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

by Sue Watson

  ‘Matt, you asked me before… and I said no.’ I tried to say this gently, but he was devastated.

  ‘No, you said “not yet”, you didn’t say no,’ he mumbled, and I was sure he was going to burst into tears, making everything so much worse – I hate men who cry.

  So then I told him it was over, and I was moving out after New York and the floodgates opened. He just stood there in the kitchen sobbing – and I just kept hoping he’d pull himself together because I wasn’t changing my mind. As fond as I am of Matt, and as grateful as I am for him being there when I needed him the most, it was never wave-crashing love on my part. I fancied him, even may have loved him a little at the beginning, but I wouldn’t give up this new opportunity for anyone, and to be honest, he’d just get in the way. Of course I didn’t tell him that when he suggested we could get married. I just said I needed space and my work commitments were so huge I didn’t have time for a relationship… the usual PR shit we often use in our personal relationships.

  Finally, he seemed to accept what I was saying, and he made us both a cup of tea, like old times. After more talking, he even admitted he’d half-expected me to leave him, so it wasn’t a surprise, which made me feel a bit better about everything.

  ‘I’ve been in denial,’ he said. ‘I love you and all I ever wanted was a life here with you and Mia, but—’

  ‘I know, darling…’ I said, wishing he’d stop talking and go and work on his writing or something. Apart from anything else, I’d booked my hairdresser to come over that night and I couldn’t cancel her – you have to book her months in advance – so I was bloody relieved he pulled himself together before she arrived. I doubted she’d pick up on his mood, or any tension between us, but it was better if he was out of the way. These days I have to be so careful. As soon as your star rises, your price goes up, and a snippet about my home life with my stalker’s ex is worth a fortune to some people. Anyway, as I said to him, it’s been coming for a while (I’ve been bashing him over the head with hints that I’m moving on for weeks) and now it’s time for a fresh start for both of us. Hallelujah!

  So things are finally working out for me. Matt has been told, the new nanny’s settling in and I’ve suggested that she and Mia move back to Greenacres while I’m away in New York. After all the excitement and glamour of the Big Apple, I didn’t want to have to come back to Matt and his sad eyes. I’d hate myself.

  Maybe when Lucy returns from her world travels, they’ll get back together. Who knows? In fact, the more I think about it… That would be very convenient. I could leave them as I found them, a little shaken by my intrusion in their lives, but it could make their marriage stronger and leave me free to exit stage left with Mia.

  He went upstairs to work on his autobiography while I waited for Teresa, my hairdresser, to arrive. She was early, and did something fabulous with a set of profanely priced extensions that I have to say took years off me. But even my new hairstyle didn’t take away the guilt I felt about Matt. He gave me everything I thought I wanted, only for me to realise that when I had it, I didn’t want it after all. He genuinely cares, and for him it’s true love. But true love’s for other people. I don’t really deserve it, and anyway I’ll be gone in a couple of days and without me around Matt can begin to move on.

  I woke up this morning and my hair was still gorgeous even after a night’s sleep, and Matt said how nice I looked when we had breakfast together. He seems okay considering, and the only time I noticed a little anger was when I gave Mia my scrambled eggs – I only gave her a mouthful but he was really nasty.

  ‘I made them for you… not her,’ he snapped, snatching the plate away.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I said, angry at his childishness.

  ‘Nothing, but I made them specially – for you.’ He sighed, tipping up the plate and emptying the lot into the bin.

  Later, as I was going through some photos on my phone that my new agent had sent to me, he wandered into the sitting room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Amber, about before… I was angry. It wasn’t about the eggs. I just need to get used to the idea that you’re going away tomorrow, and you aren’t coming back.’

  ‘I know, but we can still get together, go for coffee and – I’m sorry, Matt, I didn’t mean to turn your world upside down.’

  ‘Well, you did that all right,’ he said, shaking his head. He sat down next to me and helped choose the best photos. ‘You look beautiful in them all,’ he said.

