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

by Sue Watson

  She mutters something I don’t hear, then she’s gone. Meanwhile, Amber’s shaking her head and saying, ‘Lucy, for God’s sake, stop being so dramatic!’

  ‘I’m your friend, and if you won’t look after yourself, then I will,’ I say, clicking my phone off and mustering as much authority as I can after four glasses of Prosecco. I realise I also can’t possibly let her go home to that empty house of hers. I know I should really check with Matt first, and he won’t exactly be delighted since he’s not a huge Amber fan, but we can’t leave her alone tonight. ‘Come and stay with us tonight,’ I implore.

  ‘Are you sure?’ is her response, which I interpret as ‘thank God, I couldn’t be alone tonight’. She’s petrified really and just pretending it’s all nothing, which makes me feel even more justified that I’ve done the right thing by calling the police.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Matt and I would never forgive ourselves if anything happened to you. I wouldn’t want to go home alone after a text like that and I’m sure you don’t.’

  Amber looks genuinely scared now. ‘I must admit I don’t like the idea that he’s been watching me, but when I go home tomorrow I’ll make sure I sleep with a kitchen knife under my pillow.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I mutter. ‘Everything will be fine,’ I add, not completely convinced. I offer a reassuring smile and a pat on the arm before picking up my phone to call Matt. He sounds sleepy, but after giving him a very brief explanation, I ask him to come and collect us from JoJo’s.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure which bar it is, can you stand outside and wave?’

  I’m becoming anxious. ‘Hardly, Matt, we don’t want to draw attention to Amber if he’s watching, do we? Look, just… just get here, and we’ll find each other.’ I click off my phone. ‘God, why does it have to be so bloody complicated?’ I say, exasperated. ‘Why doesn’t he just hear what I’m saying – my friend’s being stalked, rescue us.’

  She smiles. ‘Stop complaining. You’re lucky to have a knight in shining armour.’

  I laugh and just hope Matt gets here soon on his trusty steed.

  We finish our drinks and sit in silence until Matt texts to say he’s outside. Relief floods through me and we head out into the night, where he’s waiting in his little Toyota. I can see Amber looking around suspiciously, like someone might jump out of the darkness, so I put my arm around her as we walk to the car. She smiles and squeezes my hand, but doesn’t look at me. She’s on edge, her eyes darting everywhere; perhaps she’s finally taking this seriously? I’m so tired I just want to go home and when I see Matt, I have this urge to throw my arms around him and kiss his face. But as I go to open the back door for Amber, I remember she has to sit in the passenger seat; Amber suffers from car sickness so always sits in the front.

  Once home, I put the kettle on and Matt makes us all a cup of tea, which calms me down.

  ‘Rehearsals went well tonight,’ Matt says. A rather unsubtle dig at me for not asking. Matt’s also a teacher, but you’d think he was Steven Spielberg, not the newly appointed Head of Drama at the local comprehensive.

  ‘Sorry, but we had a few other issues to deal with,’ I say tightly. It’s not that I don’t care. I always try to be an encouraging and supportive wife, but I also like to think I’m a good friend, and Amber needs me now. So instead of asking Matt about the latest news on the school production of Bugsy Malone, I encourage Amber to talk about the texts. I’m hoping that if we talk about it, Matt will pick up on the seriousness of this and support her too. I give him a look and he forces himself to show vague interest, for which I’m grateful, and I tell her we’re both here for her and somehow she seems to open up as the three of us drink tea in the kitchen.

  ‘You’re right, Lucy, I should have told you before now. Thing is, I’ve been putting on a brave face and pretending it isn’t happening.’ She sighs. ‘I’m scared to death really.’

  She’s sitting at the head of the table, with Matt and I either side. I’m holding one of her hands and the other is on my mug of tea, so I gesture with my eyes to Matt to take her other hand and support her too. In spite of her tears, I can’t help but think some good has come of this situation, because Matt’s felt obliged to sit down with us both and listen to her.

