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

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СКАЧАТЬ another smile Gracie breaks away and hurries through ‘Nothing to Declare’.

      The glass doors slide back. Her eyes flit across the waiting faces. A swell of joy as she spots them behind the barrier, jammed between a collection of bored drivers bearing name cards; Tom’s dark head, bent to check something on his phone, and Elsie, her gorgeous girl, reaching out shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy!’

      Gracie runs faster, letting her trolley roll away as she scoops Elsie into her arms and presses her nose into her hair. She lifts her face to Tom’s, eager for the greedy pressure of his lips. He’s bending down, snatching Brown Bear from the floor, returning him to Elsie’s outstretched hand and his kiss, when it comes, is almost lost in their exchange of eye-rolling relief at disaster averted.

      Tom picks up her bags. She follows him to the car park, hand in hand with Elsie who jumps and skips, bursting with stories about school and sleepovers and other people’s dogs. When the fuss with luggage and seat belts is over Tom sits and holds the wheel for a moment before he turns the ignition. She sees a tiny patch of stubble he’s missed with the razor, six or seven coarse dark hairs standing upright and defiant on the curve of his jaw.

      ‘You OK?’ she murmurs.

      ‘Yeah, fine.’

      ‘You seem … tired.’

      ‘Oh, you know.’ He tilts the mirror and backs out of the space. ‘So, how did it go?’

      ‘The execs seemed happy enough. But in the end it’s all down to the focus groups.’

      ‘When will you hear?’

      ‘Could be weeks, could be months. But if they do go for it why don’t you bring Elsie over for the last week of the shoot? We could stay on for a few days, have a holiday.’

      ‘Depends what I’ve got on.’ He shoves the ticket into the machine. ‘Things at work are a bit … up in the air.’

      The car gives a little jerk as he accelerates up the ramp and out into the grey Heathrow dusk, blustery gusts of rain buffeting the car. She lays her hand on his shoulder. ‘Pain about Bristow’s.’

      He rams the gearstick and pulls out into the traffic. ‘If they want crap they’ve gone to the right place to get it.’

      She twists round to catch Elsie’s sleepy story about the real witch’s cat she saw when she went trick or treating. ‘He had a little pointy hat and everything.’ Gracie looks back, seeking Tom’s smile. The wet road holds all his attention. The raindrops on the windows glitter blue and green and red, brightening the darkness as he pulls off the M40 onto the rain-slicked streets of Hammersmith. The wipers thump and swipe across the windscreen. She murmurs softly, ‘Was there anything … in the post?’

      He shakes his head without looking at her. ‘God, no.’

      Gracie waits for him to acknowledge her relief, slide his hand through her hair and tell her how glad he is to have her home. But he’s flicking on the news – Syria, Iraq, the economy. She tries not to mind. Losing the Bristow’s tender will have hit him hard. All that work. All that build up. All that disappointment. Best to say nothing. They’ll talk about it later. When they are alone and she can comfort him properly. A flicker of warmth curls between her thighs.

      As Deptford gives way to Greenwich she stares out at the ghostly domes of the old admiralty buildings, the winking blur of pubs and cafés, the narrowing streets and the stretches of river glimpsed between blocks of newly built flats. He pulls off the road onto a cinder track that winds past shadowy building sites caged by wire fences, lit here and there by the jaundiced flare of security lights. The tyres splash and bump through puddles of oily water until they find tarmac again. Tom clicks the fob, the security gates slide open and the pale glow of their house of glass rises through the darkness.

      Gracie swings her legs out of the car. Blinking into the rain she turns to gaze across the vast black shimmer of the river to the glitter of lights on the Isle of Dogs. There is a taint in the air, a reek of rot pouring in from the sewers of the city and seeping up through the silt. A squat river barge chugs downstream, its bow lights casting a gauzy glow across the water. As the slide of the electric gates cuts off the view she turns back to the Wharf House. Even after three years she still has moments like this when she can’t quite believe that this minimalist expanse of glass and sunken spaces is her home. It took years to complete and won Tom a prize: a moment of glory and a shard of bronze sprouting through a block of granite. She remembers the first time he brought her to see the site; how she’d picked her way across the pipes and coils of cable lying idly in the mud, and nodded and smiled as he’d turned his back to the wind to steady the flapping plans, wishing she could lift her eyes to the skeleton of ribs and struts and see what he could see.

      ‘Look, Mummy, look what I made!’ Elsie is hopping from foot to foot, pointing to the ‘Welcome home’ banner strung across the door.

      ‘Wow, darling! That’s amazing!’

      Tom lugs her bags across the hall and dumps them down while Elsie hovers close, pulling at the catches. ‘What did you get me, Mummy?’

      ‘Oh, no!’ Gracie claps her hand to her mouth. ‘I forgot to buy presents.’

      Elsie howls with laughter and swings back on Gracie’s free hand, pivoting on one foot. ‘No you didn’t!’

      Gracie unzips one of the suitcases and pulls out a pair of pink sequined trainers. ‘Ta – daa!’ She smiles at the joy on Elsie’s face, delves again and brings out a grey cashmere beanie hat for Tom that took her a stupid amount of time to choose. He pulls it on and wears it as they put Elsie to bed. They stretch out, one either side of her, while she hugs the trainers to her chest and Gracie opens The Worst Witch, picking up the story where she left off the night she left for New York. After a couple of pages Tom kisses his daughter and slips away, murmuring about supper. Hungry for one of his blackened, bloody steaks and some good red wine, Gracie smiles and glances up to watch him go.

      She reads on until Elsie’s eyes flutter shut and her breath grows deep and steady, then she sits for a moment, drinking her in; the dark curls coiling across the pillow, the golden skin, the snubby little nose and chin – softened versions of Tom’s – before she kisses her forehead and runs down to the kitchen.

      The absence hits her.

      No clinking plates. No hissing pans.

      So it’s a takeaway then. Their favourite Thai, or the new Burmese she’s been dying to try. Tom fills a glass and passes it to her. She sets it down beside the discarded beanie hat and moves closer, hips swaying, arms held high to slip around his neck. He stiffens, sweaty and grey, his pupils fixed, unwilling to focus even as he looks at her.

      ‘Tom?’

      He pulls away and picks up a paper tub, still icy from the freezer. She moves forward, her eyes seeking the label on the lid. A little laugh erupts from her throat. Laugh with me, Tom. Tell me you love my fish pie. Tell me you didn’t want to waste time cooking on my first night back.

      He clicks open the microwave and in it goes. Her homecoming supper.

      ‘I’ll make a salad.’ She bends into the fridge, little detonations of panic exploding down her spine.

      Behind her he’s opening drawers, rattling cutlery, making noises that float in the silence. СКАЧАТЬ