Friend of the Family
Page 1
Copyright © 2018 Tasmina Perry
The right of Tasmina Perry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This Ebook edition first published in 2018
by HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
Cover photographs © Iryna Inshyna/Shutterstock (woman in red); tixoula/Getty Images (woman in black); fokke baarssen/frank ungrad/Volodymyr Gionyk, all © Shutterstock (background)
Author photo © Paul Rider
eISBN: 978 1 4722 0858 3
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise
Also by Tasmina Perry
About the Book
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Discover more novels from Tasmina Perry
About the Author
Tasmina Perry is the Sunday Times Top Ten bestselling author of thirteen novels. She left a career in law to enter the world of women’s magazine publishing, and went on to become an award-winning writer and contributor to titles such as Elle, Glamour and Marie Claire. In 2004 she launched her own travel and fashion magazine, Jaunt, and was editing InStyle magazine when she left the industry to write books full time. Her novels have been published in seventeen countries. Tasmina lives with her husband and son in London, where she is at work on her next novel.
For more about Tasmina Perry, visit her website at www.tasminaperry.com, find her on Facebook at /officialtasminaperry or on Twitter @tasminaperry.
Praise for Tasmina Perry:
‘With dark twists I did not see coming – the perfect end-of-summer read’ Daily Express
‘Well-drawn characters and a twisty plot make this page-turner a must-read’ Good Housekeeping
‘A story of long-buried secrets and the scars they can leave behind, Perry expertly weaves a delicate web of love and betrayal . . . A heart-wrenching love story’ Daily Express
‘With a smart plot, [and] characters you’ll both love and love to hate . . . this relentlessly brilliant novel will keep you enthralled from start to end*****’ Heat
‘Pacy, just the right amount of sexy and full of believable (but tough-to-guess) twists’ Cosmopolitan
‘A dark and devious psychological thriller with all the glamour you’d expect from Tasmina Perry’ Red
‘This roller-coaster read will keep you guessing right to the very end’ Closer
‘Dark and twisty . . . suspense-packed drama’ Woman & Home
‘A brilliant page-turner’ Prima
‘Mesmerising . . . Will have you engrossed from cover to cover’ The Lady
‘Another note-perfect read from Tasmina Perry’ Red
‘This book will keep you hooked as its secrets are revealed. A great story by a great writer’ Fabulous
‘Atmospheric and engrossing’ Sunday Mirror
‘An irresistible page-turner’ Marie Claire
‘Buried secrets, lost loves, betrayal and heartbreak fuel this intriguing, atmospheric love story with plenty of twists to keep you turning the pages’ Sunday Express S magazine
By Tasmina Perry
Daddy’s Girls
Gold Diggers
Guilty Pleasures
Original Sin
Kiss Heaven Goodbye
Private Lives
Perfect Strangers
Deep Blue Sea
The Proposal
The Last Kiss Goodbye
The House on Sunset Lake
The Pool House
Friend of the Family
About the Book
She thinks your life is perfect. She thinks you don’t deserve it.
Your job
Amy is more than happy to offer the daughter of an old friend work experience at her London magazine. Josie is young and ambitious. She just needs a foot in the door.
Your home
When Josie arrives, she swiftly makes herself indispensable at work and at home. And when childcare falls through before a long-awaited university reunion in Provence, it begins to look as if Josie may be staying longer than Amy had bargained for.
Your husband
In the heat of Provence, Josie’s presence starts to unsettle Amy, especially around her husband. As cracks begin to appear in Amy’s perfect life, she cannot shake the feeling that the family friend may not be a friend at all . . .
To Fin
Prologue
The photo album felt heavy in her hands. She paused, running her fingers over the grain of the leather, feeling its weight. No wonder nobody used these any more: chunky, unwieldy things, stuck under beds or in the loft, shoved to the back of a wardrobe, which was exactly where she had found this one, hidden behind a shoebox full of ticket stubs and half-empty notebooks. And the very idea of photographs! Going into an actual shop on the high street to get them printed, as if they were precious artefacts to be kept for evermore. Whoever had the time for that these days? So self-indulgent. So arrogant. So twentieth century.
A fixed smile on her lips, she flipped open the cover to the first sheet of vellum, worn and lined like an old woman’s skin, the neatly inked title reading: Oxford 1995.
