The Woman Next Door: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a stunning twist

by Sue Watson

  ‘I’ll tell him what you called him,’ she says, pretending to beckon him over.

  ‘No! I would die.’ I laugh.

  We’re both giggling now, and I think how glad I am that we found each other. She’s brought so much fun into my life. When Amber moved on to Mulberry Avenue, she was the antidote I needed to the other women on the estate, who talk for hours about different baby food brands and nappy bargains. From my mid-thirties, I’d begun to feel excluded as my friends all became pregnant and each month brought nothing for me. I was pleased for them – who couldn’t be delighted that someone was bringing a new little voice into the world? – but the news was always bittersweet, because I longed for a baby of my own.

  Now, at forty-two, despite extensive tests and a couple of rounds of fertility treatment, I’ve never experienced so much as a missed period. I’m okay, I deal with it, but an evening of in-depth discussions about the tantrums, fussy eating and toilet training of my friends’ kids is not my idea of a fun night out. Consequently, I welcomed single, childless Amber, who thinks a ‘baby bottle’ is a mini bottle of Prosecco served with a straw.

  ‘It’s okay for you,’ she always says, ‘you’ve found your soulmate. I’m still looking for mine.’ And she’s right, I have found what I’m looking for in Matt. We’ve been married for ten years and I love him to bits. Despite her looks, career and her money, I really feel for Amber because all she really wants is what any of us want – someone to love who’ll love her back, and I’ve got that. As for her ex, Ben, he must have been mad to walk away. I mean, how could any man not want to marry my beautiful, funny, accomplished friend? Men are, and always will be, a mystery to me.

  Now Handsome Harry, who’s been glancing over at Amber all evening, is wandering over, finally making his play. And what a performance. They greet each other like long-lost friends; she leaps up and he kisses her on both cheeks, then proceeds to touch her up for the next ten minutes. What happened to #MeToo? I think as, uninvited, his hand moves up and down her lower back. Then he tells her some story, which apparently is hilarious, judging by the way she’s throwing her head back in laughter. I’m sitting at the table as they both stand engrossed in each other. Amber hasn’t actually introduced us, and as I’m sitting down and at their waist level it’s all rather awkward. She’s touching his arm now as he whispers something in her ear. I love her, but I wish she wouldn’t embark on a full flirting session while I sit here feeling like a voyeur.

  My Prosecco glass is now empty, as is the bottle, and I’m struggling with the etiquette. It’s not that I’m desperate for a drink, but I must look stupid sitting here all alone with an empty glass. Should I go to the bar and order us both another drink? Or would it be rude if I don’t offer to buy Harry one too? And what happens now about us getting chips on the way home? I was rather looking forward to that.

  I can’t cope, and decide to head for the ladies’. I can kill a few minutes and Amber won’t even notice I’ve gone.

  Once in the cubicle, I look at the time on my phone and see it’s already 11 p.m. and promise myself we’ll leave by midnight at the latest. Amber made me stay really late last week at the Allegra Bar, just because she thought Ben might be in there, and I was working the next day. Tonight hasn’t really gone to plan either; the whole point of the evening was supposed to be about Amber cheering me up, and yet here I am sitting alone in a toilet while she has a great time with Harry. It hasn’t cheered me up at all. I knew I should have insisted on the cinema.

  I check the time again and leave the toilet cubicle and stand next to a tall slim woman who’s reapplying mascara. I wash my hands as she finishes her eyes and spritzes perfume, filling the air with the scent of chemical blossoms. I glance up at myself in the mirror. My make-up has all but melted off and my fringe is sticking to my forehead. Not a good look. Patting my face with toilet paper, I then put my head upside down under the hand dryer – a technique Amber uses to get instant hair volume. She always emerges from this looking like a supermodel, but another glance at the mirror tells me I look more like something from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Wild-haired, blotchy-faced. Not pretty.

