Yet despite all that, when I met your dad, Owen, I fell into the trap of my youth – too easily manipulated. Like so many men with a skill for emotional and physical abuse, he was a dichotomy of charm and cruelty, the switch happening so fast I often wondered if I were going mad. I remember one time in particular, we’d just got home from a lovely weekend break in Tynemouth and I’d been bending down to pick up the post from the doormat when something blurred past me and pain shot through my face. I stumbled back, and Owen reached out a steadying hand and gave that happy-go-lucky beam of his. He’d punched me, and we hadn’t even been arguing. There’d been no reason. Yet I found myself wondering if I’d imagined it and was going mad, because he was smiling at me. The throbbing of my cheek was my only proof it had happened.
Anything could set him off. One day, he walked into the lounge and his face hardened as he saw a cup ring left on the coffee table, his laughing blue eyes narrowing to diamond-hard points. Then he punched me in the ribs, his favourite place because he knew people might ask questions if I had a black eye. Long sleeves and a high collar hide a multitude of sins. Although he was also a big fan of bending my fingers back until they snapped, leaving me unable to work. It was amazing how often I ‘trapped my hand in the door’. I learned to look out for the smallest of warning signs. The tapping of the finger; the look in his eyes; the tightness of his jaw.
Why did I stay? I don’t know. The thing is, I think he really did love me in his own way. Once, I made costumes for a theatre production that the Queen attended. There was a photograph of me meeting Her Majesty. Owen was so proud that he kept all the cuttings from the newspapers. That’s the strange mixture of personalities in people who mentally abuse their partners. After each violent outburst he’d get down on his hands and knees, plead with me to forgive him. I always did. It’s hard to walk out on someone you love, even when they do hit you. You think it’s going to be just the once – anyone is allowed one mistake. Then one mistake becomes two, three, four, and it’s harder and harder to draw the line.
I blamed myself for not being able to give him the one thing he wanted more than anything else in the world: children. I told myself that when we were a family he’d be happier, and his kindness would overgrow the insecure monster that squatted inside him.
He was so excited when I told him I was pregnant with you both. That deceptively friendly face of his breaking naturally into a constant grin. I’d been right – family life had changed him, and we’d stood in the nursery together, hand in hand, dreaming of how we would decorate. Then suddenly he’d accused me of sleeping with a stranger to get pregnant. I’d grown used to the carefully placed punches landed on my torso so that no one would see the bruises, but when he hit me that night it was utterly shocking. Do you remember how I curled up in a ball, with my arms around my bump, to protect you both? It was such a relief to feel you moving, afterwards. Of course, he said he’d never do it again. Of course, I decided to believe him once more – and only once – for your sake. I didn’t want my children growing up without a father. I’d think of all the kind things he did, and the same lie I always told myself leapt to my lips: ‘He’s a good man. He’d never intentionally hurt me.’
On the day that we discovered I was having a little girl and little boy, your father and I had truly never been happier. We settled on your names, Elise and Edward, instantly. I wanted to go into town to buy clothes for you, and Owen said he’d come with me because he had a surprise for me. The station was a walkable distance, but I was already so heavy carrying the two of you that I tired easily, so we decided to drive. But on the way his mood grew darker. I knew him well enough to recognise the warning signs and tried all the tricks I’d learned over the years to calm him. They didn’t work. The more I tried, the angrier he got. By the time we reached the station he was furious. We parked up, and as we prepared to walk the short distance from the car park, along the lane to the platforms, he started. Began pushing me around, ranting once again about me being unfaithful and expecting him to raise my ‘bastards’.
Something snapped inside me then. I wouldn’t let him hurt my babies. Nobody was around to help me, though; the car park and station empty and unmanned. Owen pushed me hard; I almost fell over. I was scared for your lives. All I could think of was escaping him. I didn’t even notice the klaxon sounding or the lights flashing to warn of a train coming as I pushed open the wicket gate and ran through it, your father close behind. The only thought in my mind was of escaping.
I remember the roaring of the train, the turbulence of the air trying to drag me along, a red mist.
The intercity train stopped as quickly as it could, but it had been going so fast that it travelled quite a way before it was able to. It gave me time to hide and make my way back to the car and drive home, in shock. The only thought running through my mind wasn’t about evading questioning, it was to get you both to safety.
