Читать книгу Losing Juliet: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming - June Taylor - Страница 11

Manchester: 2007

‘So did you go to the party?’

Eloise was desperate to know more but Chrissy had come to an abrupt halt. It was time to go in any case. Her cheek still felt sore as it brushed against her mother’s, kissing her goodbye, reminding her of the slap she had received earlier and for no apparent reason. It was more the shock than any physical pain that had bothered her, but it was a sign that she would have to tread carefully.

Something Eloise had been doing for years.

‘Wouldn’t you like to see her again, Mum?’

Chrissy shook her head, a small movement at first, as if a tiny part of her was still undecided. Then, an emphatic, ‘No.’

‘Well, tell me some more later, yeah? When I get back.’

‘Do you have to go?’ said Chrissy.

‘What, to meet Anya? Or do you mean Inter-Railing?’

The lack of reply annoyed Eloise, almost as much as her question. She bent down to pick up her bag, feeling her mother’s gaze burning into her back. She stood up again, moving towards her until their faces were almost touching.

‘Goodbye, Mum,’ she said, meeting her glare, confident she would not be the one to back down first. She just had the edge in her shoes. But in the end Eloise did look away first, her mother’s face was so full of anguish, and she turned to leave before she felt that she couldn’t.

‘How’re you getting home?’ she heard Chrissy shout as she made for the door.

‘Dunno.’ She was already halfway out.

‘Well, can you walk back with Anya?’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

The Mancunian Way rumbled on like a Big Dipper ride over the Stockport Road, the grey-white tower of the university protruding above it. Clouds had closed in on the sun, stealing the warmth out of their summer’s evening. The estate was quieter now, apart from the murmur of traffic.

The key turned in the lock behind her, startling Eloise; she had been using the door as a backrest. Then the chain slid across. She kicked out at a piece of Lego, shooting it off the walkway, and moved over to grab the railings, fingernails digging into her palms. If her mother thought a harmless bit of Inter-Railing around Europe was a problem, what would she be like with a whole gap year after A-levels? And what about Bournemouth Uni? Eloise had convinced herself, and her mother, that it was by far the best course in Travel and Tourism. It was also the furthest away.

Of course she would go Inter-Railing; there was never any doubt about that. If she couldn’t get Chrissy to agree to it, she would still go. It was for four weeks, not forever. Nevertheless, she could still hear her dad’s words, as if it was only yesterday when he had uttered them: ‘Look after your mother, Eloise. You’re all she’s got now.’

At the bottom of the stairwell, these thoughts still pinballed around inside her head. As she walked along Grosvenor Street the pair of trainers looped over the telephone wires swung back and forth. She watched them; they had been there for years, condemned to a life of futile hanging in the breeze. This was not a bad area by any means. The centre of Manchester was less than a mile away, and with the university close by they had the whole world on their doorstep. ‘So why go anywhere else?’ her mother would say. She had even suggested that Eloise could go to Manchester Uni and live at home. ‘It’d be so much cheaper,’ she insisted, but they both knew that wasn’t the real reason.

The pedestrian crossing on Upper Brook Street was beeping insistently at her. When she failed to cross, a sleek black car with tinted windows allowed her to go, and the motorist in the car behind sounded his horn, revving his engine impatiently. Eloise walked over to the other side, oblivious to the real world. Chrissy would never get in touch with Juliet, of that she was sure. Why did she never allow anyone else into her life? No one could even get close. Even when her dad was alive it was probably just the same, she realized. Except, when her dad was alive it didn’t matter, because her mother always had him.

Without Eloise, Chrissy had no one.

Turning right onto Oxford Road there was something of a Friday night buzz. The sleek black car with tinted windows was making slow progress, crawling along beside her in the slow-moving traffic. Up ahead, Eloise could see a crowd of smokers gathered outside Maria’s Café. The green sign distinguished it from the kebab shop and the music shop on either side. It was a popular spot, especially with students.

Eloise pushed open the glass door. She smiled at a group of regulars, squeezing between the benches, and waved at a couple of Sixth Formers from her college that she recognized. She was glad not to be working tonight.

Maria looked up from the spurting coffee machine and nodded towards the end computer. After a while she came over. ‘Someone was in here looking for you earlier.’

‘Really?’ said Eloise. ‘Who?’

‘A man. Wearing some sort of uniform, not sure what he was.’

‘Could be Anya’s dad, he’s some kind of security guard. Did he leave a message?’ Maria shook her head. ‘He was probably looking for Anya then.’

‘He asked for you.’

Eloise smiled, hoping she would go away. It was only when she brought up the Inter-Rail website that Maria took the hint.

‘Who is Juliet Ricci?’ she typed once she had gone.

The computer fired a string of results back at her. She checked to see if anyone was watching before scanning down the list. They all sounded rather dull, except for one. She clicked on the link.

A website of translucent greys and whites began to unfurl. Moody images of long, pale models, dressed in outfits that looked more like works of art than clothing, appeared across the screen.

‘Enter the exclusive World of Ricci. Shop the latest collections of this luxury Italian fashion house. Read the latest news about the brand …’

It was ridiculous even to imagine this Juliet Ricci in the same room as her mother, let alone breathing the same air.

