Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist. Sam Hepburn
smiles. ‘It was all my husband’s idea. He’s an architect. It’s the kind of project he loves.’
‘When’s the work starting?’ Juliet says.
Gracie sighs. ‘As soon as we get planning permission. It was all going through fine but suddenly there’s been a whole load of objections.’
Juliet inspects the tooth marks in her brownie. ‘Let me know if you need any help with that. It’s what I do. PR.’
The music snaps off, replaced by the usual whoops and applause. Gracie disappears into the changing area, Leslie and Dawn behind her. Juliet stays back, squeezing what’s left of her brownie into a pulp. She timed it wrong. Messed up.
The studio doors swing open. Elsie scampers out arm in arm with that kid Amber. Freya is behind her, talking to her friend Liane. Gracie approaches Amber’s mum, all smiles. Juliet cranes up a little and sees her reach into her bag. She’s pulling out a batch of brightly coloured envelopes, pressing one into Laura’s hand, trying to make herself heard over Elsie’s showy squeals of excitement.
Juliet pushes out into the changing area, moving against the jostling tide of children until she’s near enough to hear Gracie saying ‘… your husband too, if he can face it. There’ll be plenty to keep the kids entertained—’ she laughs her high fluttery laugh, ‘hopefully the food will be all right too.’
Juliet slides her eyes to where Leslie and Dawn slouch against the wall, watching the same scene. Gracie glances up and sees them too. But she’s not looking away. She’s walking over to them, flicking through the envelopes. She picks out two. One purple, one orange. A flash of glittery ink as she hands them over.
Leslie and Dawn exchange looks of triumph as they rip them open. ‘Nice one,’ Leslie says. ‘Hey, Liam,’ she waves the invitation and shouts across the room, ‘come and see this.’
Shit! If Juliet hadn’t had to take that call last time Gracie was here she’d have been in the kitchen with her, getting friendly, and this week there’d have been an invitation for her and Freya in that overpriced designer bag. ‘Quick, Freya, find your shoes!’
Gracie is close. Juliet edges closer, letting her bag slip from her shoulder. As she bends to retrieve it there’s Liam barging between them. In one swift movement she lurches forward, knocking him off balance. He stumbles into Gracie, sending her invitations flying.
‘Liam!’ Leslie shrieks.
‘Not my fault!’ He shoots a venomous look at Juliet. ‘It was her. Stupid cow.’
Juliet, red and flustered, calls out to Leslie, ‘Sorry. It’s such a scrum in here.’
Gracie is on her knees, picking up invitations. Juliet shoves Freya forward. ‘Can you help, darling. Look, there’s a couple right under there.’
Freya scrabbles beneath the bench and shuffles back, grasping two gaudy, dust-smeared envelopes. Juliet points at Gracie, ‘Give them to the lady.’
Freya holds out the invitations.
‘Come on, love, time to go.’ Juliet lays her hand on Freya’s head as if to guide her away, exerting just enough pressure to keep her face to face with Gracie.
Gracie sits back on her heels, flushing a little as she takes the envelopes from Freya’s hand. ‘Thank you.’ With an embarrassed smile she says, ‘Look … um … my daughter’s having a party. Would you like to come?’
Freya glances up at her mother.
‘You’d love to, wouldn’t you, darling?’ Juliet says – a passable imitation of the breathy mum-speak she hears so often and hates.
Freya nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Please,’ Juliet adds, as if manners are her top priority.
‘Great.’ Gracie shuffles a blank invitation to the top of the pile and takes a gold glitter pen from her bag. Her fingers hover. She looks up at Juliet.
‘Freya,’ Juliet says quickly.
Gracie writes Freya in big letters at the top of the invitation, slips it into a sugar-pink envelope and writes it again. She smiles at Juliet, a distracted book-signing smile. ‘Do come too. There’ll be plenty of adults there.’
‘Thanks,’ Juliet says, meeting her gaze then looking away with a chirpy, ‘It’s a while since I’ve been to a party.’
On the way home Juliet takes a detour through Falcon Square. The Whittakers’ tall, double-fronted house looks beautiful in the evening light. Mellow brickwork, arrowhead railings, lead window boxes overflowing with heavy white blooms and trailing ivy, a climber rose twisting over the fanlight. A world away from Tom’s prize-winning house of glass in Greenwich.
Gracie always longed for a proper garden. Not a paved courtyard like the one they’d had in Greenwich or the cluttered roof terrace of the flat she’d lived in before she married Tom. What she yearned for was a wide lawn, leafy borders, mature trees and a place to grow her own herbs and vegetables. At Falcon Square she has all those things, plus a mossy cherub spouting water into a shell-shaped trough, a summerhouse and a gardener employed to keep the whole thing looking fashionably unkempt.
A horde of athletic young men in day-glo shirts, baggy trousers, shades and trilbies have spent the morning erecting a striped gazebo next to the summerhouse, laying the dance floor, trailing bunting and fairy lights through the trees and blowing up huge bunches of pink and gold balloons that quiver in the breeze like globs of dividing cells. By two o’clock the band is tuning up and the first wave of guests is pouring through the French windows, gasping at the delights on offer.
‘Have you seen Daphne’s new bloke?’ Tom catches Gracie’s arm as she sweeps past him with a bowl of marinated ribs. She pivots round. This one must be at least ten years Daphne’s junior, surfer blond, tanned biceps straining the rolled-up sleeves of his faded denim shirt. Daphne sees them looking and drags him over, unable to hide a smug smile. ‘Tom, Gracie, this is Dieter.’
‘Great to meet you,’ Dieter says.
‘You too.’
‘He’s over from Munich for a conservation conference,’ Daphne says.
Gracie’s brows lift, signalling – Sexy and green. Where do you find them?
Daphne grins and whisks Dieter away to dance.
On her way back to the kitchen Gracie bumps into Tom’s friend Geoff from ACP. It’s the first time she’s seen him since the business with Alicia.
‘Hi, Gracie, you’re looking great.’
She searches his face for hints of pity or embarrassment and blinks nervously, unsure of what she sees. ‘Thanks, Geoff.’
She’s moving quickly through the crowd when Kelvin, her producer, wobbles past on a unicycle. Gracie jumps back laughing, almost treading on the fingers of a woman sitting in the grass.
‘Oops, sorry.’
It’s Juliet from the dance class. She’s made an effort and she’s looking pretty good – her hair is up, the red linen dress shows off her figure and the toenails peeking through the front of her strappy high heels are freshly varnished. Her daughter sits beside her, gazing entranced at a fairy princess juggling glitter balls.
‘Hey, you haven’t got a drink!’ Gracie says.
Juliet looks up. ‘It’s OK. I’ll grab one in a minute.’
‘I’ll get it, what do you want – wine, beer, Pimm’s or punch?’
‘Pimm’s please.’
Gracie smiles at