I didn’t mean to lie to the police, I really didn’t, but when they came over they didn’t ask me any questions, simply told me that my husband had been killed in a tragic accident. CCTV covering the station and car park didn’t capture what happened on the lane – perhaps Owen, aware of the blind spot, had deliberately waited until we were in it before pushing me around. The train driver never mentioned that another person had run across the tracks before Owen; I can only assume shock played tricks with his memory, or perhaps he simply didn’t see me.
Omission is as bad as a lie, though.
As a salve to Owen’s parents I never told anyone the truth about what happened that day. There was no point sullying his name when it served no purpose.
It didn’t stop me feeling responsible, though. The guilt of what happened caused me to miscarry, and losing you both felt like divine retribution for me killing my husband. It’s taken me a long time to believe that even if I did deserve punishment, no divinity would have made the two of you pay the price for me, my beautiful darlings.
I’ve given away the compensation money to a cancer charity. It felt like the right thing to do. I’ve never been able to bring myself to spend a penny of it, and holding on to it wasn’t going to help anyone. My inspiration for this grand gesture? Carrie – or rather, Sophie.
What I’ve done by covering up the truth of your father’s accident is a moral grey area, and I’m not proud of it, but I accept it. When I decided to set Carrie up I opted for those cloudy shades again, telling myself that if she went to prison, she could pay for her crimes and then come out facing a fresh start – if she wanted it. I’d like to be there for her, if she’ll let me. I’ve done some digging into her background and what I found was heartbreaking. She needs me as much as I need her.
One of Owen’s favourite things to say to me was, ‘Look what you made me do.’ But I didn’t make him do anything. It was all him. Just like he didn’t make me do anything. I lied for self-preservation. I reacted to the circumstances before me, and can’t blame anyone but myself for the decisions that made my life fall apart – just like only I can decide to put myself together again. Not Rosie, not Leon, not the friend formerly known as Carrie, not even you, Elise and Edward. Only me. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking back, punishing myself and trying to live in an alternative universe where you’re alive. Life is the here and now. Carrie once told me if I wasn’t doing something every single day that I’d be proud to have on my gravestone, then I was doing something wrong, and although she may not have practised what she preached, she was right. I don’t want to think ‘look what you made me do’, I want to think ‘look what I did’, and feel proud.
That’s why I’m letting you go, my beautiful little ones, and trying finally to start a new life. With Leon. With adopted children of our own. Hopefully, with Sophie, too. That’s not the same as forgetting you, though; never think that.
I hope my finally telling the truth sets you free, my angels.
Love for ever
Mum x
THE END
If you were gripp
ed by the twists in The Perfect Friend, and shocked by Carrie’s real nature being revealed – as well as the truth about Alex’s family – check out Her Last Secret, another twisty, unputdownable psychological thriller which gradually uncovers the secrets of the seemingly perfect Thomas family, with an ending that will have you jumping out of your seat…
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Her Last Secret
A gripping psychological thriller
Some secrets you can never tell.
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Everyone thinks the Thomases are the perfect family: grand London house, gorgeous kids.
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They don’t know wife Dominique is a paranoid wreck.
They don’t know husband Ben is trapped in a web of deceit.
They don’t know daughter Ruby lives in fear of the next abusive text.
But someone knows all their secrets.
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Can the lies that bind them tear them apart?
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A gripping psychological thriller that will have you holding your breath until the very last page. Fans of Behind Closed Doors, Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train will be hooked.
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Also by Barbara Copperthwaite
Her Last Secret
The Darkest Lies
Flowers for the Dead
Invisible
A Letter from Barbara
Thank you for reading my fifth psychological thriller, The Perfect Friend. My Uncle Norman lost his long fight with cancer at the same time as I was mulling over ideas for a new book. It’s no surprise that his death coloured my thoughts, and the result is The Perfect Friend, the writing of which helped me immensely to work through a lot of grief.
Perhaps because of the subject matter I was hyperaware, but while writing this book, so many people around me were touched by cancer. In particular, my thoughts are with my former editor, Nick Machin, and the fabulous blogger Alison Daughtrey-Drew, whose positivity and battling spirits are inspirational, along with the lovely and incredibly private Di.
