The Perfect Girl
Lorna Dounaeva
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Also by Lorna Dounaeva
Afterword
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
I prong the bee with tweezers and press its point against my bare flesh. My teeth clench as it barbs my skin. Then I shudder as the venom revives me. I look down and see the discarded insect jerking about on the floor. It flaps its tiny wings, but it’s lost the strength to fly. It tries repeatedly to take off, but its life force is fading. It has given itself for me and now I will watch it die.
1
The cakes taunted him from behind the glass counter. Jock could almost taste the sugar on his tongue as he admired the sticky swirls of jam, cream and butter icing. Behind him came the melodic sound of spoons chinking against china, middle-class voices uttering words like ‘Frightful!’ and ‘Jolly good!’ and chastised children with names like ‘Ophelia’ and ‘Byron’.
He waited in a state of heightened agitation but no one came over to serve him. His stomach rumbled accusations as waitresses scurried by in their flirty fifties-style dresses. But he wasn’t the kind of person who was good at getting served. He glanced around the tea shop again. The table by the window had just become available. He mooched over and sat down, setting up his laptop on the white, lacy tablecloth.
Within minutes, a waitress came over and took his order of Yorkshire Tea and a slice of Battenberg.
“Are you here for the May Fair?” she asked. She had a little snub nose and a smile as wide as her face.
“No, I’m just visiting,” he said.
“Ah, you’re on holiday?”
“Kind of.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m renting a room at the Dragon.”
“Lovely,” she said, glancing across the street at the rundown pub. Hard to believe that this place, with its fine china and fancy table cloths, was just across the street. “Hey, you see Dylan over there? He lives at the Dragon.”
He couldn’t have helped but notice the heavily freckled bloke with the spiky hairdo; a bog brush, they used to call it when he was a kid. That was about the last time he had seen anyone with such a haircut.
Before he could respond, she was hollering across the room. “Hey, Dylan! This gentleman’s staying at the Dragon!”
Dylan looked at him with interest. “Are you divorced?”
“No,” he said, embarrassed to be shouting across the tea shop.
“Separated?” His Welsh accent was as strong as hers.
“No. I’m single actually.”
“Are you?” Dylan looked dubious. “What are you doing at the Dragon then?”
“He’s on holiday,” the waitress said.
Dylan looked even more dubious. He got up and walked over to Jock’s table, surveying him with interest.
“A working holiday,” Jock amended.
“What are you working on?” Dylan tried to get a look over his shoulder.
“Nothing.” He closed the laptop.
“Well now you’ve really piqued my interest. If you don’t tell me, I might have to tickle it out of you.”
Jock looked at the waitress.
“He really would, too,” she confirmed.
“Alright, I’m a writer,” he confessed.
Dylan’s eyes lit up. “What’s your name, then?”
“Jock Skone.”
“Never heard of you. Have you, Angie?”
She shook her head. They both looked disappointed.
Jock knew he should leave it at that, but his pride wouldn’t let him.
“I write under a pseudonym,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes, I’m J.K. Jeffries.”
“Oh my godfathers!” Dylan spluttered. “I always thought she was a woman!”
“Well I do write for women.”
He seemed to think this was hilarious. “He’s J.K. Jeffries!” he said loudly, for anyone who hadn’t heard.
Everyone in the shop turned to stare, the old ladies in particular. Dylan just couldn’t let it go. He was like an annoying little dog, yapping at his heels. Writing women’s fiction was nothing to be ashamed of, he reminded himself. He had been called the Agatha Christie of his generation. They had even made TV adaptations of a couple of his novels.
He turned back to his laptop, but Dylan continued to hover.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m distracting you, aren’t I?” he said, after a moment’s silence.
“No, no,” Jock lied.
He kept on typing. Within minutes, he had fallen into a trance-like state, the laptop wobbling as his fingers flew over the keys. He worked with a frenzy, the words gushing out of him like blood from an open vein. By the time he came to, Dylan had wandered off and his tea was as cold as a puddle.
He had been so engrossed in his work that he had barely noticed two youths haring around the tea shop; not until one of them knocked into his table. He caught his laptop just in time to save it from crashing to the floor, but the table was now soaked with tea. The lad who had done it didn’t even say sorry. Best not to react, Jock decided. He didn’t want any trouble.
“Here, let me clean that up,” Angie said, rushing forward with a cloth. “You’ll have to leave,” she told the youths. But they took no notice.