  She’s such a good friend to me. I wish he liked her, but Matt sometimes makes his mind up about people and won’t be budged – ‘She drinks too much, sleeps around and expects you to pick up the pieces’ is his usual line about Amber. I can see why he might think that, but he doesn’t know the Amber I do: she can be kind and supportive, she makes me laugh and keeps me company when he’s too busy to spend time with me. He should be grateful to her. He gets to direct a performance of Year 10’s Bugsy Malone, while Amber and I have a great time going out, or staying in. Before Amber I was always complaining to him about being lonely, but now, with Amber, my life is filled with stuff to do and I’m never lonely or bored. When we first met, Amber took me round the TV studio where she works. I met the news reporters and she introduced me to the make-up girl, who showed me how to apply concealer the right way. I sat in the studio and watched the evening news go out; it was fantastic, like nothing I’d ever done before. I took photos and told my pupils about it the next day.

  The other thing people probably don’t realise about Amber is how much of an amazing support she’s been to me. Until Amber, Kirsty was my closest friend. She’s a teacher at the same school as me and also lives on Treetops Estate. I still love Kirsty. But when I first told her that Matt and I couldn’t have children, she cried like someone had died. I was already in agony and her reaction just compounded the pain. I know she didn’t mean it, but God, it hurt. Like she saw me as broken. When I told Amber her reaction was so different, and so much more positive, if one can ever be positive about infertility.

  ‘So what?’ she’d said. ‘Having a baby isn’t everything. Think about it, you and Matt can do anything, be anything, go anywhere. Why would you have wanted to fuck that up with a kid who’ll spend all your money and give you wrinkles?’ It was classic Amber, and certainly provided a different viewpoint and put things into perspective for me. ‘You’re a teacher, Lucy,’ she’d added, ‘not just a mum with a couple of kids – you have thirty children in your class. You can really make a difference.’

  Sitting in my kitchen tonight, I remember this. I owe her so much. And in spite of the horrible reason she’s here with Matt and I tonight, I’m happy that I’m able to be here for her. ‘I’m going to make up a bed for you we have a couple of spare rooms, it’s no problem,’ I say.

  At this Matt nods, though I detect a vague shadow of reluctance, but at least he’s being agreeable on the surface, for which I’m grateful. It’s under sufferance, but he’s doing this for me, and I smile affectionately at him over her head.

  Later, in bed, Matt says how worried he was when I called him. ‘I don’t like the idea of someone out there with bad intentions,’ he murmurs in the darkness. ‘You shouldn’t go out with her again. What if he’s following both of you?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s not interested in me, Matt. And even if I could, I wouldn’t abandon her now. I’m her friend. I can’t just say “sorry, Amber, I’m not seeing you again because I’m scared of what’s happening to you”.’

  ‘I didn’t mean not see her. But perhaps not go out… in public, where whoever this is can follow her… and you. You could just invite her round here or something? I don’t want to sound paranoid, but if you’re in a bar or a restaurant, he can see you. He might be following her, watching both of you. Who knows what he’d do, and you could be caught up in it, Lucy.’

  I’m touched that he’s concerned for me, and I lift his arm off the pillow, pulling it around me while I rest my head on his chest. He soon falls asleep, but I lie there for a while in his arms trying to think of ways to cheer Amber up. Amber tried to cover her feelings tonight so as not to worry me, but I know my friend, and she was really shaken up. I decide I’ll make her a ca
ke and eventually find myself dropping off to sleep as I conjure up a recipe for a cake containing all her favourite things.

  ***

  I would have made a fascinating anthropological case study. A feral child, left alone in the living room to be brought up by paternal TV presenters. My view of the world was formed early on by BBC values, TV catchphrases, and The Muppets. But my favourite was the weather girl – always smiling, always fresh and pretty. I imagined she was talking directly to me – and only me. The weather girl appeared at the same time every evening. She always turned up and never, ever let me down – unlike everyone else in my life.

  Chapter Four

  Lucy

  The day after she moved into Mulberry Avenue I made Amber a cake. I’d racked my brains to try and work out why she was so familiar, and that evening we turned on the TV and there she was, Amber Young the weather girl. I have to say, I was delighted to know we had a minor celebrity in our midst, and couldn’t wait to tell Matt, who was pretty unimpressed. ‘Z-list,’ he muttered. But I ignored his remark and set about welcoming her to the neighbourhood – and what better way to do so than with a cake?

