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

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       12

      Juliet ignores the screeching horn of the van bearing down behind her, swerves back into the stream of traffic and completes a second circuit of the roundabout, transfixed by the words Gracie’s Kitchen Coming Soon printed in red across the white tarpaulin flapping from the roof of the old meeting house. Wincing at the shriek of her brake pads she pulls onto the forecourt, lights a cigarette and brings up the local business forum on her phone. There’s already a whole raft of comments. All positive. Of course they are. Who wouldn’t want a celebrity setting up shop in a rundown part of town? She closes her eyes, sick at the thought of Gracie Dwyer’s latest venture taking root and blossoming right under her nose. It takes a few minutes of slow breathing before she can bring herself to click the link to the piece in the local paper. There’s a photo of Gracie. She’s standing in front of the tall panelled doors, feet away from where Juliet is parked, one hand resting on the brass doorknob, her head turned towards the camera, her lips parted in that signature smile of entitlement. Juliet’s focus slides to the article, her thumbnail worrying the filter of her cigarette as she reads the pull-together of predictable quotes lifted from a press release. It’s only as her gaze returns to Gracie’s serenely confident face that her thumb grows still and a quiver of possibility passes through her body, filling a place inside her that has been empty for a long, long time.

      She steps out of the car and walks around the building, kicking aside the broken bottles and standing on tiptoe to squint through a crack in the shuttered windows. It’s a mess inside, but the Quakers or Shakers or whoever it was built this place had certainly known what they were doing. She’s grinding the butt of her cigarette into the blistered tarmac when her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Ian. Again. She presses cancel and leans back against the wall, letting the chill creep through her flimsy jacket into her skin.

      The phone vibrates again. It’s been bliss while he’s been in Australia but she can’t stall him any longer. She lights another cigarette and lifts the handset to her ear. Silence, then that slow intake of breath before he speaks. ‘You’ve been ignoring my calls.’

      She bites her lip, annoyed at the effect his voice still has on her.

      ‘I’ve been busy.’

      ‘I want to see Freya.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘Sunday. I’ll come over and pick her up. It’ll give you and me a chance to talk.’

      ‘No!’ She steadies her voice. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll bring her to you. Pick a time and a place.’

      ‘Two o’clock. My flat.’

      ‘Somewhere public.’

      ‘For Christ’s sake.’

      ‘I mean it, Ian.’

      ‘Clissold Park then. By the café. I’ve got rights, Juliet.’

      ‘I’ve never stopped you seeing her.’

      ‘No.’ She can hear the smile. ‘But you’d like to.’

      ‘Let’s not do this.’ She’s getting back in her car, drawing on the cigarette, raw and on edge.

      ‘There’s something you need to know.’ He pauses, the way he always does before he jabs a knife between her ribs. ‘Merion’s pregnant. An accident but we’re thrilled.’

      Seven words, seven stabs in the heart that leave her bleeding out the agony of three rounds of IVF and four years of wanting, waiting, hoping, praying before she finally got to hold Freya in her arms. She’s conscious of the burn as her lungs take in the smoke and the breathy tremor in her voice. ‘What do you want? Congratulations?’

      ‘We thought you should tell Freya. It’ll make it easier for her.’

      We? That doormat Merion with her lispy voice and floppy fringe hasn’t had any say in this. It’s Ian, out to inflict maximum pain. Enjoying it too. She wants to refuse, but at least if she’s the one who tells Freya, she can do it gently, soften the blow.

      ‘After the baby’s born I’ll take Freya out to Sydney so she can get to know her new family.’

      Juliet doesn’t reply, won’t give him the satisfaction.

      ‘Are you managing all right?’

      ‘Don’t patronise me.’

      ‘I’m not. The bank’s been having computer problems. I wanted to check you’d had your money this month.’

      Like hell. She’s sure it’s him who’s held back the payment. Like he does every now and then just to remind her that he can.

      ‘Not yet.’ She’s pleased with the way that came out. Off hand. As if his stingy maintenance is neither here nor there.

      ‘You should have called me.’

      ‘I’m managing.’

      He laughs. The bastard actually laughs. ‘What are you doing? Rationing the wine and fags?’

       Fuck you.

      She cuts the call. If her life were a movie her best friend would have had doubts about Ian from the start. But she’d never had a best friend. There’d been a couple of girls at school, the kind who were all over you one minute and turned on you the next, tittering behind their hands like you were some kind of freak, and the last flat share, the one with Sandra, had been OK until Sandra started seeing that creep Alex. What was Juliet supposed to do? Keep quiet about him turning up in her room, all morning breath and sweat as soon as Sandra left for work? And what kind of idiot was Sandra to believe his crap about Juliet coming on to him? Christ, the thought of his pale spotty face and sticky hands made her feel sick. She checks Sandra and Alex out sometimes – two kids, a semi and camping trips to Cornwall. Juliet never wanted any of that. She’d wanted Ian, with his extravagant lifestyle and his hunger to get rich, even though there were times when the sex tipped from passion into pain, days when his moods darkened the flat like squid ink and nights when she’d yearned to go out, get pissed and wake up with someone she’d never see again. She should have bailed out as soon as she caught him reading her emails, but she’d been checking his for a while and there’d been a time when their mutual jealousy had excited her, when she’d enjoyed the envy of the other women when he turned up half way through her hair appointments and waited in the salon, relaxed and smiling until she was done.

      She’s late now. She’s always late and Freya, bless her, never complains. She’s such a sweet-natured little thing, happy in her own world. God knows where she gets it from. Not from her father, that’s for sure.

      That girlfriend of his, Merion, she can’t be more than twenty-five. Who’d want a baby at that age? It’s Ian. Another bid for a boy. This time with someone he can control. She slams her foot on the accelerator and shoots out into the traffic, telling herself it’ll be all right, that no exhausted young mother wants to be lumbered with a step-kid. The thought calms her, though she isn’t looking forward to telling Freya that her darling СКАЧАТЬ