She turned the page, and there they were in their glossy glory, a swirl of primary colours and monochrome, all energy and poses and cheesy grins only slightly dimmed by time. How young and good-looking everyone was! Dated clothes and hair, sur
e, but the smiles were genuine; a little self-conscious, perhaps, but carefree. Yes, that was the word. Like they had nothing to apologise for. Every one of them making eye contact with the camera, looking straight down the barrel, daring you to judge them, daring you to say that they weren’t anything but the young and the beautiful, the nation’s elite, their futures just sitting there waiting to be plucked like a perfect rose.
Her eye was drawn to one photo in particular. It was innocuous really. A group shot at a party. Hundreds, thousands of people had taken snapshots just like this. Young people in some bar, all raising their glasses – champagne bowls, naturally – winking and laughing, mugging for the camera, shouting, ‘Cheese!’, celebrating what? Glorious endings or thrilling beginnings? She supposed the picture represented both.
As her finger traced the face in the middle of the shot, she wondered what Amy had been thinking as she sipped her champagne and grinned for the camera. Had everything been mapped out in her head, her clever post-college plan to scramble to the top already carefully thought out and engineered? Or had it really been a matter of good timing, the right friends and luck?
No one could be that lucky.
She felt her fingers curling, nails scraping across the paper. How could she have looked so happy? she thought, pulling the photo from the page, crushing it in her fist and flinging it away from her, skin crawling from its touch. She tore at the next picture and the next, ripping them from the book, grinding them between her hands, mashing and tearing, a guttural groan coming from deep in her throat. ‘How dare she?’ she hissed, again and again, wrenching out whole pages in twos and threes, dropping them like confetti until there was nothing left to tear. She grasped the thick cover and tried to destroy that too, but it was too thick, too heavy, the leather doing its work, holding its shape. Instead, she flung it across the room with a scream and watched it spin into the corner.
‘Look what you made me do,’ she whispered, her hands twisting in her hair, trying to steady them. ‘Look what you made me do.’ And finally, she began to cry.
Chapter 1
To the untrained eye, it was an amazing cover. Glossy and glamorous, it featured a hot new Hollywood actress and was crammed with tempting cover lines: ‘Online dating guide’, ‘Orgasms 100% guaranteed’, ‘Autumn style must-haves’. All the buttons were pressed, everything the young and fashionable urban woman could possibly desire. And yet editor Amy Shepherd knew it was a disaster.
‘Does she look so miserable in all of her photos?’ she said to the woman hunched over the computer screen. ‘Come on, Gem, there has to be something.’ Gemma Carling was the best art director in magazines – that was why Amy had poached her from Condé Nast six months previously – but even she couldn’t work miracles.
‘Photoshop only goes so far, Amy,’ she said. ‘I can shave off a few pounds, get rid of spots, but I can’t make the bitch any less gloomy. You remember what her agent said.’
Amy nodded. ‘Carly doesn’t do smiling.’
Landing Carly Zima for a cover shoot had been a major coup for Verve – a boost the magazine badly needed. Back in its 1990s heyday, Verve had been a byword for kick-ass feminism, a style bible for self-assured young women who knew what they wanted: sex, career and fashion – all three, all the time. Amy could remember the days when stars would come into the office personally, courting the staff, taking them out to dinner, desperate to feature in its pages. But that was a long time ago, and it was becoming harder and harder to get an exclusive on anything.
‘No chance we could do a reshoot?’ Gemma’s voice was hopeful, but they both knew the answer. Part of the reason for her moody face was that Carly had done the photo shoot under duress; she had been forced to participate by her sponsors. So yes, she had turned up. Six hours late, sure, but she had come. Clearly she had believed that was the end of her part in the matter. No amount of coaxing from top fashion photographer Emile Noir could get her to show any amount of Verve’s trademark sassy confidence.
‘She looks like her dog’s just died,’ said Gemma.
Gallows humour. It was a big thing in magazines these days. If they didn’t laugh, they’d cry.
‘Amy?’
She looked up to see her PA, Chrissie. She was holding up a phone, jiggling it slightly. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to remind you about your twelve thirty meeting?’
‘Oh crap.’
Amy stood up and grabbed her ever-present desk book. ‘Look, I know we’re flogging a dead horse here, Gem,’ she said. ‘But see what you can do about giving it CPR?’
Gemma gave her a grim smile. ‘Sweet talker.’
Amy glanced at her watch and broke into a run, her heels clacking, Chrissie trotting along beside her. ‘Conference room, twenty-third floor,’ the PA said, handing her a sheaf of printouts. ‘And don’t forget you have a lunch at Tanjerin, one o’clock.’