  I decided on something simple yet impressive for our TV weather girl – a home-made angel cake. It was moist and plain like a traditional angel cake, but given her celebrity status I added a glamorous twist by dressing it in meringue icing and strawberry ganache. It was challenging to say the least; the meringue icing was extremely difficult, and the strawberry ganache nearly gave me a stroke. Hot liquid, cold liquid, strawberry puree, all mixed at the right time in the right way. But as it was half-term and I was off work (Matt was busy with the local amateur dramatics group) and I didn’t have anything else to do, I quite enjoyed baking. I found the process of mixing and whisking very calming, and looked forward to taking the results over to our new neighbour.

  I knew who Amber Young was from TV, and I’d watched her more than once. I loved the way she smiled and seemed so positive even when she was predicting cold temperatures and snow. Before I’d met Matt, I’d lived alone in a flat, and I used to watch the news before I went to bed. The weather report came right after, and I remember Amber always ending her late-evening forecast by wishing ‘a special goodnight to those who are on their own tonight’. I loved that. When I felt my most lonely, it just made me feel momentarily like someone cared. The cake was, in my own way, a little silent thank you for all those lonely nights.

  When he came home the cake was resplendent on the kitchen counter and he thought I’d made it for him. I’d just finished perfecting the peaks of meringue when he wandered in and reached for a slice, which made me scream and slap his hand.

  ‘For God’s sake, Lucy, what’s the matter?’ he asked, all hurt.

  ‘Sorry, babe, but it’s not for you, it’s for Amber Young. You know, our new neighbour. The weather woman? Who’s moved in at number 13’ I said.

  ‘It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ he said sulkily.

  ‘No, not really,’ I responded, but allowed the doubt to bubble in. ‘I don’t think so anyway.’

  ‘It looks like a Great British Bake Off showstopper.’ He laughed. ‘A Victoria sponge might have been enough.’

  ‘Mmm, well, it’s too late now, I’ve already made it,’ I said, a little miffed.

  ‘It’s not. You don’t have to give it to her. You could keep it here… I could eat it?’ he teased.

  ‘No. You eat enough cake, and so do I for that matter.’ I stood back and admired the juicy strawberries dotted on glistening meringue. ‘I always make new neighbours a cake,’ I said defensively. ‘It’s about saying hello; it’s the way we do things round “these ’ere parts”.’ I spoke in an exaggerated country accent.

  Since we moved in three years ago, it has always been a joke between Matt and I that we’ve moved to the country, because it’s a housing estate near parkland that was marketed to seem semi-rural. Matt calls it ‘pseudo-rustic’ as it’s hardcore suburbia a short drive from the city, but there are patches of grass and the roads are all named after trees. We often laugh about it, talking in ‘country bumpkin’ accents about ‘them rolling fields’, which don’t actually exist here. We’ve been sold a rather nostalgic facade of village life – an imaginary escape from daily commutes, air pollution and a world where neighbours only meet on Facebook or Tinder. But despite Treetops being counterfeit countryside, I’d still choose it over the city any day – I love it here, and if it’s good enough for the likes of Amber Young, it’s good enough for me.

  The morning I went round to welcome Amber with the cake, Matt was still after a slice.

  ‘I really don’t know why you’re bothering,’ he said, trying to put me off, hoping I’d abandon the confection in the kitchen and he could help himself.

  ‘You’re not having any, Matt, so no point in trying. I want to take a cake over. It’s a lovely welcome and I always do it. I made a cake for Kirsty when she moved in down the road. And when Stella had her appendix out I was round there with a coffee and walnut before she was out of surgery.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re different, they’re friends. You don’t even know this woman. She’s some woman off the TV.’

  ‘That’s mean. I guess maybe I feel like I know her because I’ve seen her on the telly though. But I would probably say hi to her in the street.’

  ‘And she’d probably think you were weird – a total stranger saying hi,’ he murmured, chewing his gum while leaning on the fridge, arms folded.

