Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist. Sam Hepburn
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.
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.