigatoni with ragu and pushes him away with the menu. ‘Do you really think it was her?’ she says when he’s gone.

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. Tom says it’s not her style. We’re not telling the police why she was in the house but she’s on the list of “visitors” they’re going to interview.’ She lifts her fork and stares bleakly at the prongs. ‘If I’m honest, I think I’d rather it was her than the faceless weirdo.’

      ‘Sure. And why would he stop for months on end then suddenly start up again?’

      ‘Jamieson thinks it’s to keep me on edge.’

      ‘Bollocks.’ Daphne dips a breadstick into her wine. ‘It’s obviously this intern trying to get back at Tom. How did you find out about her?’

      ‘He confessed. The night I got back.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘How about because he loves me and he can’t bear keeping secrets from me?’

      Daphne СКАЧАТЬ