Читать книгу Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist - Sam Hepburn, Sam Hepburn - Страница 21

‘Hey, what’s happening?’ Gracie drops her keys into her bag and opens her arms to Elsie, who comes hurtling down the stairs in a floppy straw hat and wrinkled grey tights jammed into pink satin ballet slippers. Gracie bends to kiss her. ‘What’s with the outfit?’

‘I’m going to be a mushroom in Lynda’s show and you have to make me a costume. The tickets cost three pounds fifty. Daphne can come if she wants. She can write about it in the paper.’ Elsie twirls away and runs back upstairs, passing Heather on her way down with a basket of washing.

‘Sounds like it was a success,’ Gracie says.

‘Not bad. The place is a bit grotty but she seemed to enjoy it.’

‘Did she make any friends?’

‘She got talking to a girl called Amber. Her mum teaches round the corner at Dunsmore Primary.’

‘I can take her next week. I’ll try and get Amber over for tea. How did it go at the school?’

‘She was standing on her own again when I picked her up.’

‘Any luck with the other nannies?’

‘I’m trying. But they’re dead cliquey.’

‘What about the mums?’

‘That lot wouldn’t be seen dead talking to the help.’

‘God, that place is snotty. Bloody four-by-fours and skiing in Val d’Isère.’

‘Tom’s right about the security. They stopped me again as I was going in. You’d think they’d know my face by now.’

‘That’s what we’re paying for, I s’pose. Thank goodness she’s meeting some nice normal kids at dance.’

‘Tea?’

‘If you’re making some.’

On her way to the kitchen Gracie gives in to one of the unspoken pleasures of Falcon Square and trails her hand over the rubbed wooden sweep of the bannister, picturing the generations of women who have lived in this house, gentle ghosts who would never be more to her than names on a set of deeds, calling up the stairs to their children, throwing back the shutters to let in the light, planting the saplings that have grown into the tall lime trees at the bottom of the garden, their footsteps loosening the toffee-brown boards that creak beneath her feet.

She pulls her notebook from her bag. ‘Let’s invite her whole class to her party. That should get them on side. We can combine it with a housewarming – kids and families in the afternoon, adults in the evening. Could you have a look at entertainment options – maybe a circus workshop or one of those conjurors who does illusions?’

She hears Tom’s key in the door. Her eyes pull towards him as he walks into the kitchen, tall, handsome, masculine, capable, tugging at the tie beneath his unbuttoned collar. He’s the kind of man women notice. The kind who, like his twice-divorced father, will improve with age. Is she crazy to fill the house with other women? She snaps off that thought at the root. ‘Forget the tea, let’s have a drink.’

He glances at the notebook.

‘What are you hatching now?’

She finds a smile. ‘Elsie’s party. We’re going to have a barbeque.’

He pulls a bottle from the rack and reaches for the opener. ‘When were you thinking?’

‘Her birthday’s on a Sunday so what about the Saturday before? That’ll give us four weeks to get organised.’

‘I’ll give Stella and Todd a call. They’ll want to know what to give her.’

‘How about a new bicycle?’

‘Isn’t that what we’re giving her?’

Gracie etches a doodle in the corner of the page. ‘I was thinking we might buy her a puppy.’

Tom turns slowly to look at her. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘She’s always wanted one.’

‘And you’ve always been dead set against it.’

‘It’ll help her make friends. Kids love going to houses with pets.’

‘Yeah, but a puppy’s a full-on commitment. Let’s get her a rescue dog.’

Gracie stares at him appalled. ‘Haven’t you heard those horror stories about cuddly rescue dogs suddenly turning on the children?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. They do tests to make sure they’re safe around kids.’

‘There’ll always be unknowns, some trigger that sends them crazy.’

Tom rolls his eyes. ‘So who’s going to house-train this puppy?’

Heather butts in excitedly. ‘Elsie and I can do it. Shall I have a look at some breeders’ websites?’

‘It’s OK,’ Tom says, his eyes still on Gracie. ‘I’lI do it.’

Gracie feels the linger of his gaze as she scores through another item on her list. ‘Thanks, love, that’d be great.’

