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

She smiles for Akshay Kumar, rattles off the link to her filmed discussion with a class of face-pulling six year olds about the yuckiness of squidgy bananas and soggy sandwiches, keeps her voice upbeat as she guides the viewers through a selection of stuffed pitas, cold pastas and gaily filled wraps, and gets serious about waste as she slices cold carrots for the garden pie. When the floor manager signals that the gallery is happy she calls a hurried thank you to the crew and leaves without stopping to check in with the production team or even to wipe off her makeup.

5 (#ua0bacc59-8697-554f-b7cc-f3ba88cdcd33)

Juliet needs this job. God, how she needs it. A fledgling brand with a sure fire future doesn’t come her way very often. But get this meeting right and the marketing contract for Shoesmith and Hayman’s artisan gin could turn her life around.

‘In the end, it all comes down to the botanicals.’ Don Shoesmith – bland and fortyish – gazes at the bottle in his hands as if it’s some kind of holy relic. ‘What the judges went for was our unique blend of natural flavourings.’

Juliet, who has spent the previous night mugging up on the terminology, nods knowledgably. Don’s on side, eager to sign her up and get back to sourcing his orris root and organic Sicilian lemons. It’s Matt Hayman, his partner, who’s not so sure. He’s rocking back in his chair, assessing her. He’s younger than Don, but not by much. Two middle-aged engineers in badly designed promotional sweatshirts, swept way out their depth by the rip tide success of their backyard distillery. Their ‘office’, a hastily assembled table and chairs at the end of Don’s garage, is proof of that – boxes of papers and cases of bottles vying for space among tins of paint, coiled extension leads and a dusty deflated paddling pool.

Juliet turns her head and aims unblinking eyes at Matt. He’s a worrier, so terrified about paying the mortgage now that he’s jacked in the nine to five he daren’t make a decision. She stokes up his insecurities. ‘There’s no point having a great product and winning awards if you don’t get the marketing right. When are they making the announcement?’

‘Friday.’

She sucks her breath. ‘Four days to create a social media campaign to capitalise on the publicity and get a strategy in place to keep up the momentum. It’s going to be tight. Do-able but tight.’

He’s visibly twitching, desperate for reassurance. Time to throw him a lifeline. ‘The first thing I’d have to do is fix your website. Sorry, but it’s sending out totally the wrong message.’ Brisk professional smile. ‘From now on everything associated with your brand has to be as crisp and distinctive as your product.’ Juliet taps her computer and brings up the home page she’s mocked up for them. ‘I could have this online for you by Wednesday night.’

Matt thumps forward on his chair and runs an eye across the screen, obviously impressed but still hesitant. What’s his problem?

‘My wife’s got a friend at one of the big agencies. She says they can offer us a complete PR and marketing package.’

So that’s it. Well fuck you Mrs Hayman. A sympathetic shake of her head. ‘We both know the big agencies are all about processes, systems and top-heavy teams. Fine for big corporate clients but totally wrong for a niche start-up like yours. What you need is the personal touch. Someone who’s always going to be available when you pick up the phone. Someone flexible who can move swiftly to deal with the tiny problems that crop up day to day leaving you,’ she flicks a finger at Matt’s peeking polo shirt collar, ‘to concentrate on the product. All for a fraction of the price the big boys charge.’

Matt knocks his knuckles against his chin, almost hooked. She pictures him relaying these lines to his pushy wife, asserting himself as the thrusting entrepreneur who knows what’s right for his business and his brand.

‘And with me you get a single vision developing the strategic and creative solutions as well as planning and executing the campaign.’

‘And you could handle all that?’

‘Absolutely.’ He’s nodding now, clinging to every word. ‘Obviously as I helped your business to grow I’d expand my team but it would always be me overseeing the decisions. Now, let me show you the thoughts I’ve had about product placement.’

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. ‘Excuse me.’ She pulls it out. Thumb poised to decline the call she glances at the ID.

Nononono. Not now.

A flare of resentment burns hot and bright, dipping to a flicker in the sudden rush of panic.

She looks at Matt. He’s twitching again. ‘Sorry.’ She presses the phone to her ear, rising on wobbly legs as the words Freya, climbing frame, fall,pulse to the frantic beat of her heart. ‘She got a nasty bump on the head,’ the school nurse is saying, ‘the ambulance is on its way.’

Face numb, fingers cold, she’s throwing her laptop into her bag, barely able to breathe. ‘My daughter … I have to go.’ She turns at the door and says desperately, ‘Could we pick this up tonight? Maybe on Skype? I promise … this won’t happen again.’

It’s a lost cause. The look of abandonment on Matt’s face and the bitter taste of defeat at the back of her throat tell her that.

6 (#ua0bacc59-8697-554f-b7cc-f3ba88cdcd33)

Gracie steps out of the shower and emerges from the bathroom to find Tom in their bedroom rooting through his sock drawer.

‘Tea,’ he says, pointing to the tray beside the bed.

‘Thanks.’

He watches as she lifts first one foot then the other onto the bed to smooth cream onto her legs. ‘Here.’ He tosses a brochure across the duvet.

She glances down at the photo of a slate-roofed chapel, its scarred walls defaced with graffiti and peeling posters.

‘What’s this?’

‘The place I was telling you about. That French guy, Mersaud, he’s pulled out. It could be ours, Gracie.’ His eyes come back to hers, narrowed and hopeful. ‘It’s ideal for the new café and there’s masses of space for a cook shop and your cookery school.’

She tightens her towel across her chest. ‘It’s a ruin.’

‘Which is why the agent thinks we could get the price right down. I could do something really interesting with it – look at those fantastic windows. It’s exactly the kind of place you should go for.’

‘You mean it’s exactly the kind of conversion you like working on.’

‘That’s not fair.’ His voice is scratchy with hurt.

She wipes her fingers on the towel and turns the page. ‘E5? That’s—’

‘Clapton.’

‘Clapton? That’s miles from anywhere.’

‘Twenty minutes from our old flat. In five years’ time it will be on a par with Hoxton.’

‘I’m tired of schlepping across London every day, wasting time I could be spending with Elsie.’

‘This has got to be a business decision. I’ve sent you the stats Mersaud had done. That whole area is perfect territory for an upmarket food retailer.’

‘So why did he pull out?’

‘I don’t know. And now he’s stopped returning my emails. God knows what he’s playing at.’

‘That’s odd.’

‘Yep. He hadn’t actually signed anything, but he was messaging me all last week telling me how excited he was about meeting me and how my vision was exactly what he was looking for.’

‘Maybe he realised how much it was going to cost.’

‘It’s an investment, Gracie. I’ve sent you a couple of the preliminary sketches I did for him.’

She sighs. ‘I’ll look at them later.’

He pulls open the wardrobe and fingers a row of ties. ‘Blue or pink with this shirt?’

She can’t bring herself to answer. Aware of his eyes on her, she sifts through the letters he’s brought up on the tray and rips open a plain white envelope. She tips the contents into her hand. ‘Oh, no … please God, no.’

A coral earring lies in her palm. A single teardrop of polished rust-coloured stone. Beside it a slip of paper printed with two words: