What exactly is in it for the watcher, though? If all they wanted was to expose truth from lie they’d have gone to the authorities. There’s only one thing I can think of that would motivate someone to send cryptic messages in this way: money. There’s no mention of payment, but no other solution springs to mind. They’re after Carrie’s bucket list fund.
Good luck with that, pal, because you’ll need my signature to get hold of it, I think, and can’t help smiling with grim satisfaction.
To be sure, I go online and check the bank balance. It’s just shy of nineteen thousand pounds, as it should be, boosted by extra money trickling in as a result of the newspaper article.
My stomach grumbles. Once again my routine has been completely ignored, and my breakfast and mid-morning snack forgotten because I’m so preoccupied. Must eat. As I reach across the kitchen counter to open a cupboard, the salt cellar clatters over. The spilled salt is automatically scraped together and flung over my left shoulder.
I hadn’t always been superstitious; it crept up on me. Now it is a new way of feigning mastery over my life, sublimating one form of control, the anorexia, with another. Knock on wood. Don’t walk under a ladder. Never open an umbrella indoors. But they are far healthier than my old ways. My entire world revolved around my desire. The irony? I thought I was in charge, but in reality, my condition enslaved me. It’s taken a lot to back anorexia nervosa into a cage and slam the door shut. Every single day the door of its prison rattles as it tries to break free again. It’s rattling now, but questions are drowning it out.
I stare at a grain of salt I’ve missed. Trying to come to terms with everything. Each thought thuds and echoes in my mind.
Carrie isn’t all she seems to be.
Her name isn’t Carrie.
Her last best friend disappeared without trace. So has her ex-boyfriend. What has she done with them?
As I ponder, another question hits me.
Has Carrie actually got cancer?
Twenty-Nine
I’m worried about myself. I’m starting to see fabrications that aren’t there and monsters that are only shadows. I’ve seen Carrie’s radiotherapy burns myself, rubbed cream on her arms and neck to soothe them. Seen the dots inked on her skin in permanent pen by doctors to mark where to line up the radiation machine every time she has treatment. Her hair fell out – it’s still pixie-crop short. I’ve seen how weak she gets and heard her vomiting.
She must have cancer.
When she had her chemo port put in and was distraught about going out and about with the ugly bandage showing, I’d gone out and bought her a turtleneck jumper. She’d been so touched.
She must have cancer.
I went with her to chemo on more than one occasion. I saw her sign in and walk to the treatment room, while I waited in the hospital’s café for her to be done.
She must have cancer.
I don’t know what she’s capable of lying about, though. There are already so many riddles stacking up, from her name, to her parents, to her best friend’s disappearance. Then there’s Simon – where the hell is he? Each conundrum tinkles through my consciousness like broken glass, slashing at my peace of mind.
Maybe I should confront her with my suspicions. There’s no actual proof, though, so I’m loath to. My mum always used to tell me off for not having more confidence in myself, saying I should trust my instincts. She blamed the fact that I was adopted, thinking I felt rejected by my biological parents and so unworthy of the love she and my dad gave me. She was convinced it filtered into every aspect of my life, making me doubt myself. Perhaps she was right. I’ve always felt a freak, separated from the rest of the world. Always been a perfectionist, setting the bar impossibly high for myself yet incredibly low for those people I’ve surrounded myself with. Perhaps this is an example of me falling back into old habits – perhaps I should have enough faith in myself about my suspicions of Carrie to challenge her.
But…
To confront a dying woman and accuse her of lying, and then be proved wrong myself, would be awful. I’d look like a crazy person, a total bitch. She has enough on her plate fighting for her life without me sullying her reputation and starting unfounded rumours – because the fact is there’s no proof of anything. Not really.
My phone pings. Talk of the devil. The text is from Carrie, asking if I’m okay and what I’m up to. We don’t normally go this long without contact, and I’ve never ignored her before, but I’ve had a couple of missed calls from her from yesterday and this morning.
I stare at my phone for a long time, not sure what to do. Sometimes my thumb moves across as though to reply and then seems to change its mind and flick back. Finally, I type out a response.
Morning! Sorry, still had a bad stomach so didn’t feel like talking. Better now. Have you got chemo this morning? If you have, I’ll take you.
Unable to sit down, unable to settle to anything, I wait for a reply. When the phone lights up I pounce on it.
You sure you’re okay now? If you are, a lift would be great. But don’t worry if you’re still feeling dodgy. You take care of yourself! <3
I reassure her I’m fit and well and arrange to pick her up in half an hour. That gives me just enough time to have a shower, get changed and make myself feel human.
* * *
By the time she climbs into my car, I’m calm.
Carrie seems in a great mood during the twenty-five-minute journey to the hospital. ‘I’ve decided to quit my jobs and enjoy what little time I have left,’ she announces. ‘Money will be tight, but I don’t really want to spend my final days scrubbing other people’s toilets.’
My heart stutters. Finally, I scrabble together a reply. ‘You’re right, there’s more important things in life. It’s not even worth the time the call will take – let me quit for you.’
‘Ha, like you’re my personal secretary,’ she laughs.
I’m not joking. If she calls her boss to quit, they might wonder why she didn’t mention it when ‘she’ phoned yesterday. Questions might be asked.
‘That’s what I’m here for: to make life easier for you, Carrie.’
She rolls her eyes but agrees. ‘If that’s what you want, then fill your boots. Who am I to stand in the way of your fun?’ A tilt of the head, amusement twinkling while studying me. ‘You really need to loosen up and be more dog.’
My nose wrinkles. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you mean, but it sounds vaguely insulting.’
‘It’s my philosophy for life: be more dog. Right, I don’t worry about the past or the future, just live in the moment, like pooches do. Even if a dog loses its leg, it just runs on three legs rather than crying about what it’s lost. What’s the point of worrying about things you can’t control?’
I can’t help grinning. But then a traitorous voice whispers in my ear, and I have to ask…
‘You seem very perky for somebody who is about to have a load of poison fed into their arm.’
Carrie shrugs. ‘I’m just being more dog. Got to practise what I preach, haven’t I?’
* * *
At the hospital, we walk arm in arm along the corridors, following the signs for Oncology. At the door Carrie extricates herself from me with a disarming smile.
‘I really appreciate you coming with me, it means so much to me.’
‘It’s nothing, honestly.’
‘Not to me.’
We stand looking at each other. Awkward, out of place, not knowing what to say, where previously we’ve flowed naturally. I’m starting to feel bad. Doubting someone is seriously ill while standing in a hospital with them seems ridiculous.
‘Well, I’ll see you when the treatment is over. Should only be an hour, so I’ll meet you at the café, right?’ says Carrie.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot. She always seems to have an excuse about why she should be alone during the treatment. Today I won’t allow it, even if I am having doubts about my doubts.
‘Listen, I said
I’d come with you, and I meant it. I’m not leaving your side.’
‘Oh, you are lovely! But do you mind not coming in today? It’s only because another friend of mine, Wendy, has heard the news that she’s not going to make it. I’d like the chance to talk to her – just me and her. I’m really sorry… is that okay?
‘If you really want to come in, you can. It’s just a bit awkward. I’m worried that Wendy might not feel that she can be as honest in front of me if someone she doesn’t know is there. She might feel like she has to put on a brave face, you know?’
I hesitate. Her whole body language is so relaxed. No tension in her shoulders, no tightness around her mouth; her eyes look straight into mine. Everything about her screams honesty. Yet I don’t believe her. I can’t, because every time my suspicions slip I remember Joanne, who is missing, and Simon, who hasn’t been seen since he split up with Carrie. I think of the messages, and the mystery of her parents.
Liar.
I’m about to insist when someone calls out a greeting. It’s a woman with a bright scarf wrapped around her head. Her clothes are baggy over what is clearly a skeletal frame. Skin looks stretched paper-thin. Her movements are slow and careful, as though each one takes a lot of strength.
‘Wendy!’ Carrie rushes forward towards her, arms outstretched. Wraps her in a hug. They stand there for several moments, eyes closed, rocking gently in comfort. When they finally let go there are tears in Carrie’s eyes.
‘I’m so, so sorry. Oh, hon, it’s so unfair.’
‘Well, what can you do? At least I’ve got time to say my goodbyes to everybody, sort out my funeral so my parents don’t have to think about it. I’ve, umm,’ she licks her lips, ‘I’m going to write letters to both of the kids, for when I’m gone. I thought I’d label them for key ages, like when they become teenagers, turn eighteen, their wedding day—’
Her voice breaks. She turns her back to me, clearly embarrassed as she wipes at her face. I feel mortified, putting a dying woman in this position. While Wendy’s back is still turned, I put my hand on Carrie’s shoulder to get her attention and motion that I’m leaving.
‘See you at the café,’ I mouth.
As I walk away I can’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder. Carrie and Wendy walk through the doors to the treatment room, Wendy leaning on Carrie for support. My heart breaks for the pair of them. But there is something else, too, something I’m ashamed to acknowledge: part of me is disappointed I’ve been proved so spectacularly wrong. It’s hateful of me.
Where does this leave Carrie and me? I love this woman like she’s my daughter, but can we really salvage a relationship when there are so many suspicions in my heart? I always thought I was the keeper of secrets between us, and to discover I’m not alone has been a shock I’m not sure I’ll recover from.
Thirty
I sit in the café, fingers wrapped around a cardboard cup of lukewarm coffee, wondering what on earth I’m becoming. I’m so used to deceiving others that I now see betrayal and treachery even when they don’t exist. Lies have leached into my bones and poisoned everything I’ve come into contact with.
My phone rings. It’s Jackie, from the support group, which is unusual because we don’t chat apart from on Monday nights.
‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ she checks, voice slightly breathless.
Around me, people chat, eat, drink, try not to look worried. I push my coffee away from me and sink back into the chair. ‘Not at all. What can I do for you?’
‘This is going to sound a little odd, but I’ve been thinking and thinking about it and I just have to speak to someone about it.’ A barrage of words, then an awkward pause.
