Love Me, Love Me Not: An addictive psychological suspense with a twist you won’t see coming. Katherine Debona

       CHAPTER ONE

      Stargazer Lily: Ambition, encouragement when facing a difficult challenge

       Surrey, England, present day

      Today isn’t the first time I’ve thought about killing my best friend, but it is the first time I’ve done something about it.

      I didn’t mean to; at least, it must have been a subliminal thought because I never intended to pick up the wrong bottle from the back of the fridge. Honest mistake, given I was preoccupied with the sight of her at the edge of the lawn, arm outstretched as she leant over to pick one of my Passiflora before holding it up to her dainty little nose.

      It was all I could do not to smack my hand against the windowpane and shout at her to leave it alone, to get her hands off that which didn’t belong to her.

      Instead I offered up a shaky wave as she caught me watching, a guilty smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

      She’s sitting on the other side of the garden table now, bare legs tucked up underneath her skirt, palms wrapped around the mug of chamomile tea I made to help with her nerves. I sit down opposite, stirring a teaspoon of honey into my single caffeinated drink of the day.

      ‘Are you allowed honey?’ She sips her tea and fixes me with a doe-eyed stare. The innocence doesn’t penetrate the way it would with someone who didn’t know her as intimately as I do.

      ‘You’re getting confused with babies,’ I say, handing over a plate of scones, my mother’s homemade strawberry jam oozing from their middles. Her hand hesitates, as if deciding which one to choose, but I know it’s more about the ever-tightening waistband; a waistband that used to hang on hipbones but now strains against the result of comfort eating. ‘Besides, it’s as organic as it’s ever going to get. The hive’s in next door’s garden.’

      ‘Of course.’ Her eyes close as she bites down on the crumbling patisserie, the sweet fruit intermingling with thick, Cornish cream.

      I know her weaknesses. I know everything about Elle.

      A sigh, a stroke of hair as she wipes a crumb from her lips and gazes across the lawn.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, not needing to follow her line of sight to see the picture of my garden. At this time of year it is particularly resplendent; the wisteria has bloomed, the alliums are starting to show and there is a constant chatter of visiting birds and wildlife who come to feast on nature’s wares.

      I should be fumigating the greenhouse and planting out my tomatoes instead of placating a drama queen.

      ‘I’m sorry for barging in on you like this,’ she says, but I know the words are empty. Elle has never needed to apologise for anything in her life; there has never been a moment when she has had to understand how it feels to be contrite, to ache with regret over a decision made.

      She always left that to me.

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, sliding the plateful of temptation a little closer. ‘I’m glad you came.’

      She pulls another scone in two, red leaking into white and spoiling the perfect, clean lines. I feel my jaw clench and have to look away.

      ‘So how are you feeling?’ she says, an unexpected moment of concern, the only one offered since she arrived on my doorstep, cheeks wet with distress, and at the very moment I had finished wiping down the work surfaces.

      ‘A little tired, but otherwise fine. What about you?’

      Tears brim from between dark lashes and tumble down her face, faint blush marks only adding to her beauty.

      I give her hand a gentle squeeze, not trusting my tongue to control itself. There’s a hole at the cuff of her cardigan and the cashmere has begun to bobble. A crack in the otherwise polished veneer and I wonder how much of this has been noticed by Patrick, or whether he needs another prod.

      ‘Is he still travelling a lot?’ No harm in throwing another log on that fire.

      Elle sniffs, patting underneath her eyes with a manicured hand. Her skin still holds the sun from a Caribbean break little more than a month ago. A last-minute attempt to fill the caverns of her womb with her husband’s seed.

      ‘It’s because of the promotion,’ she replies, ever ready to defend his absence. ‘He says all the brown-nosing is necessary to make sure he’s a frontrunner. Once he makes partner he’ll have more time.’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘For us, of course. For the baby.’

      ‘Still, it’s a shame he’s not coming to the scan.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’ A twitch of shoulder, fingers turning diamonds round and round the bone. ‘He’ll be at the next one.’

      ‘Of course.’ I swallow my sweetened cup of Lady Grey tea, breathing in its comforting scent to try and forget the perfumed lilies Elle thrust upon me earlier.

      I’d presumed she meant them as an apology for coming here so early, and unannounced at that, but really, lilies? I could have told her they were a funeral flower, gifted at a time of mourning, but instead I freed them from their plastic prison, snipping off the pollenated stems and placing them in an aquamarine vase that now sits on the console table in the hallway. They will act as a reminder of her every time I pass by over the coming days, watching their petals tumble to the floor, crumpled and beginning to rot.

      ‘I thought I was meeting you at the hospital after your yoga class,’ I say. That would make this the third class in a row she’s skipped. Too many prying eyes and unwanted questions about her attempts to conceive from women whose own children fill the gym’s crèche while they try to shed the excess weight. Because, clearly, the imprinted memory of a life that grew inside of them is a burden their bodies need to be rid of.

      ‘I didn’t know what to do with myself,’ Elle says. ‘The house feels so empty when he’s not there.’

      Elle doesn’t do alone. She isn’t used to filling the silence that comes with living by yourself. It was a silence I used to look forward to at the end of the working week, but is one she runs from, always needing someone to provide her with the reassurance she craves.

      So here she is, in my house, all self-complacent and full of faux concern for the one person who has always been there for her, no matter what.

      We all have our weaknesses and Elle is mine. She has this uncanny ability to make people do her bidding, albeit unconsciously. One of those creatures who just demands attention, even if all she’s doing is standing at a bus stop or queuing up to pay for milk in the supermarket. It’s as if she has this aura about her that is impossible for other humans to resist. Especially men. Especially Patrick.

      Then there’s me, Jane, as if my parents named me knowing I would always be dull. Dark, bulbous eyes set a little too far apart, pallid skin and hair too wily to tame. Like Snow White, but without the beauty. I am the shadow to Elle’s glory and have followed her for nearly half of my life, desperately hoping some of her shine would fall onto my skin and seep through