  I feel like crap, so text Matt to say Amber’s met a friend, and if they hit it off I might grab a taxi and be back soon. He texts back a laughing face and a heart, which makes me smile; we both know what she’s like. I’m trying not to feel resentful, because Amber means well, but she’s soon distracted, and ignoring me to flirt with a good-looking guy is not exactly my idea of ‘fun’. But I’m being selfish. Whatever her flaws, Amber has a good heart, She’s my number-one supporter and our friendship matters. So I might have felt a little left out back there, but I should stop feeling sorry for myself. I have a lovely husband to go home to and poor Amber has no one.

  I can’t hang around the toilets any longer, and in the hope that Harry has gone and Amber and I can resume our girls’ night out, I head back to our table. As I approach, I see she’s sitting back down and seems to be alone, which is good, but as I reach her, I can tell something’s wrong. Her eyes are filled with tears, and she looks really upset. I feel for the chair and sit down, leaning towards her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, putting my arm around her protectively and trying to work out what’s wrong from the expression on her face. ‘Has something happened? Was it Harry, the guy you were talking to?’ I say, looking around for him, remembering his hands all over her, his mouth on her ear. I wonder if, in my absence, he went too far, said or did something inappropriate, but she’s shaking her head vigorously. Then she clicks on her phone and pushes it across the table towards me and, puzzled, I look at her while taking the phone, an irrational fear slowly creeping through my chest.

  Still searching her face for clues, I drag my eyes from hers to look at the screen, where a text message sits waiting, throbbing. I can see a collection of words all placed together to create a message that makes the hairs on my neck prickle.

  Beautiful Amber, I can see you flirting with those other men. If you hurt me I will hurt you. Are you scared? I like it when you’re scared. It excites me.

  Chapter Three

  Lucy

  ‘Do you know who sent this?’ I ask, gazing at the text on her phone.

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s not nice, but it’s just another weirdo; it comes with the job,’ she sighs.

  Amber is a TV weather girl on the local news and says she receives many ‘love’ letters, care of the TV station, from viewers asking if she’ll marry/date/have sex with them, but this is different.

  ‘I’m just a bit worried because whoever it is, he has my mobile number, and I don’t know how he got it.’ She’s playing this down – she doesn’t want a fuss – but I can see by the look on her face that she’s petrified.

  ‘Is there any signature, some kind of ID?’ I ask, looking at the phone, pressing buttons as if suddenly the text sender’s name and address will miraculously appear. ‘Do you know who this is?’

  ‘No, of course not. I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Could it be someone you know playing a joke on you?’

  ‘Do you think it’s funny?’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’ I take a tissue from my bag and hand it to her. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, but why would someone suddenly do this, say these things… on a text, out of the blue?’

  She takes the tissue from me and looks around, like the sender might be there watching. ‘It isn’t exactly out of the blue,’ she says quietly as I strain to hear her over the music bashing my ears.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had a few texts before, weeks ago now. They’re the same… they’re from the same person.’

  ‘You mean threatening texts like this one?’

  She nods and looks at me. She’s trying to hide it, but again I see the fear in her eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Amber?’

  ‘I just… I… I didn’t want to worry you.’ She looks around the bar, wrapping her arms around herself protectively, like he might
still be here, watching her. ‘I’ve told you before, it’s being on TV, it attracts all the nutters…’ she says.

  ‘But you still have to take these things seriously.’

  ‘No, Lucy, the opposite. You have to ignore them. They send a few texts, make the odd call and if you don’t respond, never reply, then they get bored and—’

  ‘These people don’t get bored, they get dangerous,’ I say, aware that I’m probably scaring her more. ‘You have to change your number and only give it to a few close, trusted friends.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I’ve had it so long it’s tied up with everything – work, the bank… Ben.’ She looks at me, and a guilty shadow passes over her face.

  ‘You’re putting up with this because you’re worried Ben might call you late one night and not get through, aren’t you?’ I can see by her face that this is exactly why she isn’t changing her number, she wants to be totally accessible to him, just in case.

