The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  I remember the bemused looks on the boys’ faces. Their whining protest of, ‘It wasn’t me’.

  What if they were telling the truth?

  The more I think about their reaction, the greater my horror grows that they weren’t simply covering their tracks. They seemed genuinely at a loss.

  Heat rises over my skin, emanating from the envelope. I need to know what’s in it. Carrie is talking, and I nod, make noises of agreement, but I’ve no idea what she’s on about. I have to be alone. I have to get a look at the contents.

  ‘I need the loo.’

  Jumping up, I bang my knee on the table and make our drinks jump.

  ‘Is it your stomach again?’ asks Carrie, but she’s talking to my back.

  Sixteen

  The walls of the cubicle are claustrophobically close and seem to breathe against me, sucking air from my lungs. I struggle to pull the envelope from my inner pocket in the confined space. It yanks free suddenly.

  ‘Ow!’ My elbow throbs where it hit the door. I cradle it, but only for a second, because the brown paper and glaring red lettering are calling me.

  What’s inside this time? Another photograph? Or something worse? No point putting the moment off any longer.

  Counting slowly to twenty, I try to calm myself then flush the loo, just in case Carrie decides to come into the ladies’ to check on me. The rushing water disguises the tearing open of the envelope, the rip of the picture being liberated from its paper prison.

  Once again, the photo is fuzzy, as if taken from a distance. But there’s no mistaking who it is: tousled hair, bright smile shining from tanned skin – it’s Simon. It’s impossible to make out where he is as the picture is cropped closely to his face.

  I turn it over and see a message in the same red pen.

  There are no secrets from me

  My stomach lurches. I lean over the bowl gasping and spitting out the saliva that fills my mouth. The feeling passes as quickly as it comes, but I’m still light-headed as the implications of the image spin around my mind.

  The boys wouldn’t be behind this. Whoever it is must know about Simon and me and is warning Carrie. They think I’ll betray her again, either with Simon or some other way. Once a cheat, always a cheat.

  Carrie wouldn’t be able to piece together what’s happened just from this photograph, though. I don’t understand why this person doesn’t simply come out with the bald truth. There’s nothing to gain from playing games.

  Unless they don’t want to help her. The perpetrator could be someone whose ultimate goal is to goad and hurt her with the truth, rather than warn her.

  Either way, I’m too involved in what’s going on to show Carrie this message. I’ve got to act to protect myself as much as her, so I’ll get to the bottom of who is behind it and put them straight. Hopefully before Carrie discovers what a cow I’ve been.

  It’s all well and good declaring to myself that I’ll track down the message-sender, but I’ve no idea how. What I need to do is come up with a plan – and in order to do that, I need some time alone to think. So after one orange juice, I make my excuses to my friend, pleading workload.

  ‘Deadline is looming, and those beads aren’t going to attach themselves. Plus, I’m kind of toying with the idea of adding some asymmetrical iridescent metallic fringing across the bodice and to the back of the dress.’ To illustrate, I stand and motion diagonally from my waist across my body and over my shoulder.

  ‘Woah! Sounds lush!’ Carrie gasps. ‘Your dresses are so colourful and sparkly. I’ll never understand why you spend your whole time in boring black.’

  ‘Flattering, easy black, which goes with anything.’

  ‘Dull, unimaginative, depressing black. You want to get some brighter colours going on in your wardrobe – I’m telling you, it’s impossible not to feel happier when you’re wearing something vibrant. It’s my fashion Prozac.’

  With that, she zips up her yellow coat over her clashing lime-green jumper and we’re on our way. She keeps going on about my clothes, though.

  ‘Go on, borrow some of my things. We’ve got a similar build, similar colouring. We could be sisters.’

  ‘I’ve got twenty years on you. I’d look ridiculous in half the stuff you wear.’

  She pulls a despairing face. As we reach her house and I say goodbye, I ask her if she fancies coming to mine tonight.

