Perfect Strangers: an unputdownable read full of gripping secrets and twists. Erin Knight
Cassie. Look, Mum, it’s really cute and girly. Little Red Riding Hood!’
Isobel pulled her jacket sleeve down to her knuckles and waited for the bangle to come back. She’d told Sophie all the reasons she wanted rid of the tattoo. Sophie had swung into fix-it mode and the bracelet had been on Isobel’s wrist that night. Dealt with. Covered up. Sophie-style.
‘No. Way. End of conversation, Evie.’
‘Mum, I look way older than fifteen, I could just go anyway
. . .’
‘Evie!’ Cleo sang. ‘I strongly advise you do no such thing. Now, I won’t be swayed so zip it. Tattoos are just . . . just . . .’ She looked another apology at Isobel.
‘Tacky? Common?’ Isobel offered light-heartedly. ‘It’s fine, Cleo, really.’ She’d never been a tattoo fan either, but Sophie had talked her into their sisterly pact, and they’d done so little as sisters that it had seemed worthwhile and overdue to do something lasting and memorable together. Stupid.
Cleo gritted her teeth. ‘I was going to say, easy to regret. They’re just so easy to regret.’
‘Do you regret yours?’ fired Evie. She was staring at Isobel now. Isobel rubbed her wrist. It was fairly boring as tattoos went. Sophie had challenged her to shock their parents for a change and do something out of character. Isobel had talked her on to a middle ground: she’d go through with it but they had to have similar designs, and they had to be literary-based, so Isobel could at least impress her English students who up until then suspected she was chronically strait-laced. It had been an easy choice, the favourite book they’d listened to a hundred times snuggled on their dad’s lap. Red Riding Hood had made it on to Isobel’s wrist, the Big Bad Wolf on to Soph’s.
Evie was waiting for an answer. ‘Honestly?’ Isobel asked. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’ frowned Evie.
‘Yes. I regret it every day. It was fun at first. Now it’s just a reminder.’
Evie cocked her head. ‘A reminder of what?’
Don’t be led. Don’t be distinguishable. Protect your anonymity.
‘To make better choices, Evie. It reminds me to make better choices.’
Cleo skipped out of Coast, earrings glinting in the sun. ‘Isobel! Hang on!’ she yelled over the heads of the diners sitting on the terrace, every one of them enjoying the view from behind dark sunglasses of either the coastline or their mobile phone. Mostly the latter. ‘Goodness, it’s like the cast of The Matrix out here,’ she said, flip-flopping her way across the decking.
It was becoming increasingly difficult not to warm to Cleo. Not exactly ideal, Isobel realised, but then it wouldn’t be the worst thing either, would it? Cleo would know everyone in this town. Every last crazy.
‘Did I forget something?’ asked Isobel. Had she paid? Cleo was waving something too small to decipher.
‘Only your key! It was underneath your saucer. You should be careful with that. Arthur will have your deposit if he has to get a locksmith out.’ Isobel was on a roll. First advertising where she was living, now leaving a key to the door. Soph would have a seizure.
‘Thanks, Cleo.’ Isobel took the key. She’d overlooked it because it wasn’t a part of this new routine yet; the act was still new and she was still getting used to the props.
Cleo squinted under the sun. ‘Where are you off to? Anywhere nice?’
Isobel took a look past the fishermen working in the harbour, the tavernas nestled between chic wine bars and eateries. Fallenbay’s revered golden postbox couldn’t be too hard to find; the war memorial had been in the distance, Isobel had committed the photograph to memory. Golden postbox, war memorial, ocean backdrop. A three-point constellation mapping Fallenbay as the only town in the UK in which that photo could’ve been taken, and he’d been generous enough to use it as his profile picture. ‘I’m not sure, thought I might just go for a mooch. Take in the sights.’
Cleo nodded but was looking straight over Isobel’s shoulder. The beefcake who’d been showering off his bulging physique was strapping his surfboard to the roof of his truck.
‘Cleo serves good coffee,’ croaked a customer from her table behind them, ‘but it’s the view I come for. No offence, Cleo.’
‘None taken, Elsie,’ sighed Cleo. ‘I too am a sucker for a good pair of buttocks in a wetsuit.’
Isobel glanced at the second surfer. Darker hair, better proportioned body, way bigger board. ‘The other guy’s is so much bigger, isn’t it?’ She really did need to brush up on the surf lingo. Was it even a surfboard?
Cleo snorted. ‘I wouldn’t like to speculate, but given the size of his feet, probably.’
‘Cleo Roberts,’ cackled the old girl. ‘Don’t let your Sam catch you talking like that.’
Cleo shook the stray curls from her face. ‘Elsie, Sam wouldn’t notice if I took that delicious specimen home, sat him on the sofa and parked myself on his lap. Not unless I gave him Sam’s TV remote.’
‘Ouch,’ said Isobel. ‘He’s just stood on something.’
‘Who?’ asked Cleo.
‘The guy with the bigger surfboard.’
‘Paddle-board, Isobel. You’ll need to know this stuff to infiltrate The Village.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘It looks like he’s hopping. Should’ve put his shoes on, silly sod. They’re always up here bugging me for bandages and sympathy.’
The darker of the surfers leaned his paddle-board against his pal’s truck and looked towards them all, one arm flat against his thigh, the other frantically waving overhead. Isobel fought a frown. Was that some kind of semaphore? He looked like a primary school child bursting with the correct answer.
Cleo leaned in towards Isobel’s ear. ‘That’s Ben, one of the local instructors, demonstrating an internationally recognised distress signal. He’s saying, Cleo Roberts, I want to feel your hands . . . right now . . . all over my—’
Elsie sniggered and looked at Isobel. ‘She’s always got the local fellas up here, dipping into her First Aid box.’
Cleo grinned. ‘What can I say, girls? My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.’
‘Well it’s bringing Benjamin and his buttocks,’ rasped Elsie.
The less bulky surfer hobbled his way across the cobbled street towards them. ‘Cleo! I need you!’ he winced, grabbing at his leg as if he’d just severed it in a terrible accident.
‘Told you,’ Cleo whispered. ‘If whatever it is you’ve just trodden in originated in a dog’s bottom, Ben, be a darling and take it down the road to Pomme du Poop, use their facilities instead.’
He stopped just the other side of the rope barrier running up to the terrace and rubbed the wetness from the top of his cropped dark hair. Water droplets clung to his skin where his wetsuit stopped at the elbows. He gave Isobel a quick smile as if they were both in on something, then presented a bloody foot to Cleo.
‘For goodness sake, Ben. My fifteen-year-old has more sense, put some shoes on. Wait there, you’ll bleed all over my terrace. I’m going to start charging you for triage supplies, you know.’
Cleo turned away. Isobel sensed the danger of having to make awkward small talk. ‘I’d better be going.’ She waved her key. ‘Thanks for this, Cleo.’
Cleo threw a hand over her head. ‘No problem! Keep an eye out for