The Lynda Burton School of Dance is housed in a set of knocked-through rooms above a carpet shop, its windows decorated with a crudely painted top hat and a pair of disembodied ballet shoes teetering across the glass. Elsie runs up the narrow wooden steps, squeezing her bag past the line of parents coming down the other way. Some of them stare openly at Gracie, some look away and a balding man in paint-spattered overalls makes the kind of face that usually precedes a shout of ‘Hey, aren’t you thingy off the telly!’ Gracie cuts him short with a quick smile and follows Elsie down a narrow corridor lined with chipped, wood-effect panelling hung with yellowing certificates and faded blow-ups of past productions – grinning rouge-cheeked kids in garish costumes, arms flung wide for the camera. She lowers herself onto one of the wooden benches in the small, dimly lit changing area and sits forward holding her breath. The sour smell of sweaty feet, floor polish and cheap body spray is almost un-breathable. She uses a finger to shoehorn Elsie’s feet into her ballet slippers, tightens the ribbons at the end of her plaits and guides her towards the stream of children tripping into the studio, where music blares from the speakers, the rattling overhead fan pushes the sweaty air around and sinewy, leather-skinned Lynda Burton runs around in a red leotard like a manic chorizo whipping up enthusiasm. ‘Come on, everybody, big breaths. Let’s shake out those joints.’

Gracie leans against the doorjamb studying the dancers. One boy, razored hair tilting into a quiff, stands watching Gracie watching him in the wall of mirrors. With a grin he backflips across the room to a chorus of oohs from the admiring girls and a stern warning from Lynda about the need for a proper warm-up as she shoos him off to the advanced class. Gracie’s eyes dart over to Elsie standing on her own chewing the end of her plait. Gracie searches the room for other girls her age. She feels a prick of disappointment. Maybe this isn’t going work out. Give it a few weeks, she thinks. There’s sure to be plenty of regulars who miss the odd session. Lynda Burton smirks a little when she sees her and hurries over. ‘Nice to see you. If you want to stay there’s coffee and a kettle in the kitchen.’

Gracie steps away and wanders over to the kitchen where two women are leaning against the stained countertop sipping from chipped china mugs.

‘Hello.’

The women exchange glances and shuffle down the counter to let her get to the kettle. The thinner one gives her a nod. The plump one folds her fleshy arms and takes Gracie in, not unfriendly, just curious. ‘You’re slumming it, aren’t you?’

‘Dawn!’ Her friend looks apologetically at Gracie who is opening cupboard doors, looking for a mug.

‘This place is just like the dance school I went to as a kid, even the cupboards smell the same,’ Gracie says.

‘Your kid coming here’s been the talk of Dunsmore. Even the teachers have been going on about it.’ Dawn jerks her head at her friend and laughs. ‘I said to Leslie, I bet that’s Lynda spreading rumours to drum up business.’

‘I hope not. I asked her to keep it quiet,’ Gracie says.

Dawn’s chin lifts, a touch of aggression. ‘What school’s she go to then?’

‘St Mathilda’s.’

Dawn gives Leslie a knowing look. ‘There you go. This lot’s either at Dunsmore or The Falcon Academy.’

‘Blame my husband. I really liked the look of Dunsmore.’ Gracie passes its gates every day, even stops sometimes to watch the children in the playground forming and dissolving their little knots of allegiance, and still wonders if she should have fought harder to overcome Tom’s worries about security. She flips on the kettle and sniffs the open milk carton.

‘I wouldn’t risk it,’ Leslie says.

‘It’s all right,’ Dawn grins. ‘She’ll turn it into cream cheese.’

Gracie laughs. ‘I was thinking sour milk muffins.’

‘I did your garden pie the other night, used up all the crap at the bottom of the fridge. My kids actually asked for seconds.’

‘That’s why I do the leftovers slot. It really pisses me off how much food gets wasted. You look in the bins behind any supermarket and there’ll be enough food in there to feed an army.’

She’s cracked the ice, got them on side, sworn a little but not too much, gauged it right. Footsteps sound on the stairs and thud across the changing area. The door of the studio bangs open, lets out a blast of ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and swings shut behind a latecomer.