The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘No. I’ve had to give up on that for now. He won’t talk at all. Just points and mimes everything.’

  ‘Christ, I didn’t realise. Look, I feel terrible – I should have been in touch. We’ll talk more on Wednesday, yes?’ I glanced again at Theo as he stood on his own, very still, watching the dog. ‘Kids have these wobbles but you must try not to worry. These phases always pass.’ I didn’t add, because I didn’t want to alarm her, that I rather agreed with Nathan; if Theo had stopped talking completely, poor love, then maybe professional advice was a good idea.

  ‘Yeah.’

  It was only now that I noticed Nathan had disappeared back into the tent.

  ‘So what’s up between Nathan and Tom?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He won’t tell me. Some stupid row. You know what the village is like.’

  And then from the tent there was suddenly the most deafening crash – the canvas wall taking the shape of something angular, rocking the whole structure as if something inside had collapsed. A number of people spilled from the main entrance, gasping and shaking their heads, and next Nathan appeared – marching towards us, face like thunder.

  ‘Come on. We are leaving now.’

  He took Emma’s arm, steering her towards the exit sign across the grass, as I watched Tom appear at the tent entrance, clutching his jaw and followed closely by DI Melanie Sanders. Tom then held on to her shoulders, apparently to stop her pursuing Nathan.

  I was just wondering whether to go after Nathan, Emma and Theo for an explanation when Helen emerged from the tent, her face white as she approached.

  ‘So what on earth happened in there, then?’

  ‘Nathan punched Tom and knocked over his stand in the process. But never mind that. We need to get you home.’ Helen had her arm protectively around my shoulders. She then removed her cardigan and inexplicably tied it around my waist.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Helen steered me gently towards the exit. ‘Come on, Sophie.’

  Only alongside the car as she demanded the keys, insisting she would drive, did she finally explain. Ashen-faced.

  ‘You’re bleeding, Sophie.’

  CHAPTER 28

  BEFORE

  Every day for the next fortnight I woke in the same transient fog. A sort of limbo where for a brief spell, numbed by sleep, I forgot the puddles of sadness I had to wade through as the day dragged on. Breakfast. Walking Ben to school. Bye, darling. A quick call to check on Emma. How’s Theo doing? Any better? Lunch and supper with Helen.

  You must try to eat something, Sophie. Just a little. Please.

  Extraordinary that you can know so little about a subject one moment and become an expert the next. It felt as if I had read everything ever written about bleeding in early pregnancy. I quizzed the doctors at the hospital until their faces froze into the same strained expression as they repeated what they had already told me at the very beginning. That first horrible visit after the fair. That there really was nothing to be done now but wait.

  The problem was I still felt pregnant. I still looked out on the world as if through a veil of detachment. I still couldn’t touch coffee. I still peed every day on a stick which told me I was pregnant. And yet still most days I bled.

  On that first emergency trip to the hospital with Helen, I was told that loss of blood early on was quite common and did not make a miscarriage inevitable. A jolly nurse on the maternity unit with plump hips and strangely arching eyebrows trotted out the statistics so calmly and easily that I came home genuinely reassured.

  Bed rest at first. Mark rushed home and was wonderful. Kind and tender and yet terribly afraid – bringing me endless cups of camomile tea. I sat in our bed with the iPad, screenshotting every article I could find to support that initial reassurance.

  I was no longer bleeding every day. And now that Mark had finally been persuaded to return to London, leaving Helen in charge, I picked up the iPad first thing every morning to skim through those articles, reading them over and over.

  Around one in four women, according to the research, suffer bleeding in the first three months. For those whose subsequent scan confirms a heartbeat, ninety per cent go on to have a normal pregnancy.

  So we just needed the heartbeat confirmed. Rest, Sophie. Rest.

  The emergency session at the hospital was inconclusive. There was no evidence of an ectopic pregnancy, which had been the first fear, but the test for a heartbeat with an appalling internal probe did not go well. This was probably because it was so early, the doctor said. I’d been in something of a muddle over the dates.

