Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist. Sam Hepburn
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.
Pauline Bryce Diary
Jan 15th
I’ve got my plan all worked out, so first step I bunk off college and go to the library. When I tell the librarian what I’m after she gives me this understanding little smile and scrabbles off into the basement. After a while she’s back with Family Secrets: a Study of Repressed Memories. It’s an interesting read. All about how your mind blocks out bad things that happen to you when you’re a kid. Then I spend a couple of hours brushing up on the law. It’s very educational, the library. Better than the useless crap they teach you at school. There’s plans to close this one down. I think that would be a shame. So on the way out I sign the petition.
Juliet is drumming her fingers on the wheel, impatient for the lights to change when a sleek blue Audi draws up beside her. She catches the glare of the woman at the wheel. OK, so she’s finishing a fag with her kid in the car. Big deal. She pings the cigarette through the open window. It hits the Audi’s bonnet and spins away in a shower of sparks.
‘Here you are, love.’ She passes a box drink over her shoulder.
In the rear-view mirror she watches Freya pierce the seal on the box, a rush of heat beneath her skin as she asks, ‘What’s the new girl like?’
Freya puts the straw to her lips and sucks happily, rocking her head in time to some inner song.
‘The new girl. Elsie.’ Juliet raises her voice over the rattle of the engine. ‘Dark plaits, pink leotard. Is she nice?’
Freya stops sucking and wiggles her front tooth with her thumb.
‘Would you like to be her friend?’
‘Liane’s my friend.’
‘Elsie could be your friend too.’
‘Liane says I can be her friend forever. Even if I stop ballet again.’
‘You’re not going to stop ballet again.’
‘If you don’t have money, I don’t mind.’
‘I told you. It’s fine. I’ve got a big new project lined up.’
‘What’s for tea?’
Juliet’s thoughts flick to the dwindling contents of the freezer. ‘Spaghetti meatballs. And if you’re a good girl you can have some ice cream.’ She makes a sucking sound and waggles her shoulders – a feeble pretence that another ready meal and the scrapings of a budget tub of vanilla are some kind of treat.
The woman in the Audi draws level again, shaking her head and tutting. The porridge-faced kids she’s got in the back are probably going home to steamed salmon and organic broccoli, paid for by some sodding banker. But it’s not just the money. Juliet has never been much of a cook and she’s been so busy chasing work she hasn’t had time to get to the supermarket. Maybe tomorrow she’ll make Freya her favourite cauliflower cheese and pick up a bag of apples or tangerines. Something healthy. The thought jolts her back to Gracie Dwyer.
When she’s home again, slamming the door on the microwave, sweeping plates into the sink, pushing work files to the edge of the table, her phone beeps. A brush-off from Ryder’s. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! She wrenches the plastic tray out of the microwave and stares down at the sloppy mess of meat and sauce, biting on her lip as the burn of disappointment gives way to a sharpening sense of purpose. She tips the meatballs onto a plate and carries it over to Freya, who’s on the sofa glued to Hollyoaks.
‘Elsie’s mummy seems nice.’
Freya’s eyes swivel glassily from the television to her plate. Enough for today, Juliet thinks. Small steps. She retreats to her bedroom with her laptop, kicking the chair round so it faces the little desk she uses when she needs privacy, aware now of just how wound-up she feels. She rifles through her cuttings drawer, snatching up a photo of Gracie hosting a charity auction, microphone in hand, looking for all the world like a fifties pinup with her taffeta swing-skirt, crimson lips and Betty Page hair-do.
She slams the drawer shut. A Google search throws up some shots of Gracie with that mouthy journalist friend of hers at some glitzy restaurant launch, the trailer for her latest TV series and her top tips for making a perfect bloody pavlova. After that it’s mainly stuff Juliet has picked over a hundred times: fawning interviews about her charity work and pieces about the sale of the Wharf House. She gazes at a carefully staged press shot of Gracie and Tom, arm in arm on the steps, before stabbing the photo off the screen. Breathing fast she spools down to the coverage of the stalking campaign – the little maggot gnawing at the core of Gracie’s glossy world: the leaked messages, the apology from the police, a psychiatrist’s comments on the mind-set of the stalker and acres of tabloid prurience dressed as sympathy – the kind of exposure that money can’t buy. The kind that works wonders for TV ratings and book sales. Her fingers tighten on the mouse. Gracie’s just been appointed patron of the Stay Safe support group for victims of stalking. Juliet can guess who put her forward for that and even she has to admit it’s a genius move. But Gracie Dwyer hardly needs a PR machine to power her success. It’s as if she’s golden, blessed, untouchable.
Sticky clots of resentment stay with her all evening, thickening her misery as she