A couple of the old ladies at the next table tutted and shook their heads. One of them muttered something about manners and her friends nodded in agreement. Jock watched as the youths moved towards them. The one with a gold tooth lifted the lid off their teapot and spat into it. Both boys laughed hysterically.
One of the old ladies, a well-dressed woman with coiffured hair and high cheekbones, eyed the boy’s skinny jeans.
“Is that what people are wearing these days?” she asked.
Gold Tooth’s face turned ugly. “What did you say, you old hag?”
“Would you like to borrow my hearing aid?” she asked, with deliberate enunciation. Her cut-glass accent sliced through the air.
Angie darted a glance at Jock, as if she expected him to do something. But what could he do? Seconds passed and she was still looking at him with that hopeful expression in her eyes. In the end, it was her who spoke.
“Out!” she ordered the boys. “I told you to leave.”
The boys were all wide-eyed innocence. “What have we done? We just wanted to see the May Queen. You know, before it’s too late.”
“OK, that’s enough,” Dylan said, stepping forward.
Jock sucked in his breath. Why didn’t Dylan just stay out of it? Who knew what these boys were on?
Gold Tooth looked at Dylan and scrunched up his face in distaste.
“You wanna take this outside?” Dylan asked.
> “Not particularly.” Gold Tooth did not quite meet his eye. They were now standing at an arm’s length of each other.
Without warning, Gold Tooth swung his fist and hit Dylan squarely in the jaw. Jock winced as Dylan fell back against the counter. But instead of getting up, Dylan grabbed Gold Tooth’s leg out from under him and pulled him crashing down to the floor, upturning a table in the process. The old ladies shrieked as china cups and plates were smashed to smithereens. Gold Tooth’s friend swooped down and grabbed a shard of broken china.
“Dylan!” Jock yelled.
Dylan ducked out of the way and the lout only succeeded in stabbing the counter. In the next instant, Dylan was up on his feet again. He grabbed the lad from behind and pinned him against the wall so that he couldn’t move.
“Get off me, you freak!”
The lad struggled wildly, but Dylan held him fast.
Jock looked at the other youth to see what he would do.
At that very moment, a young woman floated out of the kitchen. People turned towards her, the way flowers reach for the sun. Everyone, including the troublemakers. This had to be Sapphire, the proprietress; Jock had seen her name over the door. She set a vase of tulips down on the counter and clapped her hands together with authority.
“OK, that’s quite enough, boys,” she said. “The police are on their way. I suggest you hop it before they get here. That includes you, Dylan. Though, you can give the lads a ten-minute start.”
Something in her tone got through to the boys, making them slink towards the door. Gold Tooth swiped a blueberry muffin on his way out.
“Let him have it,” Sapphire said. “He needs to save face.”
“Talk about ungrateful,” Dylan muttered, sitting down beside Jock to pull on his shoes, which he’d taken off for some reason Jock couldn’t fathom.
Jock nodded mutely. He was watching Sapphire as she brought the old ladies a fresh pot of tea. She spoke to them in a calm, soothing voice that he wished he could bottle. He continued to watch her as she walked among the tables, smiling and reassuring everyone in turn. Her red dress whirled and shimmied as she moved and her golden curls danced around her face. Such poise, such elegance! She winked at him as she passed, and his heart tripped over itself. He quickly averted his eyes, focusing instead on his computer, but it was her reflection he watched as she sashayed away and whatever else Dylan might have said was lost on him.
“Can I have the bill, please?” he asked Angie, once things had died down. She brought it over straight away, without stopping to serve half a dozen other people the way they did in London. She had even doodled a little teapot on the bottom of the receipt. He smiled then frowned as he saw the damage. Wow, these were London prices! Reluctantly, he produced his wallet and slipped his card onto the plate. She looked a little taken aback. For a horrible moment, he thought he had come so far into the country that everyone still paid in cash. He had.
“I’ll just fetch the card machine, then,” she said, sounding a little flustered. “I’m sure I saw it in the store room, just yesterday.”
He could have kicked himself for not bringing any real money, but he had yet to see a cash machine in Fleckford and the bank seemed to be permanently closed.
“Hey, don’t worry,” said Sapphire, stepping forward. “This one’s on the house.” She treated him to the most wonderful, dazzling smile. “I’m sorry about the disturbance earlier. It’s not usually so crazy in here.”
“No, I’m sure,” he managed. “Thanks.”
“Make sure you come back tomorrow, won’t you, darling?”
“Yes,” he choked. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him away.