  By the time Mark first arrived from London, I was tucked up in bed at home, with the news that there was nothing to be done but wait another week then try the scan again, by which time the heartbeat should be clearer and stronger.

  In complete contrast to his muted response when I told him about the pregnancy, Mark was in real shock at this setback. At first he would not talk about it properly, but then late that first night I found him in our bathroom, sitting in the dark weeping.

  He was mumbling, almost incoherent, saying it was all his fault. For closing himself off. For worrying about money. For us still living apart; him unable to relocate the business . . .

  Eventually I coaxed him to bed and we lay there just holding hands for hours. So sad and yet also the closest we’d felt for a while.

  He stayed home the whole of the first week but there had been so many frantic calls from the office that Helen persuaded him to go back to London to catch up. The doctors had advised rest and ‘normality’, and I think secretly Helen felt Mark’s anxious clucking was making me worse. Maybe she was right.

  And now, as I slowly gained confidence – four whole days with no bleeding – she suggested resurrecting the supper plan. We had cancelled the dinner invitation to Emma and Nathan but Helen floated the idea of a quieter girls’ night to lift my spirits – also a little platform for me to tell Emma what was going on. If you want to, that is, Sophie.

  Truth is I didn’t know. Emma had quite enough to deal with herself.

  And so it was Thursday now, and with Mark staying another night in London, Helen and I drove to a favourite butcher for enormous lamb shanks, for a Moroccan dish to be served with couscous and homemade flatbread.

  Helen made me sit at the breakfast bar while she chopped and fried and stirred and tasted until there was this intoxicating smell seeping from the Aga and through the whole house. Later I took a rest upstairs, still enjoying the delicious scent, so that I was feeling calmer and cared for as Helen arrived with a cup of tea.

  ‘You’ll like her, Helen.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Emma. She’s unusual. Probably why people have taken against her.’

  ‘Unusual is good.’

  ‘That’s what I think.’

  ‘So what’s the score with the real father, then? Is Theo’s dad not around at all?’

  ‘No. Another artist, apparently. Went travelling to Asia for “inspiration”. Suggested an abortion, as did her mother.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Exactly. She doesn’t like to talk about it, mostly because she doesn’t know what to tell Theo. There’s this ludicrous rumour going round that Antony was the father. Complete nonsense, but small wonder Theo is so out of sorts. He was wound up by some other child in playgroup about it. The kid probably overheard his mother gossiping. Anyway. Poor Emma was all for leaving the village over it. Like I said, it took me a long time to calm her down and talk her into staying.’

  ‘So are you going to tell Emma tonight? About the baby? Have you decided?’

  ‘I’m still not sure, to be honest. Maybe. A big part of me doesn’t want to add to her worries, but . . .’ I paused. ‘Also, it feels a bit silly telling you this, but she kept something from me when we first met.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. About her mother dying when she was in France. Just before she came here. It was to start with a blank page, she said. Un
derstandable. But I was surprised how much I minded and I made a bit of a fool of myself over it. So I suppose it would hypocritical if I did the same thing myself. Kept something from her, I mean.’

  There was a look of slight puzzlement on Helen’s face which I found difficult to understand, but which reappeared later as she sat opposite Emma at the supper table.

  It was not something I had foreseen. That Helen and Emma wouldn’t get along. Nothing tangible at first, just an awkwardness in their body language which I put down to nerves. But sitting at the table, the three of us, with olives and bread and dips which Helen had put out on a wooden board in lieu of a starter, I found my eyes darting from one guest to the other, trying to make out what exactly was going on.

  Helen was all politeness and good manners over the first gin and tonic, passing on her condolences regarding Emma’s mother and then trying to lighten the mood by talking of the food and other delights of France. She seemed keen to know more of the area Emma had visited, whether she was fluent in French and whether Theo had managed to pick up much of the language during their stay. Children learn so quickly. It’s a marvel to behold.

