The text message is on my mind, a tangible link to the roses. Who? Why? Somebody from my past, it has to be. I hardly see anyone from my school days, apart from Gareth, but he wouldn’t do that, it’s not his style. The thought almost makes me laugh. Almost; I’m not quite there yet.
The weather bulletin follows; it’s another unseasonably warm November day, more evidence of climate change. The possibility of rain showers. Not what you want on Bonfire Night, when you’re hoping to use the garden for a party. I check my watch – only two hours to go until guests will start arriving, arms outstretched for one last hug before I jet out of here. How will I know if one of those embraces is a trap?
I push aside the thought, focusing on Ben instead. Lena wouldn’t tell me whether he is coming, but a tingle of excitement runs through me at the thought that I might be seeing him tonight. That’s more like it. All I have to do is forget the roses for a few more hours and then I’ll be off. The Great Escape is how I think of it. The two of us hand in hand, wandering through the busy New York streets, me looking up in awe at the towering skyscrapers; yellow cabs honking and people hurrying past talking in strident American accents. But my excitement is dampened when I think about our last chat over Skype, which didn’t end well. There was a strange sense of unease between us that has never been there before. He insisted that there was nothing wrong, but his stiff shoulders told me otherwise, his floppy dark hair covering his eyes so I couldn’t look for my answers there. We can sort it out later, I tell myself.
On the radio, a music track plays before the start of the next show. I take my tea and sit in the one remaining armchair, closing my eyes for a moment. I blink them straight open when I hear the new presenter’s voice. It’s Martha.
As her clear tones jump out at me, I’m transported back to the last words she said to me. The words that have haunted me ever since. She’s trying to take my place and you’re letting her. But you’ll regret it; one day you’ll see what she’s really like. If this had been any other day, I would have carried on listening, unable to help myself, but Lena chooses this moment to get back from work, and I rush to switch the radio off.
‘Party time!’ she calls, slamming the front door and throwing her bag onto the sofa. She drops the carrier bag she’s holding on the floor with a clink and rubs her arm where it’s red from the plastic digging into it, then moves into the middle of the room and looks around her.
‘God, it’s so empty in here without all your stuff.’
‘Just how we want it for the party,’ I say.
Last night, over a cocktail in the bar down the road, I was unable to contain myself, the balloon containing the secret finally bursting.
‘I know about the party,’ I said.
‘What party?’ She arched an eyebrow.
‘Come on, Lena. My going-away party, tomorrow? The one you’ve been not so secretly organising.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ she said, letting out a long breath before laughing with glee. ‘You’ve no idea how hard it’s been.’ She narrowed her eyes at me, sipping through her straw. ‘Exactly how long ago did you find out?’
I considered pretending for a moment, then laughed. ‘Months,’ I said. ‘You’re so rubbish at hiding things. Those “wrong number” calls you were always taking, being secretive about your texts. Normally you just leave your phone lying around. ‘Oh and this was the best one. Constantly telling me how much you were looking forward to a quiet meal on our last night in the flat, just the two of us. That’s so not you. It was pretty obvious really, but I didn’t want to spoil it for you.’
‘And there was me feeling smug at having managed to keep it quiet. Still, it’s better that you know. I’ve been dying to talk to you about it.’
For the rest of the evening we had a giggly, girlie time discussing the party. ‘Great,’ Lena said. ‘Now that we can do it all together, it will be so much more fun.’
But the relief I felt at letting on I knew about the party hasn’t lasted. I should tell her about the rose arriving this morning, but I can’t face it. That would mean having to tell her about all the other roses too. Talking about it would bring it all back, and tonight is about forgetting and having fun.
The sky is already darkening outside, and I switch on the free-standing lamp and the string of fairy lights Lena has rigged up. ‘Oh, it looks lovely. When did you put those lights up? They weren’t there yesterday.’
‘Before I went to work. Cool, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, they make it so real.’