‘ENTER: Juliet and Luca Ricci, internationally acclaimed designers producing iconic work as seen on red carpets and catwalks throughout the world. Two major collections a year, distinctive designs.’

A selection of menus along the top enticed her further:

‘Womenswear, Menswear, Accessories, Evening Wear, Lingerie, Shoes, Fragrance’

The prices were eye-watering.

‘CONTACT’

There she was: Juliet Ricci, standing back-to-back with her Italian husband, Luca, a fluffy white cat intertwined through his legs. She had a beehive, dark with red streaks running through it, and something silver, like a big hairslide pinned into it. She wore a blue and silver Japanese-looking tunic, silver platform shoes.

Eloise clicked on a map of the world covered in white arrows:

‘There are Ricci stores in all the major capitals and over 120 concessions within the world’s most prestigious department stores.’

She imagined the possibilities. Trips to Italy. New York. Tokyo. Paris. Long weekends in London. A never-ending supply of free designer clothes for her and Chrissy.

The website disappeared off the screen. Eloise needed to force herself back to reality. She pulled her phone from her pocket and brought up Juliet’s number, telling herself that, even if it turned out to be the boring Juliet in IT from Cambridge, it really didn’t matter. What did matter was that this woman should become her mother’s best friend again. Someone else to share the burden.

‘Pronto? Chi parla?’

That seductively husky voice. Maybe she lived in Italy?

‘Hello?’ it said again.

Italy would be perfect.

‘Juliet Ricci speaking. Who is this?’

Eloise cut the call. What could she possibly say to Juliet when her mother didn’t seem to want to know? A text message, she suddenly thought, wishing she had done this in the first place instead of making a fool of herself. It would also give her time to plan. Several attempts later, she settled for:

‘Would love to meet you Juliet.

Please don’t call again.

Email me – Eloise.lundy@tiscali.co.uk XXX’

Her finger hovered over the ‘Send’ button.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘Christ Almighty, Anya! You frightened the life out of me.’

Eloise stared at the words:

‘MESSAGE SENT’

***

Eloise assumed her mother was out when she didn’t answer her shout through the letterbox; something she was meant to do before unlocking the door – if she remembered to do it. Rooting in her bag for her keys, Eloise stuck her head over the side of the railings, discreetly, just to be sure. At one point she had thought she was being followed, but when the man had turned off before the Salvation Army building she changed her mind. Besides, he seemed more interested in his phone than anywhere she might be going. Nonetheless it had shaken her; she had quickened her pace, taking the stairs two at a time when she reached them, checking behind her all the way.

When the door wouldn’t open she banged on it loudly with her fist.

‘Mum, why is the bolt on? I can’t get in. It’s me.’

It clunked across, top and bottom. The place was in darkness, apart from a candle flickering on the coffee table.

‘What’s going on? Are you okay?’

Chrissy nodded. She seemed calm enough.

‘Has there been a power cut or something?’

‘No, I’m just meditating,’ she replied.

‘Oh,’ said Eloise, trying to weigh up her mood and eliminate the flashbacks from earlier, walking home.

Chrissy returned to the sofa, sitting down cross-legged. The TV was on but muted, some talk show with a sofa full of vaguely recognizable people on it, and Eloise noticed a plate of toast and Marmite on the coffee table next to a half-drunk glass of wine. She wondered whether to remove the bottle that was down at her feet but left it where it was.

‘So did you make it to your yoga class?’ asked Eloise, bouncing down next to her.

Chrissy shuffled along, continuing to stare at the TV. ‘No. I went for a run instead.’

‘Oh. How many circuits did you do?’ Eloise wasn’t at all interested, but running was her mother’s thing and sometimes a good way to engage. As far as Eloise was concerned, running was a form of torture.

‘Actually I ran into town and back.’

‘You never,’ said Eloise, screwing up her face. ‘Centre of Manchester on a Friday night? What’s that about?’ Her usual circuit was down to the Apollo, weaving back through the Brunswick Estate. She had been doing that for years, never deviated.

‘I changed my mind.’

‘Why though?’

‘Just a feeling,’ she said, still not making eye contact.

‘Well, what sort of a feeling?’

‘I wanted to be in a crowded place, that’s all.’

Eloise grabbed the remote and zapped the TV off. ‘Can we talk, Mum?’

‘Why, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’

Chrissy lunged for her glass and turned her body round to face Eloise, who was slightly regretting this tactic now. It had crossed her mind to mention that she thought she had been followed, but didn’t dare do that now; it would only play into her mother’s paranoia. Besides, it was just in her head, so hardly worth a mention.

‘No, nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I’ve just been wondering about your friend, Juliet, and what she did after uni. Have you any idea?’

Chrissy polished off her wine and poured herself another. ‘Is that what you want to talk about, Eloise? Because if it is I’m not in the mood.’

Eloise wished she had taken the bottle away now.

Chrissy was looking at her awkwardly. ‘Listen, I’m sorry for slapping you,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘It’s okay,’ Eloise replied, knowing her mother’s guilt was to her advantage. ‘So, when will you be in the mood?’

