‘Don’t get too comfortable at Mode,’ said Amy, wanting to lash out in return. ‘The police will find out about the car on the train tracks. They’ll find out it was done deliberately. David spoke to them this afternoon and they’re pulling together their evidence. They might even link it to Claudia’s mugging.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Juliet.
‘You could have killed people with that stunt, Juliet. The police aren’t going to ignore that.’
David came back downstairs holding Tilly in his arms. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, touching Amy on the shoulder in a tender gesture.
They turned to leave the house and didn’t look back as they descended the stone steps towards the car.
‘Stop! Don’t go. I’m sorry,’ shouted Juliet behind them.
It was cold outside, a chilly wind seeping between the folds of Amy’s coat. David fastened Tilly into her car seat in the Range Rover and got into the driver’s seat. Amy was desperate to go home with them, but they had come to Hampstead separately and she didn’t want to leave her own car here. After all, she had no desire to come back to Juliet’s house ever again.
The engine of the Range Rover growled into life.
‘Please, don’t go!’ screamed Juliet, running down the steps, her grey trapeze-line dress floating out to either side of her body. With her pale face and red lips, she looked like a banshee. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.’
Amy got into the Fiat and put the key in the ignition, ready to follow her husband. She watched Juliet scrabble around in her pockets and run towards her own car. As she waited for David to pull out, she glanced in her rear-view mirror and saw Juliet behind the wheel of her little Triumph.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, following David towards the junction at the end of the road. The lights started to change and she put her foot on the accelerator. With a bit of luck, Juliet would get stuck on the red and she could shake her off. She was hardly going to chase her back to Notting Hill.
As she glanced behind her again, everything seemed to contract into slow motion. There was a huge bang and a flash of light, the screech of metal against metal. Amy slammed her brakes on and jumped out of the car, running as fast as her heels would take her.
A 4x4 had gone into the side of Juliet’s tiny sports car as she jumped the lights. The front of the car was crushed like a tin can trampled by a heavy boot, spirals of grey smoke rising from the bonnet.
‘No!’ screamed Amy, pulling out her phone and desperately dialling 999. ‘Ambulance. We need an ambulance,’ she barked.
The driver of the 4x4 was standing on the road, dazed and motionless as he looked at the car.
Amy punched another number into her mobile.
‘David. Get back here. There’s been an accident. Juliet . . . driving too fast. The car’s trashed.’
Other cars were stopping at the scene. A cyclist rode onto the pavement and dismounted. A runner in a fluorescent bib slowed and pulled his headphones out of his ears.
At first, she was too frightened to look. Holding her breath, she crept forward and peered into the driver’s seat. Red hair straggled across the dashboard. In the distance, she could hear the sound of sirens. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, and Amy felt her shoulders slump in sadness.
Epilogue
Juliet’s appointment as editor-in-chief of Mode magazine was not announced during the Paris shows as had been Douglas Proctor’s plan for his on-off girlfriend. At first, it seemed wholly inappropriate given that she was in an induced coma at the Royal Free Hospital. But even when her condition improved, Genesis Media held off from confirming that she had got the job, and the matter was left in the hands of the HR department and lawyers.
The rumours that Juliet might never walk again worried Douglas, even though he acknowledged that some diversity among the Genesis Media editors might be good for PR. But he was particularly bothered about how things would look for him, given that the police were sniffing around the events of the Fashion 500 party. He had no idea what an abandoned banger on the train tracks had to do with him, but they had been asking some very uncomfortable questions about how well he knew Juliet James, and he realised that he should keep his distance from her as much as possible.
Once Amy had given various statements to the police, she, David and Tilly took off to Lyme Regis, where they spent a long weekend combing the beach for fossils and going for bracing walks along the coast with flasks of tea. It felt indulgent taking a holiday so soon after Provence, but she needed to be out of London to get some head space, to think about the direction her life was now going to take.
Marv Schultz had been in touch within days of Juliet’s accident about going back to her old job back at Verve. It was hers if she wanted it, he said, via a transatlantic phone call, acknowledging that there had been some crossed wires that were being investigated. He also made noises about exciting opportunities at Genesis Media in New York, which Amy politely deflected, much as she acknowledged the need for a fresh start. She had no idea why Marv had contacted her; she had never whispered a word about his affair with Suzanne Black, for which perhaps he was grateful. Nor had she gone public about her unfair dismissal, which she just wanted to put behind her.
With lines of communication open with Marv, Amy had been tempted to tell him about her toxic relationship with Juliet. How Juliet had sabotaged the Fashion 500 party, spread rumours about her drug addiction and seduced Douglas Proctor as destructive revenge for unrequited love. But however much she wanted to clear her own name, however much she knew the CEO deserved to hear about the backstage drama at Genesis, she also knew that she had no proof for the allegations, and that therefore the elegant response, the right response for her sanity, was simply to walk away and let the police deal with it.
Louisa Bourne, on the other hand, was more difficult to turn down.