  I wished I had warned her more openly that Emma didn’t like to talk about France. And sure enough, Emma became very prickly, pointedly trying to change the subject while Helen seemed unwilling to take the hint. And now, as I poured us all water, Helen was off again.

  ‘So which part of France did you say your mother lived in, Emma?’

  ‘The south initially, then the north.’

  ‘Oh, but my late husband and I loved the north. Underrated in my view, just as the Lizard is in Cornwall. We visited Brittany every year. I still do. Off there very soon, actually. So easy, of course, from here. Ferry from Plymouth, I mean. Cheap too – out of season. I visit my late husband’s cousin in the most charming place. Landerneau. So where were you?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know it. A small place. So has Sophie been telling you about our deli plans?’

  ‘Nearest town?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What was the nearest town to your mother’s place? As I say, my late husband’s cousin lives in Landerneau. The weather isn’t always good, of course, but it has the sweetest bridge. And wonderful narrow streets.’

  I stood up. ‘I’ll fetch the main course, shall I, Helen?’

  ‘Near the coast or inland?’

  ‘Near Carnac. It was La Trinité-sur-Mer, near Carnac.’ Emma was clattering the starter plates together noisily.

  ‘Oh, really? But I know the area quite well. Those amazing standing stones. Gorgeous marina, and an excellent market too. As I say – I’m due to visit again quite soon. Perhaps you could recommend some new restaurants?’

  Emma’s face was colouring deeply – unusual for her – as she adjusted her napkin. ‘I didn’t see it in the best of circumstances, of course.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Of course not. Forgive me.’

  ‘Will you help me carry, Helen?’

  ‘Of course, darling. Sorry. I’m talking too much.’

  In the kitchen I apologised, whispering to Helen that I should have warned her more keenly how sensitive Emma could be about France. The trauma over her mother, presumably? Also that she obviously wasn’t quite herself just now – what with the police being such a pain in the arse.

  ‘So when are you heading back to Cornwall, Helen?’ Emma was topping up the wine glasses as we re-entered the room. I stared at the wine, which I would not touch. I would have to say something. Later . . .

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was wondering when you’re going back to the Lizard?’

  ‘Oh gosh. I hadn’t even thought. By the way, did Sophie tell you about seeing your doppelganger down there? Gave her quite a fright.’

  I was mortified, mouth gaping.

  ‘When was this? My double? How fabulous. I love the idea of having a doppelganger. Do share . . .’ Emma began adding salad to her plate.

  ‘Just a woman with a similar coat and the same hair. Up on a cliff. Looked really like you.’

  And then Emma leaned forward to touch my hand. ‘Sweet. You were missing me, weren’t you? Conjured me up?’

  ‘Probably. I feel a bit silly even mentioning it.’

  Helen glanced from me to Emma and then, as if by way of penance, suddenly took a deep breath and steered the conversation via the story of Heather’s bangle – which we had to remove in the end with warm oil – to Emma’s ceramic work. And then the deli.

  ‘Sophie is being very coy and insisting we keep a low profile but I reckon we can open any time soon. It’s going to be just brilliant – don’t you think, Helen?’

  ‘Goodness. So you’re ready to go? Everything set up? I had no idea you had made a decision about this, Sophie. Does Mark know?’

  I stalled. Distracted. I talked about the butcher and the lamb shank recipe and the amazing flatbread. I joked about Helen trying to persuade me to try ostrich steaks. I laughed and it sounded false and I couldn’t believe this was going so badly. And then as we finished our main course, I asked Helen if she would mind sorting the cheese, please, widening my eyes to signal for some time alone with Emma, until Helen nodded and retreated to the kitchen.

  I stared at my wine – untouched. Emma stared at the wine and frowned, and so it was decided. I told her everything.

  Only as Helen returned with the tray of cheese and biscuits and coffee were things finally easier between us all. The subject too worrying, I guess, for any more friction.