But instead of answering, Chrissy sank another large mouthful. Before leaning back again, she began rearranging the cushions behind her, pulling out the little yellow bear, a present to Eloise from her dad. It had become a game of theirs, putting the bear in unusual places so the other person would find it: in the biscuit tin, swinging from a light fitting, it could even be found hiding in a pocket. A smile spread across Chrissy’s face at the discovery, and Eloise felt herself softening towards her again.

Her cheeks were still flushed from her run, hair swept back in a ponytail and tiny beads of sweat glistened in the fine creases around her mouth. Eloise wished she had her mother’s lips; they were heart-shaped and she was lovely when she smiled. This thought saddened her all of a sudden, although she didn’t quite know why, not until she started speaking. ‘Do you remember, Mum, that time when Dad told me you’d gone running? I thought he meant you’d run away, like forever, and were never coming back. I cried for days.’

She put down her glass and pulled Eloise into her side. ‘I’d never run away from you. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, ’course I do,’ Eloise replied, leaving it a moment before adding: ‘But I don’t know why you run away from everyone else. Why won’t you see Juliet? She’s your best friend.’

‘Was.’

‘Okay “was”, but you said yourself that you never fell out.’

Chrissy stood up. ‘I’m going to run a bath,’ she said. She left the room clutching her glass, and Eloise tossed a cushion across the floor.

‘Damn thing,’ said her mother, shaking her head at the trickle coming out of the hot tap.

‘Can’t you just tell me?’ said Eloise, kicking the doorframe.

Chrissy sank down onto the side of the bath, tucking her hands between her thighs. ‘Look, do you have to keep on at me, Eloise?’

‘Just tell me why you don’t want to see her again.’

‘Because …’

She let the word drift into the sound of the water. The tap was flowing now, which seemed to soothe her, then she remembered her wine and tipped the final dregs into her mouth. Eloise took the glass out of her hand and put it down by the sink.

‘It’s complicated,’ said Chrissy. Her face was red from the steam and from rubbing it so much. ‘Anyway, it’s not possible to see her again.’

‘Of course it is, Mum. You just get in touch and say—’

‘It’s not possible.’

She made a chopping motion with her hands as if to say ‘The End’. It caught the stem of the glass, clattering it into the sink.

‘I’ll sort it,’ said Chrissy, shunting Eloise out of the way.

Eloise backed off, her hands up in submission, and went to get some newspaper. When she returned, Chrissy was holding out the remnants in her T-shirt.

‘Oh, you’ve cut your finger,’ Eloise remarked as the glass clinked down onto the paper.

‘It’s nothing,’ she replied, giving her finger a suck before folding the newspaper into a parcel. She held out her injury for Eloise to inspect. ‘Think I’ll live, don’t you?’ Putting her hand to Eloise’s cheek, she added, ‘I know you’re curious.’

‘Well then tell me!’ she snapped, swiping Chrissy’s hand away. ‘Or maybe I’ll just ask Juliet myself.’

‘Don’t think you can blackmail me,’ said Chrissy, narrowing her eyes. Her lips also had a habit of drawing in when something bothered her, which they were doing now.

‘What are you going to do? Slap me again?’

Chrissy looked down at the vinyl flooring, the edges starting to curl where it wasn’t stuck down properly. She let out a sigh before she spoke. ‘Look, I will tell you about Juliet. But …’ She raised her hand to prevent Eloise from butting in. ‘… but you can only hear it from me. Do you understand that? Never Juliet. Just give me some time to think.’

‘You’ve had twenty years to think, Mum!’

‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘Please, that’s all I ask.’

Eloise nodded, though she was unconvinced. Suddenly a vision of herself, twenty years from now, forced itself into her head. Still crouched by this bath beside her mother, never having left home. Never having a life of her own. She had always thought it was because of her father’s death that her mother was this way, but perhaps it was something else. Whatever it was, Juliet was the key – and Eloise had no intention of letting the opportunity slip away.

***

A sharp triangle of light cut across Eloise’s bed where the curtains had not quite come together. She had slept lightly in any case, waking up in a panic, trying to unlock a door that she could never quite reach.

Pulling back the curtains she opened the window to let in the familiar hum of traffic. It sounded different this morning, as if it were going somewhere meaningful and not just the dreary commute into Manchester.

Eloise shuffled into the kitchen, grinning to herself, checking her phone as she went.

‘Don’t you have to get yourself to work?’ asked Chrissy when she was presented with a mug of tea, and Eloise climbed into bed next to her.

‘It’s Saturday, you know.’

Chrissy reached for her alarm clock, spilling tea on the bed. ‘Oh fuck!’ she blurted, setting the mug down and then smiling at Eloise, remembering her as a cross little girl with a swear box. ‘Sorry, Eloise. I meant fluck,’ she insisted.

‘Well, I’ll let you off if you tell me some more. I want to know about that party Juliet invited you to. Did you go?’

Her mother began folding the duvet into neat rolls, focusing on the wall opposite as though she could see images projected onto it.

‘I did,’ she said finally.