  ‘You mean that, don’t you?’ I smiled.

  He nodded, and I wondered idly if I’d ever meet another man who would love me like Matt did.

  ‘Do you have an early flight?’ he asked, getting up from the sofa.

  ‘God no. I hate those God awful dawn flights, I have a late afternoon one. You know I look shit before noon, and it takes me two hours to stagger out of bed and try and rev myself up these days. I’m permanently tired.’

  He laughed at this. ‘You never look like shit.’

  I rolled my eyes in a ‘you’re kidding’ way.

  ‘Amber – I want to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Okay, what?’

  ‘Would you – would you stay with me tonight?’

  ‘You mean sleep together?’ I asked. We hadn’t had sex for weeks. I didn’t want to be with him; my head was too full of Ben.

  ‘Yes… spend the night together, you and me. I’ll cook dinner, we can talk, and… I know when you get on that plane tomorrow that we’re over. I still love you… but I think a final night together would help me come to terms with what’s about to happen. If we can just say a proper goodbye.’

  What could I say? In spite of feeling tired and wanting to preserve my energy for my new career, I felt like I owed him one last night of passion. So we move Mia and the nanny over to number 13 and I agreed that Matt and I would swing from the chandeliers (well, Lucy’s Ikea light fittings) one last time.

  ‘I’m making my boeuf bourguignon,’ he calls from the kitchen, and I feel an unexpected twinge of sadness. The last time he made that the three of us sat around the table. Lucy was telling us about one of the boys in her class who was particularly cheeky but funny, and I remember almost choking, I laughed so much. God, I do miss her. I wish things could have turned out differently; well at least for me and Lucy.

  ‘And maybe some red wine?’ I say, remembering the lovely Merlot we drank that night.

  ‘Yes, I have your favourite Merlot– already opened and breathing.’

  ‘You think of everything.’

  ‘You’ll never find another like me,’ he says, and I don’t answer. It’s probably true. ‘Why don’t you pour us both a glass?’ he says. The kitchen is steamy, pans bubbling, the air warm and fragrant with herbs as he makes a rich and probably delicious gravy.

  ‘I’ll miss this,’ I say, pouring the wine into two glasses.

  ‘You don’t have to, because you’re always welcome here. I’ll be waiting,’ he says. And we clink glasses and I think how lucky I am that we can be so grown up about all this. And how things have all worked out, and for the first time in my life, I’m saying goodbye with my heart intact.

  Two Weeks Later

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Lucy

  I’ll never forget the phone call. I’d been in Nepal about a week; the signal was weak in the village I was staying in, so they’d left a message on my phone. I’d been to a local orphanage, hoping to secure some voluntary teaching work. I took my time going back to my room, enjoying the warm sunset, remembering her painting and feeling a pang of guilt that I took it from her. I remember the sounds of children playing outside, just under my window, and how the curtains in my room floated at the open window, just like my curtains on Mulberry Avenue. Then I listened to the voice message and everything changed.

  It took me a couple of days to get a flight back to the UK and I cried all the way. I didn’t know what exactly had happened or what I could possibly do, but I had to be there. The details had been sketchy,
the police didn’t want to say too much, but they called me because she’d left a letter addressed to me, with her solicitor, only to be opened in the event of her death. Even now the idea seemed farcical. Amber Young, Weather Girl from Manchester Tonight – dead. When I arrived back in the UK, the first thing I did was head straight to Dolby and Partners, where I was ushered into a room and handed an envelope with my name on.

  Hi Lucy,

  Remember me? It’s your best friend, Amber. I wanted to let you know that whatever happened between us, you were the best friend I ever had.

  I don’t really know what went wrong for us – I know you became obsessed with me – but whatever was going on in that crazy old head of yours, I know, in your own way, you loved me like a sister. And I loved you the same.

  I know I always made out like I was the best, that I could do anything. But I had no real confidence, hated myself, always have – but you’d tell me I was amazing, and say you were proud of me – and no one in my life has ever told me they’re proud of me. I wanted to tell you that.

