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

‘I’m not. The bank’s been having computer problems. I wanted to check you’d had your money this month.’

Like hell. She’s sure it’s him who’s held back the payment. Like he does every now and then just to remind her that he can.

‘Not yet.’ She’s pleased with the way that came out. Off hand. As if his stingy maintenance is neither here nor there.

‘You should have called me.’

‘I’m managing.’

He laughs. The bastard actually laughs. ‘What are you doing? Rationing the wine and fags?’

Fuck you.

She cuts the call. If her life were a movie her best friend would have had doubts about Ian from the start. But she’d never had a best friend. There’d been a couple of girls at school, the kind who were all over you one minute and turned on you the next, tittering behind their hands like you were some kind of freak, and the last flat share, the one with Sandra, had been OK until Sandra started seeing that creep Alex. What was Juliet supposed to do? Keep quiet about him turning up in her room, all morning breath and sweat as soon as Sandra left for work? And what kind of idiot was Sandra to believe his crap about Juliet coming on to him? Christ, the thought of his pale spotty face and sticky hands made her feel sick. She checks Sandra and Alex out sometimes – two kids, a semi and camping trips to Cornwall. Juliet never wanted any of that. She’d wanted Ian, with his extravagant lifestyle and his hunger to get rich, even though there were times when the sex tipped from passion into pain, days when his moods darkened the flat like squid ink and nights when she’d yearned to go out, get pissed and wake up with someone she’d never see again. She should have bailed out as soon as she caught him reading her emails, but she’d been checking his for a while and there’d been a time when their mutual jealousy had excited her, when she’d enjoyed the envy of the other women when he turned up half way through her hair appointments and waited in the salon, relaxed and smiling until she was done.

She’s late now. She’s always late and Freya, bless her, never complains. She’s such a sweet-natured little thing, happy in her own world. God knows where she gets it from. Not from her father, that’s for sure.

That girlfriend of his, Merion, she can’t be more than twenty-five. Who’d want a baby at that age? It’s Ian. Another bid for a boy. This time with someone he can control. She slams her foot on the accelerator and shoots out into the traffic, telling herself it’ll be all right, that no exhausted young mother wants to be lumbered with a step-kid. The thought calms her, though she isn’t looking forward to telling Freya that her darling daddy is having another baby. She checks the time. She’ll have to hurry if she’s going to make her deadline – ad copy for another crappy weight loss product. Useless probably but she’s been lying for a living for so long it won’t be difficult to knock something out. With these kind of jobs it’s just a question of getting into the mind-set of the target market and feeding them what they want to hear. In this case fat lazy cows who want to lose weight without giving up chips and chocolate.

She swears softly as she hurries through the school gates and sees Freya sitting on the steps with her chin on her knees, Miss Cahill hovering beside her, mouth pursed, ready to ‘have a little word about time-keeping’. Juliet stalks past her and grabs Freya’s arm. ‘Come on, quick, I’m parked on a double yellow.’

13 (#ulink_8dbdae6d-690c-500e-945d-2536523b1bb4)

‘Hey, what’s happening?’ Gracie drops her keys into her bag and opens her arms to Elsie, who comes hurtling down the stairs in a floppy straw hat and wrinkled grey tights jammed into pink satin ballet slippers. Gracie bends to kiss her. ‘What’s with the outfit?’

‘I’m going to be a mushroom in Lynda’s show and you have to make me a costume. The tickets cost three pounds fifty. Daphne can come if she wants. She can write about it in the paper.’ Elsie twirls away and runs back upstairs, passing Heather on her way down with a basket of washing.

‘Sounds like it was a success,’ Gracie says.

‘Not bad. The place is a bit grotty but she seemed to enjoy it.’

‘Did she make any friends?’

‘She got talking to a girl called Amber. Her mum teaches round the corner at Dunsmore Primary.’

‘I can take her next week. I’ll try and get Amber over for tea. How did it go at the school?’

‘She was standing on her own again when I picked her up.’

‘Any luck with the other nannies?’

‘I’m trying. But they’re dead cliquey.’

‘What about the mums?’

‘That lot wouldn’t be seen dead talking to the help.’

‘God, that place is snotty. Bloody four-by-fours and skiing in Val d’Isère.’

‘Tom’s right about the security. They stopped me again as I was going in. You’d think they’d know my face by now.’

‘That’s what we’re paying for, I s’pose. Thank goodness she’s meeting some nice normal kids at dance.’

‘Tea?’

‘If you’re making some.’

On her way to the kitchen Gracie gives in to one of the unspoken pleasures of Falcon Square and trails her hand over the rubbed wooden sweep of the bannister, picturing the generations of women who have lived in this house, gentle ghosts who would never be more to her than names on a set of deeds, calling up the stairs to their children, throwing back the shutters to let in the light, planting the saplings that have grown into the tall lime trees at the bottom of the garden, their footsteps loosening the toffee-brown boards that creak beneath her feet.

She pulls her notebook from her bag. ‘Let’s invite her whole class to her party. That should get them on side. We can combine it with a housewarming – kids and families in the afternoon, adults in the evening. Could you have a look at entertainment options – maybe a circus workshop or one of those conjurors who does illusions?’

She hears Tom’s key in the door. Her eyes pull towards him as he walks into the kitchen, tall, handsome, masculine, capable, tugging at the tie beneath his unbuttoned collar. He’s the kind of man women notice. The kind who, like his twice-divorced father, will improve with age. Is she crazy to fill the house with other women? She snaps off that thought at the root. ‘Forget the tea, let’s have a drink.’

He glances at the notebook.

‘What are you hatching now?’

She finds a smile. ‘Elsie’s party. We’re going to have a barbeque.’

He pulls a bottle from the rack and reaches for the opener. ‘When were you thinking?’

‘Her birthday’s on a Sunday so what about the Saturday before? That’ll give us four weeks to get organised.’

‘I’ll give Stella and Todd a call. They’ll want to know what to give her.’

‘How about a new bicycle?’

‘Isn’t that what we’re giving her?’

Gracie etches a doodle in the corner of the page. ‘I was thinking we might buy her a puppy.’

Tom turns slowly to look at her. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘She’s always wanted one.’

‘And you’ve always been dead set against it.’

‘It’ll help her make friends. Kids love going to houses with pets.’

‘Yeah, but a puppy’s a full-on commitment. Let’s get her a rescue dog.’

Gracie stares at him appalled. ‘Haven’t you heard those horror stories about cuddly rescue dogs suddenly turning on the children?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. They do tests to make sure they’re safe around kids.’

‘There’ll always be unknowns, some trigger that sends them crazy.’

Tom rolls his eyes. ‘So who’s going to house-train this puppy?’