  ‘The good thing is I still feel pregnant. Hormones all over the place. Swollen breasts. I did another test this morning and it’s a solid line. I didn’t bleed at all with Ben.’

  ‘So when’s this next scan?’ Emma was holding my hand.

  ‘Tuesday. It’s an internal ultrasound so they can hear or see the heartbeat on the monitor. Mark’s going with me.’

  ‘Of course. Look, I don’t really know what to say, Sophie. Except that if there is any justice in the world, it will be just fine. Trust what you feel.’ Emma had lowered her voice so that I had to lean in to hear her.

  ‘The doctors are very non-committal. I suppose they need you to prepare for all outcomes. We just have to wait. So what about you? How’s Theo doing?’

  ‘Oh, he’s OK. Let’s not talk about that.’

  ‘Is he still not talking, little Theo?’ Helen piped up suddenly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how long exactly has this been, Emma?’ Helen smoothed her napkin.

  ‘Since the rumpus in playgroup, pretty much.’ Emma was still looking at me, blanking Helen. ‘It’s just a phase, I’m sure.’

  ‘But that’s quite a while now.’ I was doing the sum in my head. ‘You haven’t tried the GP? Just to see what they think.’

  ‘No. Look. I know people mean well; Nathan thinks he should see a specialist, but the thing is, once you start that ball rolling, it never stops. And I don’t want him labelled.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t do that. I had a spell when Ben was supposedly potty training when he decided he wouldn’t poo. A whole week he went.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘Yeah. I was running a book on him exploding, but the doctor was lovely. They’ve seen everything, Emma. Why don’t you at least consider a referral? Have a chat with the GP.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Emma leant forward to kiss my cheek and then, to my surprise, was gathering up her things. Bag. Wrap. Phone. ‘I’ll see how this weekend goes.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not going already, Emma? Helen bought chocolates and it’s so early still.’

  ‘Thank you, but best I get back to the sitter. And anyway – you need to rest, Sophie.’

  And then Emma, standing very upright, looked pointedly across at Helen. ‘It was so lovely to meet you, Helen’ – wrapping her pashmina around her shoulders – ‘just lovely.’

  CHAPTER 29

  BEFORE

  DI Melanie Sanders checked her watch and tried
to catch the eye of the waitress to order a second coffee. She hated raising her hand or calling out; she’d worked in a restaurant herself one summer during her A levels and remembered how rude people could be.

  After a few minutes the waitress finished delivering four full English breakfasts to a table by the window, and Melanie cleared her throat. The woman finally turned.

  ‘Sorry. Did you want something?’

  ‘No. Yes. I’m sorry, but if you’re not busy, could I have another coffee?’

  And then the waitress did a double take, tilting her head. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Melanie wiped her fingers on a paper napkin as two of the men at the other table turned around, one with a whole sausage paused on his fork.

  ‘It’s just your face looks familiar. Your hair. Hang on . . .’ The woman’s face confirmed a lightbulb moment. ‘You’ve been on the telly. Over that Tedbury case.’

  Melanie, mortified, signalled with her hand for the waitress to lower her voice.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. Are you undercover?’

  ‘No, no.’ Melanie glared at the spectators, who at last turned back to their breakfasts, sausage man biting into the huge piece of meat, spraying a burst of fat down his T-shirt. ‘I’m just surprised you recognised me.’

  ‘Well, I remember your hair. Thinking how nice it was. I was considering a change myself, see, and yours is just what I was thinking of. Layering but not too short. Also I think it’s nice to see a woman police officer making the best of herself. Like that blonde woman, whatshername, in that serial killer thingy. That strangler bloke. You know. The good-looking one.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh – you’re younger than her, of course. But she had great hair too, and it’s just it’s mostly men who get to do the TV interviews in real life. So did you work it all out, then? Horrid case. Though he had a bit of a look about him, I thought. The bloke that got killed. Too handsome by half. Like an actor or something.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to discuss my cases.’

  ‘Oh. Right. No. Of course. So are you on the telly very much, then? Do you get nervous?’