Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist. Sam Hepburn
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Название: Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist
Автор: Sam Hepburn
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Кулинария
isbn: 9780008209599
isbn:
Gracie steps away and wanders over to the kitchen where two women are leaning against the stained countertop sipping from chipped china mugs.
‘Hello.’
The women exchange glances and shuffle down the counter to let her get to the kettle. The thinner one gives her a nod. The plump one folds her fleshy arms and takes Gracie in, not unfriendly, just curious. ‘You’re slumming it, aren’t you?’
‘Dawn!’ Her friend looks apologetically at Gracie who is opening cupboard doors, looking for a mug.
‘This place is just like the dance school I went to as a kid, even the cupboards smell the same,’ Gracie says.
‘Your kid coming here’s been the talk of Dunsmore. Even the teachers have been going on about it.’ Dawn jerks her head at her friend and laughs. ‘I said to Leslie, I bet that’s Lynda spreading rumours to drum up business.’
‘I hope not. I asked her to keep it quiet,’ Gracie says.
Dawn’s chin lifts, a touch of aggression. ‘What school’s she go to then?’
‘St Mathilda’s.’
Dawn gives Leslie a knowing look. ‘There you go. This lot’s either at Dunsmore or The Falcon Academy.’
‘Blame my husband. I really liked the look of Dunsmore.’ Gracie passes its gates every day, even stops sometimes to watch the children in the playground forming and dissolving their little knots of allegiance, and still wonders if she should have fought harder to overcome Tom’s worries about security. She flips on the kettle and sniffs the open milk carton.
‘I wouldn’t risk it,’ Leslie says.
‘It’s all right,’ Dawn grins. ‘She’ll turn it into cream cheese.’
Gracie laughs. ‘I was thinking sour milk muffins.’
‘I did your garden pie the other night, used up all the crap at the bottom of the fridge. My kids actually asked for seconds.’
‘That’s why I do the leftovers slot. It really pisses me off how much food gets wasted. You look in the bins behind any supermarket and there’ll be enough food in there to feed an army.’
She’s cracked the ice, got them on side, sworn a little but not too much, gauged it right. Footsteps sound on the stairs and thud across the changing area. The door of the studio bangs open, lets out a blast of ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and swings shut behind a latecomer.
Juliet sees her through the half-open door. She pushes between the lines of coat pegs, taking in Gracie Dwyer’s shiny hair, the cared-for complexion, the casually expensive jeans, the manicured fingers cradled around the white china mug and those moonfaced women circling closer, like eels moving in on a juicy lump of meat.
Would Gracie turn? Would she look? Would she recognize her? Juliet backs away and slips downstairs. She leans against the window of the carpet shop sucking on a cigarette. She drops the half-smoked butt in a pool of melted ice cream, hears it fizzle and die and walks back up the stairs, breathing hard as she nears the kitchen. She pushes the door wider. How small Gracie is. Petite, the papers call her. Juliet edges forward, close enough to see the little mole, perfect as a dot of ink, just above her top lip. Close enough to breathe the smell of her, like rain on parched turf; tiny molecules of thrilling, addictive freshness kicking the air as she moves.
Gracie looks up. The flinch is almost imperceptible. Careful. Juliet pulls away, offering Gracie the chance to clap her hand to her chest and light up with recognition or at least to rumple that smooth brow and shake that shiny hair to show that somewhere inside her a memory has stirred.
‘Hi,’ Gracie says.
It’s the coy smile that seals it, the implication that of course Juliet knows who she is, whereas Juliet is just another nameless nobody eager to pep up her dreary day with a little of the Gracie Dwyer charm. Juliet smiles back, adding the expected widening of the eyes at finding a famous face in Lynda Burton’s shitty kitchen. ‘We don’t get many celebrities in here.’
Gracie ticks her head towards the music. ‘My daughter’s just started.’
Oh, yes. Let’s not forget Elsie. The perfect cherry on your perfect cake.
That lumpy cow Dawn is staring at her, all folded arms and sagging belly. ‘What are you doing back?’
Good to see you too. Juliet pushes past her to the kettle. ‘I couldn’t keep Freya away.’ She moves swiftly, reaching for a mug, blocking Dawn out, her eyes fixed on Gracie. ‘I didn’t know you lived round here.’ The lie comes easily.
‘Just moved in.’
‘Where were you before?’
‘Greenwich.’
In your house of glass with its alarms and cameras and big high walls.
‘Why the move?’
‘We wanted to be close to the new bakery.’
‘So whereabouts are you?’
Juliet sees the uneasiness, the pulling back. What’s the matter? Scared to tell a stranger where you live? I wouldn’t worry. Everybody knows you’ve moved to Falcon Square. Nice. If you can afford it. Juliet’s hand flies to the buzzing phone in her pocket. She glances at the screen. Damn! It’s work, or at least a chance of it.
‘Sorry. Got to take this.’ She hurries into the changing area, pressing the phone to her ear.
‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ Dawn mutters.
Gracie looks up from her mug. ‘Sorry?’
‘Miss High and Mighty. Never gives the rest of us the time of day.’
‘Oh.’ Gracie’s eyes stray to where Juliet is stabbing the air as she talks into her phone. There’s a weariness about her – her roots need retouching, the orange varnish on her toenails is chipped and her skin has the coarsened pallor of a heavy smoker, saved by the kind of tip-tilt nose, flat stomach, high rounded breasts and long skinny legs that Gracie has always envied. She turns back to Dawn. ‘So, what about this show? Will it be any good?’
‘Not if my two are in it.’
Gracie СКАЧАТЬ