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

‘No, Tom. I’d have to be involved in every decision, and if the company goes ahead with this out-of-town thing—’

He looks up, bewildered. She gives an impatient shake of her head. ‘I told you about it. The bit of land one of the backers has bought in Oxfordshire. He’ll build on it eventually but for the next couple of years he wants Gracie’s Kitchen to put up a semi-permanent marquee and use it for weddings and events. I’d get a manager in to run it but I’d still need to be across the planning.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s not OK. How could I juggle all my other commitments if we buy a house in Primrose Hill or the other side of Highbury and I’m dashing over here every day? It’s Elsie who’d lose out. I’m not having that. Half the point of moving is so that I can spend more time with her.’

‘So …’ a nervous half smile, ‘do you want to check out houses in Clapton?’

‘All I’m saying is that if we did go for this place, and it’s a massive if, living nearby is the only way it could work. But we wouldn’t find anything you’d want to live in round here.’

He shrugs and taps his tablet. ‘We might as well see what there is.’

She watches him type in the postcode and swipe through nearby properties on Zoopla. Slowly she brings out her phone and does the same. She’s still searching as they get back into the car, looking up only to shake her head at a loft conversion he’d wondered about, that turns out to be above a noisy engineering plant. At the traffic lights she clutches his arm and leans over to show him the photo on her screen. ‘Look at this one. It’s a little bit further out than I was hoping, but worth taking a look.’

He rubs his hand across his chin as she flicks through the photos of the interior. ‘Nice.’ He punches Falcon Square into the sat nav.

She gazes out of the window, taking in the old-school betting shops, the cheap takeaways still hung with winking Santa lights and a redbrick Victorian school. He hesitates at a noisy junction, cuts past a bow-fronted church and turns into a square of shabbily grand Georgian villas.

He slows the car, twisting in his seat to look up at the long sash windows glinting in the wintery sunlight. ‘God, I love London,’ he says. ‘Where else could you turn off a shitty high street and find a place like this?’

As he pulls up outside number 17, Gracie looks around and finds herself imagining the life she might lead if she lived here, the people she might bump into in the park or the supermarket. She glances at Tom. His smile is smug. She forgives him that. It’s a small price to pay for this glimpse of a future that doesn’t leave her feeling hollow inside.

Six months on from Tom’s confession Gracie wakes shivering and afraid from the running dream. It’s their last night in Greenwich and she paces the landing, gazing at the construction lights on the cranes across the water, the dabs of brightness moving with the ripples of the blackened tide. It’s windy outside, spatters of rain mist the panes as she presses her palms to the glass and silently hands the Wharf House back to Louise.

There’s movement behind her. She swings round.

‘I couldn’t sleep either,’ Tom whispers.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Numb. Angry with myself. Sad about leaving the river.’

‘I’ll miss it too.’

‘But I’m taking everything that matters with me.’ He slips his arms around her.

Hesitantly, she leans into him, her throat almost too tight to speak. ‘We still have to go on working on us.’

‘I know.’

‘But once we’re settled,’ she says – barely a whisper, ‘let’s think about giving Elsie a brother or sister. Take a proper look at the options.’

There’s a slight shocked pause as he takes this in. ‘Why the change of heart?’

Her arms tighten around his waist. ‘I never stopped wanting another baby, I just put the feelings on hold when … it didn’t happen. Scared of the disappointment I suppose. But you’re giving up this house for me and I want to do this for you, for us, for Elsie.’ Taking his hand, she leads him back to their room and they make love. Gentle tentative love that makes her want to cry.

12 (#ulink_1ee35ef0-b129-5a94-8733-156a7cc70d6c)

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.’