‘Thanks, Chrissie, you’re a life-saver, as ever.’
The lift to the executive floor of Genesis Media was empty, giving Amy time to check her make-up in the mirrored walls. There were faint lilac semicircles under her eyes, but it was no surprise that she looked exhausted. She had been in the office particularly early that day, leaving home before Tilly, her livewire five-year-old, had even stirred, making sure her husband David would hold the fort until their nanny Claudia arrived at seven o’clock.
The rest of the day had been spent reading through dozens of pages of editorial, crossing out and rewriting in the margin like an angry teacher, liaising with HR about her junior fashion editor, who had been caught bunking off work when she was supposed to be on appointments, and dealing with dozens of irritating emails relating to everything from paper stock to Tilly’s new school uniform. Amy knew that there were tougher jobs out there – she wasn’t going down a mine or flying off to a war zone – but still, she felt physically and emotionally fried.
The lift bobbed and stopped. As the doors stuttered open, Amy was out and down the corridor, pushing through the double doors of the boardroom with the barest glance at her watch. Only three minutes late: acceptable. Douglas Proctor was a stickler for timekeeping and cut no slack for creative types. In fact, he clearly thought they were a hindrance to the smooth running of the organisation, but he tolerated Amy. Or had so far.
The incoming MD of Genesis Media was standing at the window, back to the room. He was currently the company’s chief operating officer, but was being promoted due to the imminent retirement of Genesis chief William Bentley.
‘Ah, Amy,’ he said, turning. ‘Sit down. I thought I’d ask Denton to join us this morning.’
She smiled at the slim, suited man at the table, even thought she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Denton Scoles, finance director, chief bean-counter at Genesis Media and arch-enemy of creativity, represented everything that was wrong with magazines right now. Ever since his arrival twelve months earlier, he had overseen two huge rounds of editorial redundancies, claiming that an overworked hub of a dozen subeditors and designers could work across Genesis’s twenty titles, and had famously nixed the annual Verve Christmas party for being ‘unproductive’.
‘Is William not joining us today?’ Amy said, immediately regretting her remark. Douglas’s cool gaze told her that the new order had already been established and that their genial boss had not been invited.
‘How’s the October cover looking?’ he asked, not bothering to reply to her question.
Amy didn’t dare tell him they might have to reshoot.
‘Just making the final tweaks, but we’re very excited. I think it’s going to sell well.’
‘Good,’ said Douglas, sipping some water. ‘Because I hardly need tell you the figures are on a downward trend.’
She was taken aback by his bluntness. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, slowly. ‘But as we know, the entire sector has taken a hit and we’ve been affected less than other titles.’
As if on cue, Denton turned his laptop to face her.
‘The new circulation figures are out next week, but here’s where we are at the moment,’ he said, touching his pen against a graph on the screen. ‘The red line is Verve, the blue Vogue, the green Elle, et cetera, et cetera. Almost every title down from where they were ten years ago.’ He paused for a moment to let the fact sink in. ‘Now,’ he said, tapping a key and flipping to another graph. ‘Here the trend is reversed: all lines bending upwards. Blogs, Instagram, Twitter, all trending through the roof.’
‘But how many of them are making money?’ said Amy crisply.
Yet again, Douglas ignored her comment. ‘Magazines have limitations. We just can’t compete on time-sensitive subjects. Even the daily papers are starting to look pointless: going to print before an election result is announced, missing a terrorist attack that happens in the middle of the day. And monthlies? You’re recommending trends that are already over.’
‘We know the challenges,’ said Amy, wondering if they were about to hold her responsible for the decline of an entire industry.
‘We have to start thinking of ways to make more money. Events, sponsorship, courses, digital innovation . . .’
Amy nodded. She and William had had an almost identical conversation six months earlier, admittedly in different circumstances: a long boozy lunch at which they had wistfully reminisced about the golden age of magazines, when there was an orchid on every desk and afternoons were spent flitting from press launch to film screening. But despite their nostalgia for times past, they had both been determined to inject some excitement back into publishing, and had come up with the idea of creating a new marquee event for Verve.
‘I totally agree with you, Douglas, which is why we’re throwing the Fashion 500 party,’ she said, wishing that William were there to back her up. ‘The fashion brands have money. If we can create a London equivalent to New York’s Met Gala, we’d strengthen the brand, position ourselves as a mainstream luxury and generate buzz.’