A smile plays around her mouth and she picks up her bag of shopping. ‘Prosecco was on special offer,’ she says, ‘I’ve got a couple more bottles so we don’t run out.’ She adds one bottle to the bar area she’s set up and puts the other in the fridge. She’s bought enough booze for about fifty people. Spirits, cartons of juice, wine and fizz. The glass twinkles at me, liquids shimmering turquoise, red and amber.
‘How many people are coming?’ I ask.
‘It’s a surprise party, remember. You’ll have to wait and see. I’ve got to leave you guessing about some things. Let’s get ready now so we have time for a drink before everyone arrives. It’s only just gone five, so we’ve got a couple of hours. And most people won’t come at the beginning. Apart from Fiona, that is.’
‘Leave poor Fiona alone,’ I say.
She pulls a face and we both laugh. Lena thinks my university friends are all stuck up. I’d been looking forward to seeing everyone until that text arrived. I shake the thought away and head upstairs.
Lena is singing along to ABBA in her en suite when I come to a stop on the threshold of her room. She assured me she’d been packing, but her room is exactly as it’s always been – the usual scene of chaos. Clothes lie strewn on the bed and some of her make-up is set out on the small table over by the window, the rest of it visible in the workman’s toolbox she uses as a case. The sliding wardrobe door is open and I can see that it’s bursting with clothes. Magazines teeter in piles and there are two stacks of shoeboxes. Our moving-out deadline is barely twenty-four hours away.
She appears in her bathrobe, towelling her long dark hair. The light picks out the chestnut highlights.
‘Lena, you haven’t even started packing,’ I say. ‘We’ve got to be out by tomorrow evening, and you’ll have a hangover after the party.’
‘Stop fussing, I’ll be fine. Don’t spoil this, please. I’ve been looking forward to us getting ready together.’
For the last time lies unsaid between us, but looking into her amber eyes I can see that’s what she’s thinking.
Lena’s room is spacious, but there’s nowhere to sit. How can she bear to live like this? I make space for myself amongst all the strewn clothes, and watch her applying her make-up. She’s attaching false eyelashes, her mouth open as she concentrates.
‘Goldfish,’ I say, regurgitating an old joke.
‘Funny.’
The window is open and a cold breeze blows in.
‘I was hoping it would be nice enough to use the garden.’
‘It is November.’
‘Yes, but the weather has been so mild lately. It was raining earlier today.’
‘A bit of rain wouldn’t put people off. Nothing is going to spoil this party.’ She gets up, tightening her bathrobe, and indicates her seat. ‘Your turn.’
I angle my face towards the window, and she switches a spotlight on and adjusts the angle. Whose make-up is she going to do when I’m gone? For too long I’ve been trying to encourage Lena to make proper friends outside the two of us, but she’s always been reluctant. ‘I don’t need anyone else,’ she tells me whenever I broach the subject. Now I watch her lining up her brushes, the tip of her tongue on her top lip, as it always is when she’s concentrating. Does she really think that if she pretends me moving out isn’t happening, it will just go away?
‘Just like old times,’ she says, and I hope the uncomfortable feeling those words arouse doesn’t show on my face, which she is pa
tting with powder. I shiver. She knows how I feel about old times. It’s the real reason I’m leaving her behind and fleeing across the Atlantic. She sweeps her brush across my face with a flourish.
‘Making new memories,’ I reply. ‘Am I done?’
She scrutinises my face, and I can smell peppermint on her breath. ‘Done,’ she says.
‘OK, let’s get our dresses on.’ I don’t want to dwell on the past.
I walk into my bedroom, where the silver strands of my dress shimmer in the darkening space. It takes moments to brush my blonde hair, sweeping it into a bun. Ben likes my hair down; that will be his treat for later. If he comes.
I hold the dress up against me and examine myself in the mirror that’s fixed inside the wardrobe door. The woman reflected back at me looks assured and confident, despite how I’m feeling inside. I feel a rush of love at Ben for knowing the kind of neckline I always wear to cover my scar, and I run my hands over the expensive material, feeling as if he is right here with me. He says the scar doesn’t bother him, but I cover it so I don’t have to see the ugly raised skin in the mirror. That way, I can pretend it doesn’t exist.