  ‘Look, it’s a nightmare having to change your phone number,’ she says, clearly a little irritated that I know what she’s thinking. ‘I’m not cutting off people I care about because some weirdo is sending me texts Lucy. No, I’m going to just ignore them and delete them,’ she says adamantly, tears wiped away, her strength returning.

  I reach out and touch her hand. ‘Amber, I just wish you’d told me, shown me the other texts.’

  ‘I deleted them.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that?’ I can’t believe this. If I’d received creepy texts I’d be screenshotting them and calling the police. Right now!’

  ‘I told you, the best thing to do is ignore and delete. Besides, I didn’t want those… words on my phone. It felt like he was inside, made me feel dirty… infected. I had to shower the first time I got one.’ She shudders at the memory.

  ‘Just block the number then.’

  ‘If I do that I won’t know when he’s stopped.’

  ‘That’s madness…’ I start, but Amber will do what Amber wants to do, and I can tell by her face that she’s determined for some reason not to block this number, so I let it go.

  ‘Look, I’m fine, I was just a bit shaken because I got the last one a few weeks ago. I thought that was it, that he’d stopped. He’s obviously bored tonight,’ she adds.

  ‘I think we should call the police.’ I look at her with what she always calls my ‘teacher face’.

  ‘No.’ She says this with such alarm it surprises me. ‘Look, shall we just have another drink? I really need one.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You stay here, I’ll get them,’ I say and go to the bar, where I wait an eternity for the young guy who’s serving to notice me, but he’s too busy chatting up the Negroni girls. I think of how different this scenario would be if Amber were here waiting to be served. We’re the same age, but I just know this twenty-something guy would be at her service straight away; Amber is very visible – especially to men. That’s why she gets so much attention, and it would seem not all of it is welcome.

  I glance over to check she’s okay, and despite her protestations that she’s fine, she still looks worried. She’s constantly looking around, because she knows whoever sent the texts saw her talking to Harry. The text accused her of ‘talking to men’, of being ‘unfaithful’, and as she glances over her shoulder I feel a chill wondering if she has any idea who her stalker might be. There are the wealthy guys who whisk her off to lovely places; she’s had liaisons with work colleagues – Handsome Harry and Ben-the-ex to name but two. And then there are the drunken one-night stands, but I doubt she’d remember most of them. Matt joked the other day that her bedroom has probably hosted half of Manchester since she moved in. I giggled at this – he had a point – but it doesn’t excuse someone sending her threatening texts.

  After being ignored for too long at the bar, I shout at the bartender. It’s very late, and I don’t even want a drink. I’m only getting them because Amber says she needs one. ‘If you don’t serve me now,’ I say, over the music, ‘I shall speak with your manager.’

  He looks shocked, and one or two people turn round to see the dumpy middle-aged woman in the too-tight jumpsuit giving it to the barman. I can see by his face he didn’t think I had it in me – well, watch and learn little boy.

  Two glasses of Prosecco soon stand before me on the bar. I may not have Amber’s looks and charisma, but I can use other, less seductive, means to get what I want. Being a primary school teacher, you have to develop a commanding voice for the noisy playground, which can also be useful in noisy bars.

  I go back to Amber and put our glasses on the table – I didn’t feel a bottle was appropriate now; too celebratory, given the circumstances. Amber nods in thanks and takes a large gulp of hers. I know she doesn’t want to talk about the texts as it makes her uncomfortable, but I can’t just leave it.

  ‘Amber, think hard – do you really have no idea who’s texting you?’ I ask gently, sitting down opposite her.

  She tears up, takes another gulp of her drink too quickly and shakes her head. I steady her with my hand, as if the shaking of her head will cause the tears to spill everywhere and if I can stop that I can stop the tears. I suddenly realise how stupid it seems that we aren’t reacting to this, and as her friend I really should be doing something about it. So, silently, I take out my phone and unlock it.

  ‘Lucy, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m calling the police.’ I find the number for the local station and start punching in numbers.

  ‘No, no, don’t get them involved. I told you,’ she says, putting her hand on mine, trying to stop me, ‘I’ve had shit like this before and they’re a waste of time. I don’t want plods all over the place, riffling through my stuff, my life – half of them are on the payroll of the tabloids.’