  I pushed him playfully out of the way and opened the fridge to take the cake out. ‘You’re only saying that because you want to eat it yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Me?’ He put his palm on his chest, feigning mock surprise. ‘I could just test it before you take it round to Mrs Z-List at number 13?’

  ‘Matt, you’re terrible. Amber Young’s our new neighbour, and it’s about time we had someone interesting move in, Z-list or A-list.’

  I’ll admit I was slightly awestruck by our new neighbour even before I met her. I wanted to know all about the other presenters she worked with on It’s Morning, the show she used to be on when she was really famous years ago. I reckon Matt was vaguely impressed by her twinkle of celebrity too, even if he pretended otherwise. His ambition as a kid was to be an actor or presenter, and I’m sure that would extend to reading the weather if pushed. He’d wanted to go to drama school but was talked out of it by his teacher who said he needed something more secure – so he’d ended up teaching. As I always jokingly point out, if he’d become an actor he may never have met me, as we met at our first jobs in the same school. ‘And that,’ I always say, ‘would have been a tragedy!’

  But sometimes I feel for him. He has this huge passion for drama, and he’s actually a really good actor and loves holding forth on the stage at presentation nights at school. I know he’d have loved a showbiz career and, even though it isn’t for me, I can understand why someone might be drawn to the theatre or TV. I feel it when I’m with Amber, that remnant sparkle of faded celebrity; she wants to be noticed, be the centre of attention. And she usually is. Only the other day, we went into Marks and Spencer and I noticed people whispering behind their hands, looking her up and down. She stands out with her appearance alone, but I sometimes forget she’s on TV, because it’s not like she’s properly famous, like she used to be.

  She says she misses her life in London, and it sounds silly, I know, but I want her to feel settled here. I feel responsible for her happiness. It’s the same with Matt – does he wish he was an actor or film director, instead of a teacher living here with me in our fake rural suburbia? I suppose everyone has regrets, wonders what if?

  Anyway, with a freshly baked angel cake I went to find out about Treetops Estate’s newest inhabitant, and to discover what her story was. After all, everyone had their reasons for moving here. Who knew what lay behind the floaty curtains and the well-groomed lawns of Mulberry Avenue? I hoped to get to know a bit more about Amber Young. So I kissed Matt on the cheek, pick
ed up the cake and headed for number 13 – unlucky for some.

  On arrival, I held my achievement proudly up to those white pillars like a sacrifice for a queen, standing in front of that huge grey-painted door. While standing on the doorstep, I looked down at the cake in my arms and hesitated; Matt was right – it was a little over the top. Less ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’, more ‘welcome to Vegas’, but it was too late now. I gave as firm a bang as I could with the knocker while trying not to drop what I now realised did look like an ornate celebration cake, and I waited for the door to open and for Amber Young to gush over the cake and be so grateful and touched she’d invite me in. But when the door didn’t open, I guessed she hadn’t heard, so I knocked again, louder this time. I waited, and waited, and with no luck at the front had a cheeky little walk round the back. If she caught me, I figured I could pretend I was looking for her, when really I wanted to see what the garden was like. She wouldn’t mind. She always seemed so nice on the TV, and besides, who could be cross with a neighbour bearing cake?

  I pressed my face between the slats in the fence and saw two glamorous wooden sunloungers sitting empty on perfectly placed decking. Obviously I’d checked out the house on the estate agent’s website, but had wanted to see the garden ‘in the flesh’ because I’d fallen in love with it. The style was all understated elegance, with soft ferns and a natural wood accent, and I wondered what it might be like to sit on one of those sunloungers sipping chilled white wine on a summer evening with Amber Young.

  I wandered back round the front; the nose of her sports car was peeping out from the garage, so she couldn’t be far away. I was worried my meringue icing might melt, so started to walk back down the gravel drive towards home, but as I did, I turned back for one last look and saw a movement from an upstairs window. I may have been mistaken – it could have been the sun on the glass – but I was sure it was her, looking down at me. I can’t explain the feeling, but despite the heat, I felt a chill and shuddered slightly, marching more quickly down the crunching gravel.