  I also wanted to tell you that I hated your taste in films – candy floss for the brain. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but Jennifer Aniston in a ‘hilarious’ romantic sodding romp is not my idea of fun. I’ll tell you now, I hated every single minute of that shit, but you’d sit there like a nutter in your unicorn onesie, laughing and swooning. And I couldn’t help it, you made me smile, and you’d turn and look at me while handing me popcorn, cake or advice and despite your dubious film choice, I felt like someone actually cared. And in those moments I was happier than I’ve ever been, before or since.

  You gave me so much, and you asked nothing of me except my friendship. We hurt each other badly. It was all a mess and I do take some responsibility for the car crash that ensued and hope you consider us to still be besties.

  Anyway, I’m writing to ask you the biggest favour I’ve ever asked of anyone. I’m flying out to New York in a couple of days and being a mum has made me realise that I have to finally grow up. So I’ve decided to do the kind of fussy thing you always did and in the unlikely event that the plane falls from the sky and I die, I wanted to ask if you will look after Mia?

  You’ll probably never see this letter. When I die at the ripe old age of ninety-five having had a great time, my fifty-two-year-old daughter won’t need a guardian, and you’ll be in a care home barking at the moon. But just in case you’re reading this and your answer is ‘yes’, which I hope it will be, I’d like to make some stipulations; I want my little girl to have what I never had. I want her to have a mother who loves her, who puts plasters on sore knees and kisses them better. I want her to have a mother who cuddles her, plaits her hair and tells her she’s beautiful. A mother who waits up to ask her about her first date and who dries her tears when her heart’s been broken. I want her to have a mother who guides her, listens to her, asks her about her feelings, her friends, her life, and who fills a bucket with popcorn and watches trashy films with her. I don’t know anyone else but you who could do this.

  So, Lucy, if I’m not here to love my little girl, please would you do this for me? Make her feel loved and secure, and make her laugh and inspire her to be an amazing woman, and a good friend.

  One more, final request – please don’t overfeed her on cheesy romcoms and too much bloody cake, OK?

  Your best friend always,

  Amber xxx

  According to the police, Matt and Amber were in bed, they died in their sleep. The detective looking into the deaths described it as ‘a tragic accident’.

  ‘There were the remains of a couple of empty wine bottles, which would suggest they’d had a lot to drink that night and just didn’t wake up,’ the solicitor explained when I pushed for more information. ‘The nanny says they wanted some time alone,’ she said. ‘Seems they were planning to move into her old house. Her career was on the up… apparently she was going to New York to talk about a chat show. And all that ruined because they lit a couple of candles in the bedroom and fell asleep – will people ever learn?’

  Thank God Mia wasn’t in the house when the fire started; she was with the nanny in Amber’s old house ahead of Matt and Amber moving back there. I asked lots of questions, but like anything that’s difficult to accept, it was also hard to understand.

  ***

  Have you ever had a secret that you couldn’t tell a soul, even the person you love? I have…

  I’d begged her not to go out that night. I told her I loved her, but all I saw was her sluttish face laughing at me, mocking me. So I crushed her sleeping pills and put them in her cup of tea. As always the pills made her sleepy and weak. She needed me, and I liked to be needed. That night she didn’t go to meet him, she stayed home with me, and never woke up. I was 15, and I’ve carried my secret with me ever since, never telling anyone how my mother died.

  Epilogue

  Twelve Months Later

  I stand barefoot in the beautiful whitewashed room of number 13 Mulberry Avenue and wonder what kind of fate this is. From the first moment I saw Amber Young, I was drawn to her beauty, her sparkle, her lust for life. She was impossible to resist, and she’d had me in her thrall.