  Ignoring her protests, I dial the number and hold the phone to my ear. ‘I’m not sure the newspapers would be that interested that a weather girl has received some weird texts,’ I say, and instantly regret it as her face drops.

  ‘Cheers for reminding me about my car crash of a career.’

  I feel terrible, because Amber started as a weather girl on national TV many years ago, then tried her hand as a TV presenter. I remember being a bit of a fan twenty years ago; she was on TV a lot – just small presenting jobs – but one week I remember her on the front of the Radio Times as ‘the one to watch’. She was heading for stardom, but then she suffered a personal tragedy when her husband died, and she wasn’t on screen much after that.

  Knowing her now, I’m aware how devastated she was when her life collapsed like that. Her husband’s death wasn’t straightforward. She had to take time away from work and before she knew it there were other ‘ones to watch’. Now she’s back as a weather girl on a regional television channel, where she started, and not where she’d expected to be at the age of forty-two. And I’ve just rubbed it in. Whatever I say now won’t erase my comment, but I stop calling, put down the phone and try. ‘Sorry, Amber, I didn’t mean… you’re not important…’

  ‘So why say it?’ she snaps, looking away from me. I can see that despite pretending it’s nothing, she’s shaken by these texts, and she isn’t really cross with me. In her stress she’s lashing out and just snapping at me because I’m here. It amazes me that even amid all this drama Amber’s declining career still has the capacity to cut through bigger stuff and sting her.

  ‘Amber,’ I start, as calmly as I can muster, ‘I didn’t mean anything. I’m just worried about you. You’ve received a violent threat. He could be watching you now, he could follow you home. This is scary and I would never live with myself if something happened. Tonight he sent a threatening text. Who knows what he’ll do next?’ I pick up my phone again and make the call, still trying to placate her. ‘I’m your friend, I care about you… Hello, is that the police?’ I’m apparently on hold until someone can be bothered to pick up, which they do eventually. ‘Hello? Yes, I’m calling because Amber Young, the weather girl on Manchester Tonight, is being stalked,
’ I yell down the phone.

  Amber looks alarmed. She’s asking me again to stop calling but I carry on. She’s probably embarrassed that I’m shouting, but it’s so noisy in here, I have to.

  Eventually, I get through to whoever I need to speak to and the half-baked woman on the other end keeps asking if it’s me that’s being stalked and when I say no, she asks if I’m the bloody stalker! I yell down the phone ‘NO I’M NOT,’ and finally get the accurate information across and give Amber’s details as she scowls across the table at me, and the woman makes a vague promise that someone will go round and take a statement.

  ‘Can you be more specific, like when will someone go round?’ I ask, rolling my eyes at Amber, who doesn’t respond. She’s obviously still pissed off I’m even making the call. ‘Wednesday?’ I gasp, when the call handler tells me. ‘That’s four days away. A woman’s life is in danger. Can’t you send an officer now? What if the stalker turns up tonight and climbs in through the window? If I call to tell you my friend’s dying in a pool of blood will you still send someone on Wednesday and leave her to bleed out?’ I’m quite pleased with this line – I heard it on Midsomer Murders. I like the way it sounds. Squelchy. Onomatopoeic. Terminal. Amber clearly isn’t as impressed as me by my crime vocabulary. She’s now rolling her eyes, but I refuse to give up on this. I want to make sure the police are taking this seriously, even if Amber isn’t.

  I wait for a response from the monosyllabic woman on the other end of the phone, but she doesn’t answer for a while, then repeats ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Well, if it has to be Wednesday…’ I concede, and then the handler suggests a time and I clarify, ‘Wednesday at three?’ I know that Amber is on a late on Wednesday, so will be available, but she’ll tell them it’s nothing and she’s fine. I’d like to be there to stress how serious this is, so I add, ‘Could you ask the officers to arrive after three thirty because I’m a teacher and won’t be able to get back until then. I need to be there with my friend… Hello? Hello?’