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

by Sue Watson

  She went on to tell me that Michael had left a note saying he couldn’t live without her. ‘He wrote that when I left him to be with Ben, I’d taken away his heart and his future. I only found it later. It broke me – but I never told anyone, how could I? If anyone found out, I could have been accused of murder, or manslaughter at least. I told everyone Michael had been depressed, and that seemed to be accepted and I almost believed it myself, that I played no part in Michael’s death, that there was some kind of chemical imbalance in his brain, which was depression and had nothing to do with me. But what I didn’t know was that only the day before he killed himself he told his sister about me leaving him for Ben and how he didn’t want to live without me. She openly blamed me for Michael’s death, tormented me for years by telling the press I was leaving him, that I had a lover and that was the reason he took his own life. I just kept denying it, and after a while she gave up, but she was right to blame me. I still blame myself.’ I remember her tears; she still felt such guilt and grief all these years later. And now she’s on the phone, scared to death it’s come back to haunt her and I’m going to reveal her secret. Just like she revealed mine.

  ‘You have nothing to gain from telling the story,’ she’s saying now.

  ‘Nothing to lose either, Amber. Thanks to you I have nothing.’

  But she isn’t listening, she’s thinking about how this will affect her. ‘You have no idea what this would do to me. Think of his poor family too,’ she says, clearly desperately grasping at straws. ‘Just imagine the fallout. No one would believe you anyway. Besides, you wouldn’t betray my confidence like that.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I told the court about your teacher because I had to prove you were… obsessive, that you liked women – that you’d been abused, whatever. It’s hardly the same thing – it’s not like you virtually killed someone and hid the fucking note.’

  ‘My secret was just as important and precious to me. Yet you think your secret is more important than mine,’ I say. ‘Which doesn’t surprise me, because you think the world revolves around Amber Young and it’s only her that matters. But a secret is a secret.’

  ‘You… you can’t take this away from me,’ she’s saying, her tone moving from anger to anxiousness. ‘Not now, not when I’ve worked so hard.’

  ‘Worked so hard at what? Destroying people, their marriages, their lives, their careers, for your own selfish happiness? Sharing my secret helped to make up the jury’s minds and every other right-thinking person in the country was with them, because you made it seem like I’m… damaged. Unstable, obsessive… but it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘We’re all fucking damaged, Lucy.’

  ‘Yes… some more than others. But the fact is I can’t forgive you for what you did to me. And watching you waving dead flowers on screen this morning helped make up my mind.’

  ‘I didn’t say you’d left the dead flowers.’

  ‘But you put them there, didn’t you? If you went to the police there’d be no CCTV of me leaving my house because I didn’t. I was there all morning. I didn’t leave any dead flowers on your doorstep. There is no stalker, is there, Amber?’

  ‘I’m not a total bitch. There’s nothing to tie you to the flowers. Yes, okay, you got me, I put them there, but I didn’t do it to drop you in it.’

  ‘But you sent them to yourself to keep the story alive, to keep yourself relevant regardless of the damage to me.’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t say it was you who left them.’

  ‘You implied it might be me, and that’s all your adoring public needed to send out a lynch mob. But I’m glad it’s given you another headline. You won’t be forgotten like last time,’ I add sarcastically. ‘Anyway, I’ve been in touch with the press and now my suspended sentence is up, I can tell my story,’ I say. ‘So someone’s coming to interview me in the morning.’

  ‘NO! Lucy, no!’

  Then I add a final caveat. ‘Along with the potential murder of your own husband, there’s also the matter of the disappearing husbands that you’ve stolen. You seem to have taken mine and Geraldine’s, and I’m sure the press will love thinking up a weather-relevant headline for that. In fact, I think I’ll suggest one when I chat with them: “Weather Girl in Husband Stealing Hurricane”.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Of course I would. As I said, I’ve got nothing to lose any more. Thanks to you.’

  Silence.

  ‘But then again, what would that achieve? I might get a few quid for the story, a nice warm taste of revenge, but that wouldn’t last long.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t achieve anything,’ she agrees.

  ‘It wouldn’t be enough to take me round the world, would it?’ I ask, offering her a lifeline.

  ‘So what is it you want, Lucy?’

  ‘I think you know me well enough to know I’m a fair person and I believe in justice. Not the kind of justice I was on the receiving end of in that court, where your lies and lawyers ran rings around me, and not the kind of lies you were peddling on TV this morning. I want something far more honest and civilised.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Oh, Amber, now you’re being vulgar…’

  ‘Just tell me!’

  ‘I want the painting.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think it’s only fair.’

  ‘It’s not fair… It’s worth thousands. It’s all I have… of him. Besides, I want to leave it to Mia when I die.’

  ‘Don’t bring Mia into this.’ I pause but she doesn’t capitulate, so I continue. ‘I can see we aren’t getting anywhere and you obviously don’t want to give me the painting, so l’ll just have to take my pleasure from letting the world know the truth about Amber Young. But where to begin? The stolen husbands? The dead husband? The TV star who slashed her own tyres, pretended to have a stalker and took her innocent best friend to court and ruined her life? An embarrassment of riches, wouldn’t you say? I might even get that criminal record overturned… get compensation for a wrongful conviction. Mmm, on second thoughts, forget the painting…’

  ‘No… No… Let me think. I can get you some money. It would just kill me to lose that painting. I love it. I don’t care what it’s worth, I just want to keep it. It’s mine. It’s my past…’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you began your wrecking spree.’