  ‘I’ll cook a curry, and we can watch some more of your terrible choice in films,’ I try to tease, to cover my desperation to get away. ‘You might as well stay over, too.’

  ‘Who could resist an offer like that? Six o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  She knows I don’t like to eat late, it messes up my routine.

  * * *

  When I leave, the group of boys are over the other side of the main road, away from the cul-de-sac. They eye me warily as I walk over. The smile on my face doesn’t seem to reassure them.

  ‘Hey! How you doing? Look, I wanted to apologise for earlier. I completely got the wrong end of the stick and should never have blamed you guys for something you hadn’t done. I’m so, so sorry. No hard feelings, eh?’

  A wall of silence absorbs my apologies. I swing my arms, clap my hands together. Awkward.

  ‘So, umm, actually, I wondered if you’d seen anyone hanging around here? Anyone a bit odd or out of place?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Great! ‘You.’

  ‘Ah, I probably deserve that. I shouldn’t have had a go at you all. I really am sorry. I’ll be honest, I’m worried about my friend. If you do see anyone suspicious, especially if it’s anything to do with that house there, that I just came out of – the one with the red door, see? – I’d be really grateful if you’d let me know.’

  Blank looks all round.

  ‘Here, to show I’m not completely insane, have twenty quid for your trouble.’

  The leader of the gang, the cheeky one who pretended to take my photo with his hands, snatches the crisp note from me so quickly the friction warms my fingertips. He doesn’t speak, though. None of them does. They all continue to stare, giving nothing away. I’ve no idea if I’m getting through or not, but I can’t blame them for not trusting the apologies of a woman who shouts at them one minute and bribes them the next. I feel terrible for tearing a strip off them, and even worse now for trying to ask a favour, but I’ve no choice.

  ‘The money’s yours either way, but could you do that for me, do you think? I promise I’m not mad.’ The smile I give is genuine.

  The one with the horrible skull balaclava leans on his handlebars and shrugs. ‘Whatever.’ Then the leader wheels away, and his little gang follow behind. They almost certainly won’t be doing me any favours, but hopefully they’ve accepted my apology enough not to tell their parents about me.

  * * *

  Back at home, I feel better for knowing those kids might keep an eye on Carrie, but obviously I need a better solution than that – apart from anything else, they’ll be back at school when half-term ends. Over the years I’ve discovered that my best ideas tend to sneak up on me when I’m relaxed and not actually thinking about the problem, so after I’ve checked and double-checked the locks, admonishing myself for the prickling unease I feel that someone is out to get me, I start to work.

  First I pull out the notes from a meeting with a fifty-something woman I had the other night and look over the sketches. This will be her second wedding to the same man, and she wants a real showstopper. My background in costume design comes in handy, as people seem more and more inspired by shows such as Strictly Come Dancing, and want something classy but theatrical. One preliminary sketch was a real favourite, and I make annotations as my imagination fills in the blanks to bring it to life. Flock lace with a V-neck slashed to the waist for sex appeal, but a fan insert in velvet to keep it demure. Broad strips of contrasting haematite and crystal rhinestones which will catch the light beautifully for that first dance, while a panelled skirt will flare out during the turns.

&
nbsp; Satisfied, I put it to one side. The rest of the day is spent peacefully creating swirling, glittering patterns reminiscent of the sway of the sea over the bodice of a prom dress. It’s slow work, as each of the 8,000 beads must be hand-stitched in place, but it will be worth it in the end. This is probably my favourite part of dressmaking: there is real joy in seeing the details of a plan come together and putting those finishing touches to it that make it truly special. The absolute best bit, though? Seeing the expression on the client’s face. There is always a nerve-racking moment of queasy anticipation that they might hate it, I’m studying their face… and then when it breaks into a smile, a wave of joy crashes over me. There’s nothing like it.

