The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  Copyright © 2018 Karen Hamilton

  The right of Karen Hamilton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  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.

  First published as an EBook in 2018 by WILDFIRE, an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  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

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 4428 4

  Main jacket image © Tim Robinson/Millennium Images, UK

  Eyes © Nikita Vasilchenko/Shutterstock; clouds © Elena Sk and Good Shop Background/Shutterstock

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise

  ‘You don’t often come across a character who is both sociopathic and compelling. Buckle your seatbelts, you’re in for a very bumpy ride . . .’ – Sunday Mirror

  ‘Compelling’ – Red

  ‘Chilling’ – Daily Express

  ‘An addictive psychological thriller . . . Unhinged’ – Culturefly

  ‘Brilliant and terrifying’ – Fiona Cummins, author of Rattle

  ‘I genuinely couldn’t put it down – Juliette is such a compelling character. Totally gripping and thrillingly different. I loved it’ – Laura Marshall, author of Friend Request

  ‘So addictive it should come with a warning’ – Alice Feeney, author of Sometimes I Lie

  ‘One of the best twisted narrators I’ve ever read. Perfect indeed!’ – C.J. Tudor, author of The Chalk Man

  For A, A, O & E.

  Prologue

  July 2000

  Looking down, there are two pairs of feet dangling. My shoes are daisy-edged, white-and-yellow sandals. His are a muddy brown with Velcro straps and a navy tractor on each side. His socks don’t match; I can never find two the same. One is crimson and the other one is black. And they’re too tight – a ridged pattern has already formed a ring of little marks on his calves, just above the elastic. He kicks the edge of the wall. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. The noise bounces off the four walls. Below, pond skaters skim the stagnant, murky water which I know conceals a tiled dolphin in shades of silver and blue, the twin of the one visible on the exposed ground of the shallow end. Strands of fine slime brush the slope just above the water’s edge.

  The sun burns; red spreads across his cheeks, smudging the tip of his nose. He should be wearing a hat. Everyone knows that young children should wear hats or a high-factor sunscreen, but I couldn’t find either this morning when the time came to be ‘Outside!’ in a hurry. We have enough food for a picnic, though; I had prepared it earlier this morning. The white loaf I’d unevenly sliced was a little stale, so I’d layered on extra cream cheese to compensate. We also have ready salted crisps, so when I smooth out the carrier bag to use as a tablecloth on the concrete tiles, I pull the triangles of bread apart and place some crisps inside before folding them back neatly.

  It is the wrong thing to do.

  He bursts into tears. ‘I don’t want crisps in my sandwich!’

  ‘Well, you should’ve said.’

  His screams vibrate inside my ears. My stomach churns. I pull him from under his arms, away from the edge. I hastily pick out the crisps and drop them back into the foil packet. But that is wrong too – because barely visible residues of pale cheese remain glued. I sit cross-legged opposite him.

  ‘Have some grapes!’

  He stops and stares. Half-formed tears pool in the corners of his swollen eyes.

  Our mother doesn’t like him eating grapes if they aren’t halved or quartered, in case he chokes, but I hadn’t thought to pack a knife. I could bite them in half but I don’t like tasting anything sweet before my sandwich. Besides, our mother doesn’t know a lot of what he gets up to and, seriously, eating a few grapes is way, way down the list of potential dangers I’ve saved him from.

  ‘Have some,’ I repeat, my voice calmer than I feel. ‘They’re the purple ones. Your favourite.’ I grip with my forefinger and thumb, easing grapes off their stems, and hand them to him.

  He clutches them in both hands and feeds himself one at a time, biting hard. Juice runs down his chin.

  Relief. The older he gets, the harder he is to placate. He is quick to assert himself and demand whatever he desires.

  I take a bite of my sandwich, crunching the crisps into the dough. A breeze, so gentle – almost as though it knows it is unwelcome on such a glorious day – brushes my arms and legs, then dissipates. Stillness.

  ‘More!’

  ‘Please.’

  He frowns.

  As I pull off more grapes, I wonder what my next-door neighbour is doing. She is eleven, nearly a whole year older than me. Eating ice cream? Burying her feet beneath soft sand? I was invited to go along with her family to the beach today, but I have a responsibility in the form of a four-year-old, so the answer was no.

  I inhale the strong smell of lavender. Nearby, bees hum. In the not-too-far distance, a lawnmower bursts into life. I swing round in case it is the head gardener, the one who always smiles at me and says I have a pretty face. Curving a hand above my eyes, I squint. I can just about make out a shadowy man in overalls, but his face is concealed by a denim bucket hat.

  ‘I’m thirsty!’

  ‘There’s no water, you’ll have to have some of this.’

  I snap open a can of lemonade. He is not allowed fizzy drinks or too much sugar. There are so many rules for him that sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or cry – to be glad that she cares, or just plain annoyed. I often feel like this – like I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel in certain situations.