I do hope you all enjoyed reading Alex and Carrie’s story. If you would like to keep up to date with my latest releases, just sign up using the link below and I’ll let you know when a new book is coming out.
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If you haven’t read any of my previous Bookouture books, you can find them here.
Her Last Secret
The Darkest Lies
In the meantime, why not pop over to my Facebook page, Twitter, my blog or website, for a chat? I love to hear from readers – because without you there wouldn’t be any books, and hearing your thoughts helps me become a better writer. If you have time, I’d be really grateful if you could post a short review online, or tell your friends about The Perfect Friend. I’d love to hear what you think, and it can also help other readers discover one of my books for the first time.
Thank you so much!
Barbara x
The Darkest Lies
A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist
‘Compelling, claustrophobic and horribly believable – a great read!’ B.A. Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors and The Breakdown
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A mother desperate for the truth. A daughter hiding a terrible secret.
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Melanie Oak appeared to have the perfect life. Married to her childhood sweetheart, Jacob, the couple live with their beautiful, loving, teenage daughter, Beth, in a pretty village.
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Nothing can shake her happiness - until the day that Beth goes missing and is discovered beaten almost to the point of death, her broken body lying in a freezing creek on the marshes near their home.
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Consumed with grief, Melanie is determined to find her daughter’s attacker. Someone in the village must have seen something. Why won’t they talk?
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As Melanie tries to piece together what happened to Beth, she discovers that her innocent teenager has been harbouring some dark secrets of her own. The truth may lie closer to home and put Melanie’s life in terrible danger…
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A completely gripping psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming. Fans of The Girl on the Train, The Sister and Before I Let You In will be captivated.
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Out now!!
Acknowledgements
I always start my acknowledgements with a big cheer for my partner, Paul. He’s probably unaware of this because he doesn’t read books! But the fact remains that he deserves the biggest thanks for his patience when I’m lost in a make-believe world and barely appear in reality to string two sentences together; his endless cups of fruit tea when I forget to eat or drink; his love, support and encouragement to push me on when I feel like giving up. My mum also deserves an award for patience and encouragement. Love you, Mum!
In researching this book, I’ve heard first-hand the toll anorexia takes physically and emotionally. Thank you to those who shared your stories with me. You may wish to remain anonymous, but the world can see the difference you’ve made to this book.
I’m so grateful to my incredible friend, Julieanne Caie, who opened up her house to me so I could have a break and find some inspiration: Ju, this is the result of my holiday in Tynemouth. Cheers for the house, the rhubarb gin and the headspace (but especially the gin!).
Keshini Naidoo, my editor, is not only brilliant with my books but also so supportive and understanding through my health difficulties. I can’t thank her, and the whole of the Bookouture family, enough: my publisher, Claire Bord; managing editor, Lauren Finger; Head of Talent, Peta Nightingale; publicity and social media magicians (aka ‘fingers of fire’) Kim Nash and Noelle Holton; and copy editor supreme, Janette, to name but a few.
Special thanks to fellow Bookouture authors, particularly Holly Martin (your information on banks really helped) and Carol Wyer (for keeping me sane!).
The blogging community has been a huge supporter of mine, and I’m so grateful. That’s thanks in no small part to Anne Cater’s wonderful Book Connectors, where readers and authors can connect. Thank you also to Tracy Fenton, and everyone at TBC on Facebook; David Gilchrist and the team at UK Crime Book Club; and Shell Baker et al. on Crime Book Club.
Shell, Neats Wilson, Anne Williams, Alison Daughtrey-Drew, thank you for being there from the start, and for continuing to shout about my work (I hope you like The Perfect Friend as much as you’ve enjoyed my others). There are so many wonderful bloggers who have reviewed my books, and I can’t thank you all enough.
My final thanks are the most important: they are to you, dear reader. You take the time to read, review and recommend my books. I am so incredibly grateful for all the support you show me. Thank you, thank you, thank you! One of those readers is Rosie Knight, who won a competition to have a character named after her, which is how Alex’s counsellor got her name. I often run competitions across Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and my blog, so do pop by and join in the fun, or just come for a chat. I love to hear your thoughts.
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.bookouture.com
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Copyright © Barbara Copperthwaite, 2018
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Barbara Copperthwaite has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller Page 27