‘Okay… ’
‘I’m not sure about Carrie. She does have cancer, doesn’t she? Only, I was talking to Lainey, and her experience seemed to be so different from Carrie’s. Whenever I ask, she changes the subject. How come she’s got her hair still, when she says she’s having chemo? It makes no sense.’
‘Jackie, I’m at hospital with her right now. She’s getting treatment even as we speak.’ Hearing her voice, my own worries makes me realise how crazy they are. ‘What kind of person would make something like this up? I certainly wouldn’t – it’s almost like wishing something bad on yourself. You’d have to be mad.’
‘Well, I had to ask. If she can afford that perfume she was wearing the other night, then it makes me wonder why we’re raising money for her.’
I roll my eyes. ‘What perfume? The one you mentioned the other night? She got it from a sample in a magazine, didn’t she?’
‘My sister says—’
‘What’s perfume got to do with Carrie having cancer? I’m surprised at you, Jackie. Making up gossip against a dying woman could get you vilified, and justifiably so. You run a support group. Where’s your compassion gone?’
‘I’m – I – you won’t say anything to anyone, will you?’
‘Of course not.’
The call ends. I drum my fingers on the table, thanking my lucky stars I didn’t say anything when having my own doubts, because Jackie sounded completely paranoid. My coffee has gone cold. I need a fresh one. As I stand, a thought occurs to me. Carrie had mentioned that Jackie’s been a bit off with her lately. She also said our group leader had made comments about my friendship with Carrie. What if she’s the one behind the messages?
Why? Disapproval at my brief liaison with Simon? Jealousy that Carrie’s so popular? It doesn’t seem likely. Nothing in this mess does. Although Jackie and I used to be closer than we now are, but I pulled back a little because she started asking awkward questions about my past. Digging in a way she couldn’t during the support group.
Once again it’s my phone that pulls me from my thoughts. Carrie has sent a selfie. Despite the tubes up her nose and the chemo port attached, she is grinning in the picture, thumbs up.
Running a bit late, but should be done soon x
Even now she’s thinking of others. How can anyone, least of all me, believe that she’s involved in anything dodgy?
Something bizarre is going on, though.
* * *
When Carrie appears, she looks drained.
‘That was emotionally tough, as well as physically,’ she admits. ‘The nurse was making us all smile, though, saying we should imagine we were sucking on delicious sweeties rather than ice cubes, to help with the nausea.’
Despite that, she is determined to do something about Smudge, who still hasn’t made an appearance. I try to tell her to slow down, that she needs to look after herself, but she refuses to listen. So we spend the afternoon together at my place again, making a poster on my computer:
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CAT?
As she takes off her hat and ruffles her fingers through her soft blonde hair, I can’t help looking. Jackie’s awful accusation rises to the surface of my mind like pond scum, refusing to drown no matter how many times I push it under.
Carrie pats at her crop. ‘What? Have I got a bald patch coming?’
‘No, not at all. Actually, I was thinking it looks good. It’s growing back well, isn’t it?’
‘Thank goodness. I’d hate to be a bald corpse. Don’t wince, it’s true!’ Machine-gun laughter fires. ‘I’m so glad this chemo mix I’m on hasn’t had the same effect as the last lot.’
‘Why hasn’t it? Just out of curiosity,’ I quickly add, trying to sound idle. ‘I thought it always did.’
‘No, not every chemo drug causes hair loss. Sometimes it’s just thinner or has no change at all. I had a different treatment before, and it left me bald as a coot, even down below. Think Simon quite liked that, actually.’
The mention of our ex makes my eyebrows rocket skywards. It also doubles my guilt. What a cow I am for doubting, even for a second. I’ve seen the photos of Carrie with a bald head and no eyebrows – and after all, seeing is believing. I shouldn’t have let Jackie get to me.
A quicksilver frown flashes across Carrie’s face. Has she realised
what’s behind my questions?
‘What is a coot, anyway?’
The change of subject throws me. ‘Um, dunno. Type of bird, I think.’
‘Is it bald?’
My head tilts, somehow loosening the information. ‘No, but it’s black with a white patch on the top of its head, so I suppose that’s where the saying comes from.’
‘Cor, you know everything.’
She’s such an innocent abroad. Like Little Red Riding Hood to my wolf. What big teeth I have, all the better to tear chunks out of our friendship and eviscerate my peace of mind to such an extent that when Carrie nips to the loo to vomit, I do a quick Internet search. Cancer Research’s website proves that what she told me is correct.
Of course. Did I seriously expect any different? There are enough real mysteries, thanks to those messages and the vandalised Golf. I should concentrate on them, not make up even more. I’ve got to get a handle on this growing suspicion and paranoia that’s making me see danger everywhere and suspect friends.
Thirty-One
When she returns, Carrie chooses a lovely photograph of Smudge for the ‘lost’ posters. He’s curled up on her sofa, and you can see the distinctive black marks around his eyes and the little red collar with a bell on that he always wears. She’s only had him for about six months, but she loves that tomcat with all her heart.
I print off loads of posters, then insist that Carrie goes home while I trudge round the streets and put them up on trees and lamp posts. Anything to make me feel better about the silly suspicions of her that have been playing on my mind.
The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller Page 14