  ‘Look, I’ll have it valued, and instead of giving you the painting, I’ll give you the money.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ I say. ‘I want you to give me something that’s precious to you – because other than Mia, I don’t think there’s anything or anyone else you care about. You stole my life, you took everything precious from me, so now you have to pay me back – with the painting.’

  ‘Take the money, it’ll save you the trouble of selling it…’ she tries.

  ‘No. The painting or nothing. I’m going to put the phone down and talk to my friends at the press.’

  ‘No, don’t, don’t. Okay, it looks like the only way I can come out of this with my career and reputation intact is to give you the fucking painting, you sad cow. It’s yours,’ she says. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy.’ And she slams down the phone.

  I must have seemed so malleable, so easy to manipulate, and Amber must find it hard to realise boring, safe old Lucy has a backbone after all – and quite a sting in her tail.

  ***

  Mum was so busy making up for lost time she never had any left for me. But he did – he watched me, and from the vile, disgusting words he murmured under his breath at me I knew what he was thinking. I also knew that when he tried to touch me, she wouldn’t stop him. She didn’t care enough to protect her only child, and that thought alone hurt me to the core.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lucy

  Amber’s painting arrived early this week and I’ve already found a private buyer – it was a quick sale, which is what I wanted. It isn’t life-changing, but it’s enough for me leave
the UK and travel around for a couple of years. Next week I’m off. Starting in Nepal (I like the irony of starting there), I’ll spend a few months there and then move on. I hope in the next couple of years to see America, Australia and the Far East – all those places you see on the TV and on world maps that live in your head but you never think you’ll visit.

  I wasn’t comfortable taking from someone else, but Amber owes me, and she needed to be taught a lesson. She’s spent so many years trampling over other people, without a thought for the consequences. I think it was time she paid up. People like Amber will do anything to get what they want. And at the moment I’m struggling with something that I want from her. She was so angry about the painting, I doubted she’d agree to my request. But yesterday I called her, and told her I’d be off on my travels very soon. I also asked her for a huge favour.

  ‘Before I go away, there’s something very important I want to ask you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘I would love to come and say goodbye to Mia. I miss her so much, Amber. I know it’s been horrible between us, but I love her and surely you wouldn’t deny me – or her – a final goodbye.’ I could hear my voice cracking with emotion. ‘Throughout all this I’ve thought of Mia so much, and to be honest I find life hard without her, and just to see her, to give her a last cuddle, hold her a while, play with her, is all I ask.’

  I was amazed when, after only a few seconds, she didn’t keep me waiting or even try to torture me. She said, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Come over tomorrow.’

  At first I was elated. I rushed out and bought some toys and a little dress for Mia and was so excited about seeing her, my heart ached with happiness. But now I keep thinking about what Kirsty said, about Amber being dangerous – and she’s making it so easy for me to see Mia, I’m suspicious. I think I might just be walking into trouble. She’s so competitive, and I won the last round. She hasn’t had her pound of flesh and she might be looking to pay me back. As I pointed out to her, if I go over there I’ll be contravening my restraining order. I could be sent to prison.

  ‘That’s okay. It’s all in the past. I’ve forgiven you,’ she said.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I replied, sarcasm dripping down the phone. ‘But I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you… and I’m not sure I trust you either.’

  ‘But you want to see Mia.’

  ‘Yes I do, very much.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to risk it, won’t you?’

  I agreed to go over there and before I got off the phone, she asked if I’d sold the painting. She seemed pleased when I told her I’d only got half the expected amount for it.

  ‘Serves you right, you thief,’ she said, laughing victoriously.

  ‘You’ve never taken anything seriously,’ I remarked, ‘especially other people’s marriage vows.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy, chill out – you’re such a prude. I can see why Matt was so quick to move on. He needed a bit of fun, someone who wasn’t so serious.’ And she laughed again. More to herself this time.

  ‘You can keep him. I’d rather have the money from the painting any day,’ I said, ‘even if it wasn’t as much as I thought. I can get to the places I’ve always wanted to go.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she said, and put down the phone. She wasn’t interested in where I was going, but that was typical Amber; if it didn’t involve her, it wasn’t relevant.

  As desperate as I am to see Mia, I’m not that keen on coming face to face with Amber after all this time. Kirsty says she’s told Stella she’s going to America to do a talk show; apparently she’s going to be ‘the English Oprah’. I imagine she’s pretty unbearable, showing off and being really full of herself. Funny really, Matt always said she was full of herself; who’d ever have thought things would’ve turned out like they have? Kirsty says Amber brought champagne to the book club last time but was a bit rude about Marjorie’s vegan quiche, which caused an upset. I hate to say it, but I think I would have enjoyed that and back when we were friends Amber and I would have giggled all the way home about ‘quiche-gate’. Meanwhile, apparently Stella’s annoyed because Amber’s interviewing for nannies now she’s in the money, and Stella feels used and dumped. Welcome to the club, Stella. Kirsty also says Amber’s writing her autobiography, and apparently she received a six-figure advance.