  He makes a face at the lemonade bubbles fizzing inside his mouth. He must be really thirsty as he hasn’t made any fuss. He looks kind of cute with his scrunched-up face and, for a few seconds, I feel warm towards him. But then he drops the can. It clatters on its side, spraying cartwheeling liquid as it rolls down over the edge. It hits the water with a splash so slight, I barely hear it. We both lean forward and peer down.

  ‘The frogs or the fish will drink it,’ I say brightly.

  I ho
ld out my arms to pull him close.

  His arms are strong, his push violent. ‘No! I want it back.’

  I can’t bear the thought of it. I can’t stand the thought of his screams; they pierce me and make me want to block my ears and scream myself.

  ‘Go and find a long stick, then,’ I quickly say.

  He stands up and runs off eagerly past the lavender towards the base of the oaks.

  The last thing I call out is, ‘You’ll need an extra-long one!’

  I dangle my feet over the edge again and lie back down, closing my eyes, revelling in the seconds of blessed peace. I can feel warm concrete tiling against my thighs, through my cotton skirt, whilst the upper half of my body lies on the grass. It tickles my neck. I hear the lawnmower moving further away. Laziness takes hold and I inhale a deep breath of summer air before I pretend I can feel sand – not concrete and grass – beneath me.

  Reality creeps in and out. I think I hear a splash like a swooping seagull which has spotted an unsuspecting fish.

  Then nothing.

  I jolt up, dizzy and disorientated. I look around, down.

  I run, I climb, I reach, I grip, I pull.

  But it is futile because Will is not there. He is not there because he is deathly still. Somewhere, deep inside, a piece of me detaches before disconnecting completely.

  Ever since, my mind excels at taking me to safe places, whenever I need it most.

  1

  Present Day

  I apply fuchsia lipstick to complete my transformation. All the best ideas are so brilliantly obvious, once you’ve thought of them. My reflection in the water-splashed mirror is of someone with thick make-up and dark-brown hair, but my own eyes. The polyester necktie scratches my skin and, although it feels alien to wear the uniform, the starchy trouser suit with eighties-style shoulder pads allows me to morph into an anonymous airline employee. My expression is neutral and professional; calm and controlled. A new year, a new me.

  Amy, her reflection beside mine, wrinkles her nose. ‘The stench of these toilets reminds me of school.’

  I wrinkle mine back. ‘The cheap loo roll and miserable sound of dripping water doesn’t help.’

  We both pause for a second or two, listening.

  She glances at her watch. ‘We’d better go, we don’t want to make a bad impression.’

  I follow her out. Her auburn hair is woven into a bun so neat, it doesn’t look real. Her perfume is floral and understated. Mine is too strong, the sickly smell has been irritating my nostrils all morning. As we merge with the other eighteen trainees filing back into the classroom, Brian, one of our instructors, raises his hand, palm outwards.

  ‘Ahem.’

  Silence falls. I wonder if anyone else feels like me, suffocating the desire to scream because – seriously – how hard can the work be? I intend to show up, take off, chuck out a tray of food, whip it back, job done. I expect passengers to be capable of entertaining themselves with the in-flight entertainment system once fed and watered. After landing, I imagine I’ll have plenty of time to chill by a hotel pool or explore local markets.

  I realize that Brian is still speaking. I force myself to listen.

  ‘There’s no need to sit down as we’ll be heading into the mock-up area for an examination of the training equipment.’

  We traipse out and gather in the corridor, before being herded along by Brian’s partner in crime, Dawn. We follow her downstairs and through the main reception area. Dawn jabs a code into a keypad and we enter a small room. The walls are lined with pegs, hanging off which are mounds of dirty-looking overalls.

  ‘Listen, please, everyone. We’d like you to wear an overall over your uniform. Place your shoes on the racks at the bottom and put on the white feet-protectors.’

  I freeze. Everyone but me starts lifting overalls off the pegs and checking them for size. God, I can’t do this. They are filthy. They look as though they haven’t been washed since . . . ever.

  ‘Juliette? Is there a problem?’ Brian’s expression is of exaggerated concern.

  ‘No. No problem.’ I smile.

  He turns away. ‘Now, ladies, for those wearing skirts, make sure your legs are properly covered. Velcro on some of the equipment wreaks havoc with your tights.’

  Crap. I’m going to have to do it. I slide my arms in before doing up the buttons. I don’t know why I bothered to get my suit dry-cleaned. I look ridiculous in the baggy jumpsuit, complete with elasticated material around my ankles. All that’s missing is a face mask and I’d look like I’m about to investigate a crime scene. Even Amy looks less immaculate than usual.

  ‘This is going to be fun,’ I whisper under my breath to her.

  She beams. ‘I can’t wait to try out the practical drills. I’ve been dreaming of this since I was small.’

  ‘Really?’

