by Pip Drysdale
He was sitting beside me, reading the paper. I held an empty cup of coffee in my other hand, and the Eurostar was loud as it rolled along the tracks. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the window: I was looking for an answer out there, considering my options. I still needed to get rid of the gun, but how? A river. A bridge. A dumpster. A neighbour’s rubbish bin. I just didn’t know.
My head was still heavy. My heart was still shocked. And every time I closed my eyes I still saw Sophie Reed’s face. Imagined Angus’s dark eyes just before she died. And I wondered what her parents had done with the email I sent – whether they had read it yet, passed it on. Whether Detective Rouhani would find out about it from Caz when they finally spoke. Surely he would say something now that Angus was dead?
Those same thoughts would play in a continual loop through my mind, rarely changing order, for months on end. They would usually be followed by me wondering what Angus would have done to me if he’d lived, if he’d realised I’d sent that email and I didn’t have what was on that phone to protect me. And sometimes I thought of Kim too. Wondered what would have happened if I’d messaged her back instead of letting Angus block her. Whether she would have told Angus. What he would have done then. And then I’d run through how things might have gone if I’d told Charlotte what was going on, if I’d taken what I knew her advice would be: ‘Just leave.’ And I’d question over and over again whether I made the right choices.
But eventually I’d always come to the same conclusion: yes, I could have made a different choice at any time, flicked a different domino, set off a different chain of events. But who’s to say an alternate pattern would have turned out any better? If I couldn’t predict how a Google search, a sick day and my first attempts at revenge would turn out, how could I possibly know the outcome of a choice I never made? And in a small way that brings me solace.
I’d called his mother back, with my excuse about the police having needed my phone. We’d both sobbed, and then again at the funeral a week later. I’d stood in their row during the service, the priest’s voice booming off the walls, Eleanor sniffling and his father’s eyes dry. It was held in the same Wiltshire church Angus was christened in – old stone walls, hip-height ceramic vases full of white flowers and greenery and the smell of lilies throughout the church.
I haven’t spoken to Alison or Harry since the funeral. But Jeremy checked in on me every month or so for a while. He was kind at the funeral too, seeking me out and checking I was okay, shuffling me away from Kim when she arrived in her big black sunglasses. But eventually that faded away as well. As did my fear that I would be found out.
But it’s a funny thing to get away with murder. You think there will be relief when you’re home free, but there’s not. There’s just this darkness that settles on your soul. And a realisation that nobody will ever really know you again. That you will never again be able to choose ‘truth’ in a game of ‘truth or dare’.
Because it doesn’t matter how well David and I knit our lives together, how closely our souls intertwine; there will always be a part of mine that he will never see. A little ball of bramble that I will have to deal with all alone. And that’s as close to a happy ending as I will ever get.
But I like the way he looks at me – like I’m still the girl I was – and the way he feels behind me when we sleep. And I know that one day I will stop thinking of Angus. I will no longer fear turning on the radio in case they’re playing our song. I know that one day he will become just another thing that changed me, that made me who I am. Because that’s how life works: Some love affairs change you forever. Someone comes into your orbit and swivels you on your axis, like the wind working on a rooftop weather vane. And when they leave, as the wind always does, you are different; you have a new direction. And it’s not always north.
Acknowledgements
The only reason The Sunday Girl is out in the world is because a group of amazing people took a chance on me. So first of all: thank you to the brilliant team at Simon & Schuster Australia. Fiona Henderson for not only publishing me but always being 100% in my corner (you are gold), Dan Ruffino for your encouragement (like sunlight for writers) and willingness to help me get there, Sheila Vijeyarasa for passing my manuscript along in the first place (not to mention being a next-level-amazing human being). Thank you too to Michelle Swainson for your watchful eye, and Jamie Criswell and the marketing team for all your work. And to my editors: Vanessa Mickan and Claire de Medici. Without your eagle-eyed ability to point out the sticky bits and my blind spots, this wouldn’t be half what it is.
Then there is Bella Zanesco: thank you for getting the whole ball rolling. Bells, without your friendship and pep-talks, who knows how long it might have taken to get this onto the shelves. Ben Evans for your guidance and encouragement on my earliest drafts. To my parents for always being there; for encouraging me to be curious, take risks and find my own path even when it didn’t go to plan; especially when it didn’t go to plan. To my sister for your friendship and love; for being my biggest fan and always telling me I could ‘do it’ no matter what ‘it’ was. My uncle, Michael Herbert: despite being an English Literature professor more accustomed to the likes of Ulysses, you supported my writing from the very first time you read it. I was still so fragile back then and that made all the difference.
Tabitha Wrathall for being such a great friend and willing accomplice on our ‘research trips’. Reinet Keyter for your love and consistent emotional support before, during and after my heartbreak season. Asher Crawford for calling me on my bullshit every damned time (Paris, anyone?) and loving me anyway. Kerrianne Blondel for all our hilarious chats about psychopaths, players and narcissists and the hours we’ve spent laughing about them until we cried. To Tana Adelmann for answering all my questions regarding the law and police procedures: without you I would have had to get arrested so I saw how things ran. To Daleya Marohn for being a magical photographer and serendipity connoisseur. Delia Hendrie for your kindness and chats in the kitchen. And to my friends in finance and property, who patiently answered a myriad of questions.
And finally, thank you to the men in my life: the ones who showed me how to trust again and the ones that burned me to a crisp. Without you, I wouldn’t be the woman I am now. And for that I am eternally grateful.
About the author
Pip Drysdale is a writer, actor and musician who grew up in Africa and Australia. At 20 she moved to New York to study acting, worked in indie films and off-off Broadway theatre, started writing songs and made four records. After graduating with a BA in English, Pip moved to London where she dated some interesting men and played shows across Europe. The Sunday Girl is her first novel and she is working on a second.
To find out more about Pip head to:
pipdrysdale.com
Facebook.com/pipdrysdale
Instagram @pipdrysdale
SIMON & SCHUSTER
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THE SUNDAY GIRL
First published in Australia in 2018 by
Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited
Suite 19A, Level 1, Building C, 450 Miller Street, Cammeray, NSW 2062
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Visit our website at www.simonandschuster.com.au
© Pip Drysdale 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
Cover design: Christabelle Designs
Cover image: lambada/Getty Images
Author photograph: Frank Faller
ISBN 978-1-9256-8583-1 (ebook)
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