  Then she stole my husband, my home and my friends – then she had me arrested and convicted, and told the world how unhinged I was. But I’m trying not to be bitter, because it eats you up, so what I try to remember of Amber is the good times. Her sense of fun, the way she’d gossip and make me laugh and how her outrageous comments and foul-mouthed rants would make a sailor blush. And if I concentrate on the fun, then even after all the awfulness I might finally be able to forgive her. Sometimes I might even smile when I think of us together, two grown women dressed as unicorns sharing our lives – from first loves, to bad mothers and lost childhoods. We both lived through them.

  And now it’s up to me to break the cycle, to be one of the mothers we never had for her daughter. Mia and I now live here at number 13. Unlucky for some, but hopefully not for us. I bought the house with money from Amber’s estate – and I also bought the painting back. Amber would have wanted it here, on the huge white wall, the soft pinks and oranges swirling into a Nepal sunset… the mountains topped with glittering snow. The painting is part of Amber, her first love – a memento of her past and a way of showing Mia who her mother was.

  It’s been over a year now since Amber and Matt died, and though there’s never been any question of foul play, I can’t help but wonder what really happened that night. When Amber was involved, things were never as straightforward as they seemed… but I doubt I’ll ever know, because they both perished in the house that night, taking with them any story they might tell. I want a neat ending, a conclusion – to know exactly what happened: if the fire was an accident, or Amber planned something like this all along. Then again, that’s the Miss Marple in me. As Matt once said, ‘Life isn’t like your TV crime dramas, Lucy – everything you find isn’t a clue, things happen randomly and there isn’t always a reason.’ The sensible part of me knows the fire was just a tragic accident, but weird things happened around Amber, and I can’t help but wonder.

  Anyway, I don’t have time to play detective these days. I have a demanding two-year-old who needs me, and I love to be needed.

  My criminal record didn’t stand in the way of me being Mia’s legal guardian. My conviction didn’t involve offences against children, and the fact that I’m a trained teacher helped. I hope one day more evidence will emerge and I can erase my ‘stalking’ conviction for good and adopt Mia properly.

  I reckon Mia is Amber’s way of saying sorry, and she’s the most beautiful ‘sorry’ I ever received. And as for me, I’d rather be here with Mia than in any number of beautiful destinations around the world – one day we’ll travel together, Mia and I, and I’ll take her to Nepal to see the sun set over the Himalayas.

  The police called me earlier. Apparently, after the accident the nanny handed a folder of Matt’s to the police. There was so much to wade through it�
��s only now the police are able to look through some of the previously logged evidence and it turns out the folder is Matt’s ‘autobiography.’ It was his work in progress he’d called ‘Matt Metcalf – A Life of Drama’. He’d always kept a diary and I can’t help but feel sad that no one will ever read it now. When he gave his memoir to the nanny, he said, ‘Keep this, and if anything happens to Amber or me – give it to the police.’ I can’t help but wonder why he did that, but I guess I’ll never know.

  Anyway, the police are going to look through Matt’s writing and let me know later this week if there are any developments. I doubt Matt’s luvvie ‘memoirs’ will reveal much, unless they want a detailed account of Year 10’s production of Bugsy Malone.

  As for Mia, I tell her she has another mummy in heaven, and sometimes when I look at her, the likeness takes my breath away. But Mia will have a very different childhood. Amber and I were damaged children, but unlike Amber, I’m not a damaged adult. As much as I’m here for Mia, she has saved me – I now have the future I wanted, and I’ll be a good mum, making sure she’s loved and supported, happy and safe here in our forever home.

  I smile at my little girl, who’s dancing for me now on the soft pink rug, as I lay out the cupcakes we made together earlier for our rug picnic. She’s shouting ‘Mummy’ excitedly and clapping her little hands together and I have to stop and take it in – it’s the most beautiful noise I’ve ever heard, as beautiful as the sound of birdsong in Miss Brownley’s garden.

  We’re both so happy here. I try not to think about the horrible things that happened, the dead bird, the lipsticked message, running taps, baby bootees, candles smoking and all the weird phone calls and texts. I think instead about Amber and I dressed as unicorns, drinking too much Prosecco, and how she made me laugh so much it came out of my nose.