  ‘We’ll be able to buy it next Christmas and read all about her life,’ Kirsty said sarcastically.

  ‘I might give it a miss.’ I laughed. ‘She tells such lies, it’ll all be fiction anyway.’

  It just shows you it doesn’t matter what kind of a person you are, if you’re famous people will pay to hear your story, and you can’t turn the TV on these days without her popping up. She was all over the daytime talk shows last week – looked like she’d had botox, and had long, voluminous extensions in her now caramel-and-copper hair. She looked like an airbrushed version of her old self.

  I have to confess, I too am guilty of presenting a rather airbrushed version of myself. And it comes from years of suppressing who I really am – the angry, fighting teen, the about-to-be-expelled schoolgirl is never far from the surface. It was, in effect, what happened to Miss Brownley, my lovely teacher who caused me to make the change, to be someone else.

  The day after my terrible visit, I was still hurt and angry and had a particularly nasty argument with a boy in my class, who accused me of being ‘a lezzer in love with Miss Brownley’. I lashed out and ended up in the headmistress’s office.

  ‘I thought you were finally managing your anger issues appropriately, but this… this reaction to someone making a mean remark this morning was wholly inappropriate, Lucy. I’m recommending you be moved elsewhere,’ Miss Craddock said sternly. ‘St Cuthbert’s has a special scheme for students like you. They can help you with your problems and…’

  I didn’t hear anything else. I knew kids who’d gone to Cuthbert’s ‘special scheme’, kids on the edge, who sniffed glue or cut themselves. There was much teen ‘folklore’ about the place from my contemporaries. Colourful and lurid tales were told about the angry place behind locked doors, where plastic cutlery was a necessity; a spoon could take out an eye.

  ‘I’m not going there, Miss, no way – I’m not bloody mental!’ I yelled in the headmistress’s face.

  She went on to dress it all up as some wonderful educational establishment where I could ‘find help and support’, but I knew different.

  ‘I fail to see what your defence could possibly be with regard to attacking James Mackie and I’m afraid I will have to suspend you with a view to moving you to the St Cuthbert’s—’

  I didn’t wait until she’d finished her sentence. It wasn’t just about me fighting James Mackie. I reckoned that Miss Brownley had said something after I trashed her home the previous day. She must have been straight on the phone to old Craddock and got me expelled and, worse, committed to what everyone knew was the school equivalent of a mental health careclinic.

  ‘Has Miss Brownley said something?’ I asked, furious that the woman I’d worshipped had dropped me in it.

  ‘No, in fact Miss Brownley has been one of the few teachers singing your praises of late…’ she started, but I didn’t believe her. Daisy had done this; she’d done exactly what Daisy Buchanan did to Gatsby and abandoned me.

  ‘So unless you have anything further to say, I shall be making the recommendation,’ she said, pen poised over paperwork to sign away my future.

  ‘Miss Brownley kissed me,’ I heard myself say. I was sixteen but hadn’t a clue what I was doing, the implications of what I was saying. I wanted to get Daisy into trouble with Miss Craddock because I thought she’d done the same to me. I found out a long time later that Miss Brownley hadn’t told on me; it was the maths teacher Mr Jackson who’d said I was being difficult in class and I’d just flipped. What I told Miss Craddock was a lie, a total lie, but the minute I’d said it and I saw her face I knew this was big. And when she asked me t
o repeat what I’d just told her, I did – and elaborated even more. I knew I couldn’t take it back.

  ‘Did she… touch you?’

  I nodded. At this, she called the deputy Mr Darlston to come in, and my mother was called (who arrived an hour later, wearing a stained top and reeking of alcohol, much to my shame). It was all such a mess, this circus I’d started, and it went too fast too soon, so by the time I realised the significance of what I’d said it was too late to change my story. Miss Brownley was suspended later that day. I never expected that and cried because I felt so guilty about the impact my words had had on the life of someone I cared about. I was horrified. I cried so much everyone assumed it was because of the way Miss Brownley had ‘abused’ me and Miss Craddock kept apologising for what I’d ‘been through’. All I could think about was how lovely Miss Brownley had been to me in her cosy little home that smelled of warm garlic, and knowing I’d never go there again made me cry even more.

  I heard she’d given up teaching and gone to live in Ireland. Julie Baker’s mother told her that Miss Brownley had ‘a breakdown’ after what had happened. And Julie, who knew something had gone on involving me, but wasn’t sure what, took great delight in telling the class that Miss Brownley’s ‘breakdown’ was all my fault. But I already knew.

  I often think of Daisy Brownley even now. I try not to think about what happened afterwards, but I go back to my sixteenth summer and that evening in her garden, the happiest time in my life. I’ve spent all these years since trying to find that happiness again, and all my life it’s eluded me. I hoped by loving Matt I could erase the past, cover it with new, more wonderful happy things, but even my wedding day didn’t come close to that almost kiss, the soft touch of her fingers on my mouth, the potent scent of roses and my first awakening to something like love.