  Why would anyone dream of becoming a waitress, albeit a flying one, from childhood? When I was young I had plans. Big ones. Proper ones.

  ‘Any time today, Juliette.’ Brian is holding open a door.

  He is really getting on my nerves and yet I still have another five weeks of his company to endure. I follow him into a giant warehouse containing sections of various aircraft; some at ground level, some on raised platforms with stair access. We catch up with the others walking alongside the building. The front door of a plane bursts open and several overall-clad people fly out and down the slide. A male, uniformed crew member operates the door, barking instructions above a shrill alarm. ‘Jump! Jump!’

  We whisk past until Dawn and Brian stop beside a blown-up, silvery-grey mass, not unlike a kids’ bouncy castle. ‘Now, before we board the slide-raft, I’m going to talk you through the survival equipment. A landing on water will, from now on, be referred to as a “ditching” . . .’

  Dawn’s voice fades as I zone out. I know the statistics. They can call it what they like, but the chances of surviving a plane crash on water are not good.

  At five on the dot, we are released through the secure gated area and back into the real world; the airport perimeter road. The roar of low-flying aircraft and rush-hour traffic is briefly disorientating. I inhale cold, crisp air. My breath mists as I exhale. The group divides into those going to the car park and the rest of us, heading for Hatton Cross. I only half-listen to their excited chatter. The group splits again; those catching buses head off first and the rest of us, including Amy, enter the tube station. I walk alongside her as we make for the platform.

  ‘Not on the westbound side today?’ she says. ‘I thought the train to Reading leaves from Heathrow?’

  I hesitate. ‘I’m going to visit a friend. In Richmond.’

  ‘You’ve got more energy than me. I’m so tired, I don’t think I could face going out tonight. And I want to go through my notes.’

  ‘It’s Friday night,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, but I want to recap whilst it’s all fresh,’ says Amy.

  ‘Fair enough; I’ll know who to sit next to in the exams.’ I smile.

  Amy laughs.

  I pretend to join in, then stare out the window; the light inside reflects us into the outside darkness.

  Amy gets off at Boston Manor. I wave and watch as she walks towards the exit steps, tall and proud in her uniform.

  After changing at Hammersmith, I am the only uniformed person among the crowd of passengers. Alighting at Richmond, I cross the road, pulling my coat around me tightly. My bag cuts into my right shoulder. I aim for the familiarity of the alleyway, my heels clicking and echoing with each decisive step. I avoid a broken bottle and head for the outskirts of the Green. Stopping outside a set-back period mansion block, I lean against the railings and pull off my heels, exchanging them for ballet pumps. I pull up my coat hood and let it drop over my forehead before treading along the path. My key slides into the communal door. I enter, checking for sounds.

  Silence.

  Taking the steps to the third and highest floor, I let myself into apartment 3B. Once inside, I stand stil
l and inhale the welcoming scent of home.

  I rely on the glow of the fish tank instead of switching on any lights. Sinking down into the sofa, I remove clothes from my bag. I undress, folding my uniform carefully, then change into black jeans and a jumper. Using my phone as a torch, I pad, barefoot, into the kitchen and open the fridge. It is almost empty, as usual, apart from beer, some chillies and a ready-made macaroni cheese for one. I smile.

  Heading back to the living room, I risk switching on a side lamp. From my bag, I remove a photo and place it on the mantelpiece. In a perfect world, it would be framed, but I like to keep it close so that I can look at it whenever I like. In the picture, I am grinning happily, alongside Nate, the man I am to marry. I fold my uniform over my left arm and make my way to the bedroom. Next, I place the trousers, blouse and jacket on the bed and bend down, burying my face into his pillow. I inhale deeply before lifting my head and shining light around the room. Nothing has changed since I was last here. Good.

  As I roll back the mirrored sliding door to the wardrobe, a reflective flash of my beam catches my eyes. I blink, whilst my sight readjusts. Nate’s spare pilot’s uniform, his jackets, shirts and trousers, all hang neatly, but not as neatly as I can hang them. I carefully space them out, each roughly three centimetres apart. I leave a gap as I hang my uniform next to his. The way it should be. I stand back to admire my work. Light catches the gold emblem on his hat. I slide the door closed.

  My last stop is always the bathroom. I check the medicine cabinet. He’s had a cold recently; the menthol inhaler and cough medicine are new.

  Returning to the living room, I help myself to an apple from the fruit bowl. I press my forehead against the living-room window, crunching small bites whilst looking down below. I can’t see anyone. Rush hour is over and, presumably, most people are at home, cosy and settled. Unlike me. I am on the outskirts of my life.

  Waiting. That’s what I do, a lot of waiting. And thinking . . .

  I know so many things about Nate: that he loves skiing and always smells fresh; the scent of citrus soap clings to his skin. I know that he wants to be promoted to captain before he reaches his mid-thirties.