Amy and Claire looked up at Amy’s mood board, which she had pinned along one wall of her new office at Exmoor in Ladbroke Grove. ‘I know I probably should have moved into the modern age and done a Pinterest board,’ she smiled, touching one of the glossy pages cut out of a coffee-table book. ‘But I’m still an old-fashioned print girl at heart, and I thought this would be the best way to show people what sort of feel I want for the site.’
‘Louisa loves you because you are an old-fashioned print girl,’ said Claire, sipping her coffee. ‘I’ve seen the average age in the office out there. They might understand SEO and user interface, but no one knows how to build desirable lifestyle worlds from words and pictures like you, honey.’
‘What are you saying?’ said Amy, tapping her friend playfully on the shoulder. ‘That Amy Shepherd the old-timer might be able to bring value to the table after all?’
They both laughed, but it was how Amy had felt when she had first said yes to the offer of the role of chief creative officer at Exmoor. three months earlier. Seventy-six-year-old Louisa Bourne had been as convincing as a thirty-year-old tech titan as she explained why Amy should jump ship from magazines into e-retailing, but Amy still felt way out of her comfort zone.
Under the stewardship of Michel Gagner, Exmoor’s impressive French CEO, brought in from Net-a-Porter two years earlier, profits had jumped over 200 per cent. But still Louisa felt that the site lacked great content. She bombarded Amy with statistics proving that the longer customers stayed on the site, the more they would buy, and told her that she felt sure she was the person to conjure up that editorial stardust, but Amy still wasn’t sure whether she could pull it off, feeling like the girl from Westmead who had turned up at Genesis Media all those years ago.
‘I know you only came in to talk about doing this one shoot, but there’s as much work as you want on the new editorial team,’ she said now, turning to Claire. ‘A contributing fashion editor position is yours if you’d like it.’
Claire looked at her wide-eyed. ‘Contributing fashion editor?
Me?’
Amy nodded.
‘But I haven’t worked for ten years . . .’
‘You are a great stylist, Claire. I’m not doing you a favour just because you’re my friend.’
Claire gave a little squeal of glee, and for a moment, Amy remembered Juliet pulling strings with William Bentley to get her a job as a junior writer at Genesis. Claire was a fantastic stylist, but deep down, Amy was aware that she had ulterior motives for offering her a job. She knew Claire was fed up being simply Max Quinn’s wife, and she wanted to help her get back into the professional marketplace without having to go to her husband for help. For her own part, Amy wanted people around her at Exmoor that she trusted. Was that why Juliet had smoothed her way into Genesis all those years ago? Had she wanted to help Amy out? Was it to have an ally at the company? Or to keep her friends close and her enemies closer? Amy would never know.
‘Max saw Peter yesterday,’ said Claire, as if she had read Amy’s thoughts. ‘Apparently the police investigation seems to have cooled off.’
Amy pressed her lips together.
‘Without CCTV evidence, they can’t prove who abandoned the car on the railway line. They know whose it is, but they can’t join the dots.’
Amy nodded. For a long time, she had wanted Juliet to get her just deserts for trying to ruin her life, for putting people in danger. But deep down she knew that she had been punished enough. A punishment harsher than any jail sentence. David had cut off all communication with his former friend, sending back the reams of letters that had arrived at the house apologising for everything she had done, ignoring every call and text. He hated Juliet now, and his icy silence was the most effective way of showing it.
‘We should go,’ said Amy, looking at her watch. It was past four o’clock. David had left work early and picked Tilly up, and she was meeting them back at the house, just fifteen minutes’ walk away from the Exmoor offices.
The weather was crisp and cold as they stepped out onto the street. Amy flipped up the collar of her coat and said goodbye to Claire. In a week’s time it would be Christmas. The blue skies of summer and those balmy August evenings seemed so long ago now. At least they had a trip planned over Easter: a three-week safari in Botswana. Tilly in particular couldn’t wait and was spending hours poring over brochures and books. She could already spot the difference between a waterbuck, an impala and an eland antelope. It was safe to say they were all looking forward to it.
Where are you? texted David when she was almost home. She smiled, knowing how keen he was to set off and get out of London. At this time on a Friday evening it was a three-hour drive to Dorset, although they both knew it was worth every minute. It had been love at first sight when they’d viewed the cottage on that late September weekend in Lyme Regis. At first she’d wondered if it was an impulse buy, a reaction to everything that had gone on over the summer. Six months previously, a weekend cottage had seemed an indulgence. Not any more. Work to live, not live to work.
Popping to Tesco Express to get some snacks for the journey, she texted back. Why don’t you pick me up outside?
She ran into the shop and gathered up an armful of crisps, fruit and drinks, then stood on the pavement to wait for her husband and daughter.
At first she didn’t recognise the young woman coming down the street towards her, flanked by other girls around her age. She looked different. Her hair was shorter, her summer tan had faded, and she was dressed in the winter uniform popular in this part of town: coat, skinny jeans, sneakers, a beanie hat pulled low over her ears.
