Love Me, Love Me Not: An addictive psychological suspense with a twist you won’t see coming. Katherine Debona

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      ‘Because you chose this for yourself.’

      She turned her back to me, showing me the zip along the length of her dress, the clasp of her necklace jiggling as she started to wash her hands. Slow, repetitive movements as she sluiced water between her fingers. There was no need for her to clean her skin. It was simply a way of keeping those hands from reaching out to me.

      ‘How can you say that?’ Would she ever offer me anything resembling a normal reaction? Simply support me, placate me because I was her daughter? Why the constant need to remind me I wasn’t what she expected?

      ‘You chose her as your friend. I warned you against it for this very reason.’

      ‘Of course, Mum.’ I picked at a loose thread on the hem of my dress. ‘You had a crystal ball that predicted this precise outcome the very moment Elle and I became friends.’

      ‘And here you are, sitting in a pool of self-pity and proving me right.’

      ‘Thanks for the support.’ The thread stretched out and I wrapped it around my little finger, tighter and tighter until the tip of my finger turned white.

      A long, drawn-out sigh, as if my mere existence exhausted her. ‘Oh, Jane, why can’t you see that all I’ve ever done is support you?’

      ‘Meaning the version of me you thought was best.’

      She didn’t reply as she turned off the tap and shook away the excess droplets of water. One landed on my cheek, mixing with the tears that had been flowing ever since I’d locked myself away from the sight of Elle in her wedding dress.

      ‘Get up,’ she said as she hauled me to my feet. ‘Prove that you’re so much better, that you’re who I raised you to be, and don’t ever let them see you cry.’

      Dark eyes skimmed over mine and I wanted to ask her how she’d dried up all her own torment. How she’d managed to lock it away and never let it escape.

      ‘Be the better person.’ She touched one hand to my cheek and I couldn’t help it, I flinched. A nod, a tiny movement of understanding before leaving me alone with nothing more than a crumpled heart, all its hope long since drifted away.

      Everyone was waiting for me. The maid of honour. The one who had helped Elle plan every detail of the perfect wedding, right down to the choice of flowers for her bouquet. White roses for purity along with dusky pink peonies to bless the newlyweds with prosperity and luck. I’d convinced her to add in some hydrangeas for vanity, although she liked them simply because of the way they complimented her dress.

      My own bouquet had a smattering of anemones. A symbol of my unfading love for Patrick as well as protection against the evils of this world. Much like the way the flowers closed their petals when rain was approaching, I found myself curling inward, fighting against all the pain that awaited me on the other side of the bathroom door.

      It was too late. For months I’d told myself that at some point one of them would realise the mistake they were making, that this was not how the fairy tale was supposed to play out. But the only thing staring back at me from the mirror was the answer to a question I never needed to ask.

      He chose her.

      * * *

      ‘If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.’

      The vicar’s voice washed over me as I stood, mute, while he went through the necessary proceedings to promise a woman to a man. All it would take was a few more words and then they would be linked to one another in the eye of God.

      I could feel my mother watching me from a few rows back. As if her fingers were stretching through air to burrow beneath my skin, pulling the invisible strings that bound us, making sure I didn’t do anything untoward. Anything to bring attention to us.

      My own fingers scratched at my wrists, hidden behind my wilting bouquet. Scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch they went. Not stopping until I felt my flesh give way, I slowly brought my hand up to my mouth, licked away the blood from underneath my manicured nails.

       Nobody loves you.

      Did I speak the words aloud? For Elle’s head turned to me, a line between her brows as she asked a silent question, one I was unable to understand. One I did not want to hear because I was no longer capable of feeling. No longer capable of putting myself through the torment of giving but never receiving.

       Nobody wants you.

      All of me was numb, apart from the fresh line of red that itched to be made more. One more step along the world we go. Words that filtered through to my subconscious as the congregation sang its final hymn. Something banal about always moving onwards, something as ludicrously ill-conceived as everything else about that loathsome wedding. A wedding I helped create. A wedding I did nothing to prevent, assuming the Universe would fold and settle in the way it was supposed to. I’d been stupid enough to think there was nothing I needed to do and suddenly it was too late.

      One more step into the chasm of forever as my body did what was required of it and stood dutifully outside the church, posing for photographs I never wanted to see. My treacherous mouth formed itself into a smile, pretending all was as it should be. A mouth that never spoke the words screaming inside my mind. It was supposed to be me. All of it should have been mine, not hers.

      The guests formed a semicircle around the happy couple. Took their own photographs as evidence they had been there. Commented on how perfect and special the two of them were. How well-suited. How gorgeous and wonderful and incredible their offspring would be.

      ‘Isn’t she simply exquisite?’

      ‘Stunning.’

      ‘Never seen her look so beautiful.’

      I pushed through the throng as all their words echoed inside my head. Headed for the manor house that was only a hop, skip and jump from the picture-perfect chapel that had sat in the grounds for centuries, bearing witness to so many holy unions before that day.

      Scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch went my fingers, for otherwise I didn’t know what they might do.

      Walking through the main reception, there were people every way I turned. Idiotic guests adorned with more sparkle than a ballroom-dancing competition, along with fake tan and layers of cologne to match. Waiters navigated the crowd, offering up glass after glass of vintage champagne along with morsels of food too delectable to turn down.

      At the bottom of the staircase a woman sat astride a harp lilting notes of Mozart that weaved through the reverie, a symphony that no one was paying any attention to, but which no doubt would be commented on when the wedding was relived in days to come.

      ‘Such a beautiful service, don’t you think?’ Katya, one of the other bridesmaids, stood by an antique mirror, watching me in its reflection as she adjusted the scoop of her dress, two bulbous breasts jostling for the attention she’d craved ever since school.

      ‘Depends what your interpretation of beautiful is, I suppose.’

      ‘Careful, Jane,’ she replied. ‘That mask of yours is in danger of slipping.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