Читать книгу Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist - Sam Hepburn, Sam Hepburn - Страница 22

Juliet sees her through the half-open door. She pushes between the lines of coat pegs, taking in Gracie Dwyer’s shiny hair, the cared-for complexion, the casually expensive jeans, the manicured fingers cradled around the white china mug and those moonfaced women circling closer, like eels moving in on a juicy lump of meat.

Would Gracie turn? Would she look? Would she recognize her? Juliet backs away and slips downstairs. She leans against the window of the carpet shop sucking on a cigarette. She drops the half-smoked butt in a pool of melted ice cream, hears it fizzle and die and walks back up the stairs, breathing hard as she nears the kitchen. She pushes the door wider. How small Gracie is. Petite, the papers call her. Juliet edges forward, close enough to see the little mole, perfect as a dot of ink, just above her top lip. Close enough to breathe the smell of her, like rain on parched turf; tiny molecules of thrilling, addictive freshness kicking the air as she moves.

Gracie looks up. The flinch is almost imperceptible. Careful. Juliet pulls away, offering Gracie the chance to clap her hand to her chest and light up with recognition or at least to rumple that smooth brow and shake that shiny hair to show that somewhere inside her a memory has stirred.

‘Hi,’ Gracie says.

It’s the coy smile that seals it, the implication that of course Juliet knows who she is, whereas Juliet is just another nameless nobody eager to pep up her dreary day with a little of the Gracie Dwyer charm. Juliet smiles back, adding the expected widening of the eyes at finding a famous face in Lynda Burton’s shitty kitchen. ‘We don’t get many celebrities in here.’

Gracie ticks her head towards the music. ‘My daughter’s just started.’

Oh, yes. Let’s not forget Elsie. The perfect cherry on your perfect cake.

That lumpy cow Dawn is staring at her, all folded arms and sagging belly. ‘What are you doing back?’

Good to see you too. Juliet pushes past her to the kettle. ‘I couldn’t keep Freya away.’ She moves swiftly, reaching for a mug, blocking Dawn out, her eyes fixed on Gracie. ‘I didn’t know you lived round here.’ The lie comes easily.

‘Just moved in.’

‘Where were you before?’

‘Greenwich.’

In your house of glass with its alarms and cameras and big high walls.

‘Why the move?’

‘We wanted to be close to the new bakery.’

‘So whereabouts are you?’

Juliet sees the uneasiness, the pulling back. What’s the matter? Scared to tell a stranger where you live? I wouldn’t worry. Everybody knows you’ve moved to Falcon Square. Nice. If you can afford it. Juliet’s hand flies to the buzzing phone in her pocket. She glances at the screen. Damn! It’s work, or at least a chance of it.

‘Sorry. Got to take this.’ She hurries into the changing area, pressing the phone to her ear.

‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ Dawn mutters.

Gracie looks up from her mug. ‘Sorry?’

‘Miss High and Mighty. Never gives the rest of us the time of day.’

‘Oh.’ Gracie’s eyes stray to where Juliet is stabbing the air as she talks into her phone. There’s a weariness about her – her roots need retouching, the orange varnish on her toenails is chipped and her skin has the coarsened pallor of a heavy smoker, saved by the kind of tip-tilt nose, flat stomach, high rounded breasts and long skinny legs that Gracie has always envied. She turns back to Dawn. ‘So, what about this show? Will it be any good?’

‘Not if my two are in it.’

Gracie laughs. You wouldn’t catch a St Mathilda’s mum knocking her offspring’s talents.

‘Hey, Gracie, fancy a go at this?’ Leslie taps a card pinned to the corkboard advertising Lynda’s ‘pole dance your way to fitness’ classes.

Gracie laughs. ‘I’ll stick to Pilates.’ Though it’s her self-defence that she practises every day. Flick, kick, twist. Turn your weakness into power. Stay alert.

The dancers thump their way through a selection of numbers from Grease before a round of self-applause signals the end of the session. Gracie reaches the studio doors just as they fly open. Elsie charges out through the crush.

‘Amber’s asking her mummy if she can come to tea. You said she could!’

‘Of course.’ Gracie looks round and smiles at the exquisite-looking black woman being propelled towards her by a tall skinny girl in pink Lycra.

‘That’s so kind of you. Amber would love to come.’ The woman’s accent is American, caramel smooth, somewhere from the South.

‘How about Thursday?’

‘Great. Then Elsie must come to us, though my cooking won’t be a patch on what she’s used to.’

‘Don’t worry, I have my disasters.’ Gracie blushes. ‘That sounded awful. What I meant was, I’m sure your cooking is fabulous.’

The woman’s laugh is rich and relaxed. ‘I’m Laura by the way.’

Juliet pushes past. ‘See you next week,’ She says over her shoulder. The little girl she’s dragging by the hand is bony and pale. Her dark hair could do with a wash, her black nylon leotard sags around her thin buttocks and a greying plaster flaps from her scuffed knee.

‘Bye,’ Gracie murmurs and smiles happily at Laura, elated that her hopes for the dance class seem to be working out. Still smiling she takes out her phone and punches in Laura’s number.