Lena is singing in her room, so I pull my door closed, open my case and take out the jewellery box, which is carefully wrapped up in a scarf. Once Mum had understood the surprise element of not wearing the engagement ring until we’ve made the announcement, she suggested I leave it with her, but I want it close to me. If I wasn’t wearing my party dress, I’d have put it on a chain and tucked it under my clothes, enjoying the way my body heat warmed the cold metal as it hung next to my heart. A delicious swoop of joy makes me smile to myself as I open the box to reveal the large diamond set in a white-gold band. I slip it on my finger and hold my hand in different poses, loving the way the precious stone catches the light.
‘Are you ready?’ Lena calls from across the hall, and I slip the ring back into its box and rewrap the scarf around it.
‘I can’t wait to see what you’re wearing,’ I say, joining her on the landing. ‘Oh.’ I stop, shocked into silence.
‘Ta-da,’ she says, spinning in front of me. ‘What do you think?’
The dress clings to her curves, accentuating her hourglass figure, and her strikingly made-up eyes are dusted in blue powder.
‘I love it,’ I say eventually, ‘but it’s the same colour as mine.’
‘It’s nothing like yours.’ She pouts at the mirror. ‘It goes with my eyes. I’ve used a more turquoise shade on yours. Anyway, nobody’s going to be paying attention to me. All eyes will be on you. I’m sorry – you’re not annoyed, are you?’
She’s right, of course. It doesn’t matter. And although it’s the same colour, we couldn’t look more different. Lena is only five two to my five nine, always wearing slinky dresses or tight tops with pencil skirts. She’s cute and curvy and her beautifully made-up eyes stand out in her heart-shaped face, framed by her thick sculpted eyebrows. I’m tall and angular and prefer trouser suits for work and long flowing dresses. At school once we were walking across the playground arm in arm, as we used to do back then, and I overheard a group of girls saying what an unlikely pairing we made. Lena in her non-uniform denim jacket with her hair loose down her back, and me in my pristine school blazer, hair neat in plaits. Somehow, though, it worked.
‘Have you got a plaster over your tattoo?’ I say, noticing it peeking out from under her dress. ‘Aren’t you going to reveal it for the party?’
Lena got her first tattoo at the age of sixteen: a little star on her ankle. Since then, she’s had several more, dotted across her body, each one a big deal. She spends ages sourcing the images, flicking through magazines in the salon or scrolling through Instagram, and never reveals the design until the tattoo has healed. They’re normally tiny, and she’s been keeping the latest one covered under her clothes, but tonight a plaster covers a large area on her shoulder. Her hair hangs loose, so it’s barely visible.
‘Not yet, no. It’s not quite ready. That’s why I’ve put the plaster on tonight, I don’t want it to get knocked.’
‘That’s a shame; seems like the perfect chance to show it off. Your dress is great, though. I love it, honestly.’ Lena has put so much effort into organising this party and I should be more appreciative. ‘You look fab.’ I fiddle with the strap on my dress, feeling a twinge as I do so. The scar. It does that when I’m nervous.
Four
Lena
When I woke up this morning, I wanted to pull my warm duvet over my head and not surface. Stay asleep, stay in denial. That way, today would never happen. But the thought of tonight made me abandon the pointless battle against time, throw off the duvet and step into the shower. What could possibly be better than a party?
Reality hit along with a burst of cold water. Ava was actually leaving. Squinting through half-asleep eyes, I fiddled with the dial until the temperature was bearable, mulling over last night in the wine bar, when she’d revealed she knew about the surprise party. It was a relief; preparing for it together would be so much easier, and heaps more fun.
To us, she’d said, her glass clinking against mine, and part of me still hoped she wouldn’t go through with it.
The day at work dragged. I watched the clock as I trimmed and blow-dried and painted highlights into hair, and my clients told me about their children and their holidays. I nodded in all the right places, but my mind was on one thing only. The party. Three of my regular clients asked about my latest tattoo, which is hidden under my clothes but Ava will be the first to see it – and only when the time is right. As the afternoon grew darker, my excitement mounted, and I stuck in my ear pods, the disco beat pumping through my body along with the adrenalin in my veins as I dashed home, suddenly anxious to get the evening started.