Their eyes met and Josie stopped. Her friends peeled away and disappeared into a popular bar.
‘Josie.’
‘Hello, Amy,’ she said, clutching her handbag a little tighter.
Amy smiled to relax the mood. ‘What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’ She’d meant it as light-hearted conversation but regretted asking the question almost as soon as the words left her mouth. She didn’t want Josie to think she was checking up on her.
Josie shrugged. ‘It’s my friend’s birthday. Bunked off work early to get to the pub. It’s Christmas, after all. Every night is a Friday night this week though I think I might have overdone it a bit.’ She grinned.
‘I remember what those days were like,’ Amy said, remembering her twenties, when she and Juliet had marauded from party to party for pretty much the whole of December. She’d thought those days of fun and friendship would last for ever. ‘So how is everything at Genesis Media?’ she asked.
‘You know Douglas is leaving?’ Josie’s tone was mischievous.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘It was announced today. He’s going to head up special projects at the company’s German headquarters.’
‘Germany?’ said Amy with surprise.
‘He likes to call it a promotion, although he’s the only person who thinks it is.’
They both laughed.
‘How are you, Josie?’
‘Good. I’m working for Denton Scoles now, although I don’t want an admin job for ever so I might start looking for something else in the new year. And the therapy is going well, thank you.’
Seeing Josie regularly had been too painful for Amy, dislodged too many conflicting emotions, but she was glad that she was paying for a weekly session with a highly recommended counsellor who specialised in self-harm.
She put her hand in her bag and pulled out a business card.
‘Send me an email tomorrow so I’ve got your up-to-date details. You’ll find something, don’t worry. I’ll make sure of it.’
‘Do you mean that?’
It was a loaded question, but Amy chose to deflect it light-heartedly.
‘Of course I do. You must keep in touch.’
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. A cold gust of wind reminded them that Provence was a long way away.
‘How’s Juliet?’ Josie asked.
‘She’s walking again. With a stick, but apparently she’s doing well. Peter’s been incredible. Her rock. How’s your mum?’
‘Got a new man. He’s really cool. One of the good ones.’
The door of the bar opened, and for a moment, music flooded the dark street, only to be swallowed up by the building again when the door swung shut.
‘I wish we could start all over again. You and Mum. Me and you,’ said Josie quietly.
‘So do I,’ replied Amy.
Another pause.
‘Look, I should let you get back to your friends.’
Josie nodded.
‘Happy Christmas, then.’ Amy held out her hand and Josie took it. It felt formal at first, but then Josie stepped forward and Amy pulled her close.
In that moment, she remembered a fragment of a poem she had once read about friendship. That people came into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. She’d thought that Juliet James was a forever friend, but despite everything, some good had come out of what had happened. She now worked a four-day week, had a better work–life balance, and reminded herself daily that her marriage, her daughter were not to be neglected in the name of ambition.
She didn’t know why Josie Price had come into her life. Perhaps it was to teach her that no one was perfect; that sometimes you just had to forgive. To remember where you came from, not just to think about where you were going.
‘I’d better go,’ said Josie. ‘Say hi to Tilly from me. I miss her a lot.’
Amy squeezed her hand and let her go. Then she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, only opening them when she heard a car stop at the kerb in front of her. David, her handsome husband, was smiling at her through the Range Rover window.
‘You getting in, then?’ he said.
She hopped into the passenger seat, and he fired up the engine.
‘Hope you didn’t get cold while you were waiting,’ he said as she gave
him a quick, grateful kiss on the cheek.
‘I was fine. I bumped into an old friend,’ she said, and didn’t look back.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the wonderful team at Headline; Sherise Hobbs, Fran Gough, Mari Evans, Jo Liddiard, Yeti Lambregts, Vicky Palmer, Becky Hunter and copy-editor Jane Selley. And all the sales teams at home and overseas.
Thank you to my fantastic agent Eugenie Furniss, Liane-Louise Smith and all the team at Furniss Lawton.
I spent over a decade working in the magazine industry and the friends I made there have been incredibly supportive since I jumped ship and became an author – thank you to everyone who has read my books and championed them – it means a lot. Also Adele Parks for our Ivy brunches, Bella Andre for our girls’ writing trips and the lovely lady authors who lunch.
Thank you to my family, especially John and Fin, who is always right when he tells me how I can improve my social media. I’m glad I have you on my side.
The Pool House
A summer to die for. A secret to kill for . . .
To Jem Chapman, it's the chance of a lifetime. An invitation to join a group in an exclusive Hamptons house-share, who could say no? But when she discovers what happened last summer, Jem can't help but feel a chill.
A young woman was found drowned in the house's pool. The housemates said Alice was troubled. She'd been drinking. She couldn't swim...
As Jem gets to know her glamorous new housemates, she realises each has something to hide. What really happened last summer? And who would go to any lengths to keep a person quiet?
Available to download in ebook now
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