  * * *

  Operation Protect Carrie is still without a plan when I finally put the outfit away. There’s just time for me to sneak in a quick call to the kids before I start to cook. Feeling cowardly, I opt for Edward, and he answers almost immediately.

  ‘I wanted to apologise for earlier,’ I explain. ‘You’re right, I haven’t explained myself at all, and you and your sister deserve to know the truth about everything. It’s just going to take me a little while to work up to it, but I’ll get there, I promise. I’ve no right to ask, but I’d be so grateful if you could give me a bit more time.’

  ‘We’ve been patient this long, Mum, we can wait a little longer.’

  Mum. He called me Mum!

  ‘You sure?’ I check.

  ‘As long as it is a little, and not a lot.’

  Fingers crossed, the grimace on my face at that dig doesn’t show in my voice. ‘Of course. It’ll be soon. I’m psyching myself up for it.’

  A soft chuckle. ‘No matter what you tell us, we won’t bite.’ A pause. ‘And don’t worry about Elise, I’ll talk to her. She’ll soon calm down.’

  ‘I hope so.’ It’s a fervent wish.

  * * *

  With a handful of ‘I love you’s, I say a reluctant goodbye and get chopping vegetables. I’m giving the curry a final stir when my phone rings.

  ‘Hey, could I park on your drive, please? Your road is chock-a-block. I’d drive home and walk to yours, but I’ve got chemo tomorrow first thing, so… ’

  ‘No problem! Drive round the block, and by the time you get back I’ll have moved my car into the garage.’

  I do just that, reversing my Audi in, closing the garage door and running to the bottom of the driveway to open the gates so my friend’s ancient Golf can get in. Then I sprint back inside, just in time to stop the rice from boiling over. Perfect timing!

  When Carrie walks in she’s brandishing a bottle of fizzy apple juice, as neither of us is a big drinker. Minutes later, she’s tucking into the food and waxes lyrical about the curry, which is always her favourite meal of mine. Pleasure mingles with sadness that my own children aren’t here to enjoy my home cooking, but I push away the impossible thought and focus, instead, on enjoying the company of the young woman I’ve come to think of as a surrogate daughter.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it. It’s better than any takeaway, hands down,’ she grins as she eats.

  ‘It’s easy to make – I’ll have to teach you.’

  The words make us both stall momentarily as realisation sinks in. Carrie won’t have time to learn new skills and use them. She’s so young, only twenty-four, and already her life is slipping away from beneath her like shifting sand.

  Morning is a flurry as we both have to be at our appointments early. I’m feeling brighter and more refreshed after a better night’s sleep knowing someone else was in the house with me. It’s also a relief to know that I don’t need to worry about Carrie discovering any nasty presents today, because we’ve arranged to meet up for coffee after we’re both done. My ‘plan’, such as it is, is to get to her place before her and check for anything untoward before she arrives. It’s not much, but it’s the best I’ve come up with so far.

  I’m trying to chivvy Carrie out of the front door, but she’s busy attempting to give me tips on how to chat up men, despite my protests that I’m not interested.

  ‘… and I said, “if you think my name is pretty, wait until you hear my number”. Smooth, eh?’ She steps out of the door and falls silent. I almost bump into her.

  ‘What’s up?’ My question is answered as I look over her shoulder. ‘What the… ?’

  Someone has smashed the windscreen of her car. The shattered glass sparkles over the seats as if someone has scattered a handful of diamonds. The tyres have been shredded, the rubber reduced to ribbons.

  Carrie doesn’t move. I push around her to get a better look. A glance at the cars parked along both sides of the street show they are all intact. Carrie’s Volkswagen is the only one that’s been vandalised.

  Someone has deliberately chosen Carrie’s car. This is personal. Someone’s targeting her.

  It has to be the person behind the sinister messages.

  I’m watching you

  * * *

  There are no secrets from me

  Who is doing this? Why would anyone pick on a dying woman?