And now, in just a couple of hours, the party will be happening. I run downstairs and stick on the party mix I’ve been compiling for months. When I open the cupboard to get out Ava’s punch bowl, all that is inside is a solitary mug with an L on it. L for lonely. How I’ll be once she’s gone. Blood rushes to my head. I check all the cupboards, banging the doors shut, until I find a mixing bowl I can use instead.
I ladle fruit and pour juices and alcohol until the sliced oranges and cherries bob about in a rich red liquid. An image of a girl lying in a pool of blood flashes into my mind. This is not that party. I fetch a bottle of Prosecco from the fridge, needing a drink.
The loud music masks the sound of Ava coming downstairs. The colours of her blue dress shimmer as she moves, and the silk hangs perfectly on her pencil-thin figure, matched by her pointed blue stilettos. The material of the dress ripples like a waterfall. I was there when it arrived in a deliciously expensive-looking cardboard box, watching as she untied the red ribbon, unfolded the tissue paper, caught her first glimpse of the electric-blue fabric, so soft to the touch. She looks stunning.
‘I can’t believe Ben chose that for you. It fits like a dream.’ The material is flecked with silver strands that shimmer in the light, and her honey-blonde hair is swept up into an elegant bun.
I glance around one final time. The lights cast shadows over the walls and the room looks poised for a party. This night has finally come. The piano gleams and I know Ava will have polished it again today. That makes me smile. Ava needs her piano, and I still can’t believe she’s agreed to be parted from it in just two days’ time.
‘When is the piano being collected?’ I ask.
‘Tomorrow morning. Dad’s found a specialist firm. He’ll come too, make sure they look after it.’
I grin. ‘You and your piano.’
‘I told Ben it’s a deal-breaker,’ she says with a smile. ‘Either he allows me to have one in his flat, or I won’t move in. Though it won’t be the same as having this one, obviously.’
‘I’m so glad you’re playing again.’
‘Me too.’ Her eyes mist over.
‘Taste this.’ I ladle a small amount of the punch into two plastic glasses for us to try. She take
s a sip and licks her lips.
‘Delicious! Just tasting it takes me back to the first party we had here. Do you remember, when we moved in?’
‘As if I could forget. You spilled a glass all over the carpet and we were terrified we’d never get the stain out.’ Memories of other parties come tumbling into my head. ‘It’s more than that, though; we’ve made this punch at every party we’ve ever had together.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ she says, holding the plastic cup so tight it crackles. ‘This is the only party I want to think about tonight.’
I nod. ‘Using plastic cups is so naff. The punch tastes just right, but it’s such a shame we don’t have your fancy punch bowl.’
‘I’m afraid it’s been sent off to Mum’s, sorry.’
‘The whole set – the glasses too?’
She nods. ‘But there wouldn’t be enough of them for everyone anyway, by the looks of it. There’s plenty of stuff here we can use.’ She opens the cupboard and takes out a random assortment of glasses, a few wine glasses and some larger ones. ‘We can use these too.’
‘You mean crap stuff. I wanted everything to be special.’
‘And it will be, stop worrying. I had to make sure everything was packed up and sent to Mum and Dad’s; the last thing I’ll want to do tomorrow is move stuff. Especially if Ben is here.’
Her eyes sparkle whenever she mentions him, and I can’t help a pinch of jealousy. I smile in response, biting my tongue.
‘If he’s coming tonight, he’ll be in England by now.’ She hugs herself and spins round, her dress shining along with her eyes.
‘You mustn’t call him,’ I say. ‘I don’t want him to know you’ve found out about the surprise. I promised him you wouldn’t. And he won’t be in touch with you either; it’s the rules.’ I’ve told him not to contact her, to keep her in suspense. My cheeks flush as I think about his last message to me, and I shake my hair out.
The Leaving Party: An absolutely gripping and addictive psychological thriller Page 2