He went back to his room at the Dragon and climbed onto the bed. From there, he had a good view of the tea shop. It would be even better if weren’t for the manky net curtains. He watched as one of the waitresses went back and forth with the mop. Someone must have spilt their tea, he guessed, from the way she was scowling. His phone rang abruptly, making him jump.
“Hello?”
It was his nephew, Robbie, who was house-sitting for him.
“Nan turned up this morning,” he said. “She wouldn’t believe me when I said you were still away.”
“Sorry,” Jock apologised.
“No bother. She cleaned the loo while she was here. And she filled the fridge with food. She’s a treasure, your mum.”
“I know.”
“So when you coming home?”
“I don’t know yet. I might stay a while.”
Robbie clicked his tongue. “What’s her name?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Yeah, right! So what shall I tell Nan? You can bet she’ll be back.”
“I don’t care – just tell her I’m busy with my book.”
“What’s this one about?” Robbie asked. “Is there anything interesting in it?”
“There are no goblins or elves, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I bet there’s no blood or gore either.”
“Probably not.” His heart beat a little faster as Sapphire walked into view. He watched, rapt, as she poured tea for a customer. He grabbed his camera and took a few snaps. The pictures would be a bit out of focus, but better than nothing. He didn’t think he had ever seen anyone quite so beautiful. Not in real life, at any rate.
“Jock, are you still there?”
“Yeah, the reception’s awful. I’ll give you a call later in the week, OK?”
“Right-ho.”
“Bye then, and don’t forget to feed the hamster.”
“You’ve got a hamster?”
“What do you think you’re sharing a room with?”
He set down the phone and watched as Sapphire tossed back her hair and laughed at something a customer had said. How he wished he were that customer! He had to see her again. He couldn’t wait till morning. His hand flew to the nape of his neck. His scarf! He must have left it at the tea shop. Or perhaps his subconscious had done that for him. He jumped to his feet then sat down again. No, he wouldn’t go now, while she was busy. He would wait until closing time. That way he would get her alone.
He watched until the last couple of customers drifted out the door. She came out and turned the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. This was his cue. He hurried down the stairs and across the cobbles, pausing briefly to catch his breath. There was no bell, just a black door knocker in the shape of a twisted rope. He pulled it and waited.
She opened the door with the chain on.
“Hi?”
In his imagination, she had been more pleased to see him.
“Sorry to bother you, but I think I left my scarf,” he said. “It’s red tartan …”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Wait there. I’ll have a look in lost property.”
He watched through the gap in the door as she walked to the back of the shop, her hips wiggling as she moved. Did she do that on purpose, he wondered, or was it just the way she walked?
“Yes, that’s it,” he called, as she pulled his scarf from the cupboard.
“I don’t suppose you’d take this one, too?” She held up a lurid purple one, with lime-green spots on it.
He giggled. “I’d really like to see the rest of that outfit!”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she unchained the door to hand him the scarf.
“You have such soft hands,” he said, as their fingers touched.
She drew back. “Thanks.”
He racked his brain desperately for something else to say, something that would stop her from shutting the door. He felt such a powerful connection with her. She had to feel it, too.
“Can I take your picture?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“It’s a hobby,” he explained.
She looked at him oddly. “Maybe another time. I’m just closing.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Good night, then.”
She started to close the door and he felt panic
ked. He had to do something, say something to stop her.
“I’ve been watching you,” he blurted out, “from my bedroom window.”
Her mouth fell open and instantly, he knew he had said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, I …”
“Look, I really do have to close now.”
She couldn’t bolt the door fast enough. What had seemed spontaneous and romantic in his head had come out sounding weird and creepy. Bloody, bloody bollocks! What had he done?
2
The village hall was surprisingly crowded as Jock queued for his ticket to Vertigo. He had seen it before, but there wasn’t much else to do that evening. The whole village seemed to go into lockdown after five.
“Just the one ticket?” the elderly seller asked, glancing behind him.
“Yes please,” he said, handing over a ten pound note.
She held it up to the light. “Seems OK,” she said, not sounding completely satisfied.
“Let me see,” said her equally elderly crony. He recognised them both from the tea shop. They were part of the group Dylan had referred to as the Fleckford Wives.
“There’s a small tear,” she said, examining it carefully. “Has it been thorough the washing machine?”
“No, I just got it from the cash point.”
“The one in Castle Street?” she asked with suspicion.
“There’s one in Castle Street? I walked all the way down to the garage.”
“The one on Castle Street is no longer in operation,” the first lady informed him, in a superior tone.
“Er … right.” He wondered if all the customers had to pass this level of scrutiny or if it was just him.
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