  Beside me, Carrie stands as still as a dressmaker’s mannequin. Hands hanging loose at her sides, the only movement coming from the tears running down her face. Then she sinks to the floor, covering her face with her hands, whispering to herself. I can barely make out the words.

  ‘I can’t take any more. When will it be over?’

  Seventeen

  Then

  I didn’t have friends, so I created them. Unlike Jessica, who no longer spoke to me since her parents told her I made up stories, my imaginary friends were loyal and always there for me. There was a whole gang of us in my bedroom sometimes, and we’d talk about all the mean people at school. Who cares? We didn’t need them anyway.

  Sometimes I had imaginary parents, too. They were quite old, spent years trying and failing to have kids of their own, and then they adopted me. They called me their little miracle and showered me with love and presents. They were perfect.

  ‘Sweetheart, how about a game of football with your old man, eh?’ make-believe Dad asked. He liked to play with me in our huge garden, which didn’t have empty beer cans sown across the overgrown lawn as if hoping they’d magically sprout more. The fence surrounding it didn’t look like broken teeth; it was perfectly straight, no holes, and painted a pristine white.

  ‘I’m not sure, Daddy, it’s starting to get dark,’ I reluctantly decided.

  ‘How about a bedtime story instead?’

  ‘That would be lovely!’

  It would drown out the sounds of shouting that punched through the floor from below. I should have run downstairs and got between Mum and Dad. I should have protected Mum. I wanted to, but my own hurt held me in place, after last time, when she sided with Dad’s lies about me, making out I was a telltale fibber to Mr and Mrs Norbury. All I’d wanted was to get rid of Dad so that he’d never hit her again, and she’d been too scared to back me up.

  I’d learned an important lesson, though: I was the only person who would look out for me.

  Now I put my hands over my ears so that I could hear make-believe Dad better.

  ‘Tell me a happy story,’ I begged. Sometimes I’d tell him I was too old for bedtime stories, but he always replied that nobody was ever too old for fairy tales.

  A bang of something heavy being knocked over. A shriek. I pressed my hands tighter against my head and started rocking. My useless real parents were ruining my fantasy. Dad was in an even worse mood than usual at the moment because he’d split up with his other woman, Mum had told me this morning. She’d whispered the news to me before he got up, so that I knew to be extra careful. We needn’t have worried, as the morning had actually been easier than usual, because he’d called Mum on his mobile, from upstairs, demanding that she bring him breakfast in bed.

  Dad had had a whole day and evening to get worked up, though. It sounded as if he was taking it out on Mum. Although…

  I took my hands away from my ears. Strained to he
ar.

  What I made out was scarier than any screams.

  It was silent as the grave. Mum’s grave?

  Heavy footsteps. The front door slammed so hard the house trembled. I didn’t dare move, too scared of what I might find. Was that a groan? I stood. Took a step. Edged to the door. Darted down the stairs so fast I almost tripped.

  Mum lay on the floor, the coffee table on top of her. Blood covered her face.

  She was dead.

  My muscles strained as I picked up the solid wooden coffee table and moved it off her body.

  Her fingers twitched.

  Her right arm flapped.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  It took me a moment to work out that she was trying to sit up, but together we managed it.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ I panted, once she was propped up against the sofa.

  Her nose was strangely flattened, and blood gushed from it like a tap, turning her clothes sticky red.

  ‘No, no. I’ll be fine in a minute. No need for a fuss.’

  A cough made her wince. One arm wrapped itself instinctively around her ribs.

  ‘Please, Mum.’

  ‘It looks worse than it is.’

  That was one of her favourite phrases. I knew better than to argue. Instead I got a bowl of water and a cloth and started cleaning her up. It was something I was good at. A glass of water and some painkillers were swallowed down with a grateful nod from her.

  Once I was sure that she wasn’t going to die, I started to tidy up. The last thing we needed was Dad coming home and kicking off because the place was a mess, even if he was the one who had made it. Mum still sat on the floor, trying to get her strength back.