The Birthday Girl: The gripping new psychological thriller full of shocking twists and lies. Sue Fortin
‘Now you’re a successful business owner, I expect you can afford these luxuries,’ says Joanne.
I shoot Joanne a look. Was there a hint of tightness in her voice? A topic of conversation that is always sidestepped with a sense of awkwardness. I watch now as Andrea gives Joanne a long look, one that Joanne matches without flinching.
‘What’s beyond the trees there?’ Zoe pipes up, as she gazes out of the window.
I don’t know if the change in conversation was deliberate on Zoe’s part, but it breaks the deadlock.
‘More trees,’ says Joanne, turning towards the rear window where Zoe is standing. ‘That’s the edge of a bloody great forest. It stretches around from behind the croft in a big arch and then all the way along the edge of the track.’
Zoe gives a shiver. ‘Even in daylight, it looks spooky.’
‘After lunch, we’re going exploring,’ says Joanne. She nods towards the trees. ‘There’s a walk through there which eventually leads to a clearing. Legend has it that it was once a site for pagan rituals and human sacrifices.’
‘Sounds delightful,’ mutters Andrea.
Zoe turns away from the window and drops into one of the sofas. ‘I’m glad I’m not here on my own. When did you get here, Joanne?’
‘Last night, actually.’
‘You were here on your own all night?’ Zoe leans back and looks up at Joanne.
‘No big deal. Anyway, you’re on your own at night times, aren’t you? Or are you? No secret lover you haven’t told us about?’ She flicks Zoe’s ponytail with her fingers and winks.
‘No!’ protests Zoe. Her cheeks flush red. She sits upright and looks round at us.
‘Ah, you’re blushing,’ teases Joanne. ‘Look how red Zoe’s gone.’
Zoe has turned a deep crimson colour and I can’t help feeling sorry for her, yet at the same time I wonder if Joanne’s teasing has some substance. For all Zoe’s bouncy childlike enthusiasm and seemingly innocent charm, I’ve always felt this has been to cover up the after-effects of a bad relationship. Although she’s never gone into details about her ex-husband, there clearly are unresolved issues in that department. To ease her embarrassment, I take it upon myself to divert the topic of conversation this time. ‘Joanne, are you going to show us round the rest of the place?’
‘Sure. Follow me.’
Across the tiled hallway is another room, identical in size to the living room. It too has a fireplace on the rear wall and to the right of that, in what was once an alcove, is a doorway. A dining table and six chairs occupy the centre of the room and a wing-backed armchair is on the other side of the fireplace with a view over the garden.
‘Through here is the kitchen,’ says Joanne.
The kitchen looks to have been refurbished recently but it is sympathetic to the age of the property. The units are free-standing and of a farmhouse style with wooden worktops. A Belfast sink is below the window, which overlooks the front of the property. There is an exterior door with glass panels at the top, draped with a net curtain.
I move the curtain to look through. There is a rear porch and beyond that is an outbuilding about the size of a garden shed. ‘What’s in there?’
Joanne joins me at the door. ‘Nothing very exciting, I should imagine. It’s locked, but from what I’ve seen through the window it’s full of old garden tools and a lawn mower. Not that they seem to worry about keeping the grass manicured: it’s more pasture than lawn.’
True, the rear of the property has no fencing to identify the boundaries and blends in with the surrounding open scrubland scenery. A small area immediately outside the back door has been laid with paving stones to create a patio, and a flowerbed has been dug around the edge which is full of shrubs, but that is the extent of the garden.
‘To be fair, we do appear to be in the middle of nowhere. It must be hard to get a gardener up here,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose they want to pay someone to come up here every week.’
‘Exactly,’ says Joanne.
‘How far are we from civilisation?’ asks Zoe, as we walk back through to the entrance hall.
‘Bloody miles,’ says Andrea.
Joanne gives a laugh but ignores the question. ‘Oh, before I forget. I need to take a picture of us all. A selfie. Wait there a moment while I get my camera.’
She disappears into the living room, leaving us waiting in the hall. As with the rest of the house, it’s a mix of old and new. Some pieces of furniture and decoration look like they’ve been here for years, whereas other pieces wouldn’t look out of place in an Ikea catalogue. There’s a dark wood telephone seat with a faded green velvet cushion, which seems odd as there doesn’t appear to be a telephone here. It reminds me of something from the seventies. Above it is a picture of a crying boy, another leftover from a past era. And on the opposite wall is a row of modern pictures in white frames. They have almost a seaside feel to them, depicting stick-men in sailor suits with flags in different positions, each spelling out a word in semaphore. I take a closer look to see if the words are printed underneath, but can’t see anything. On the floor, propped against the wall, is a print, about a metre long, of spring flowers, which I personally think would look nicer on the wall.
Joanne reappears almost straight away. ‘I treated myself to a Polaroid camera. Instant photos,’ she says, holding the retro-looking camera in her hand.
‘How very old-school,’ says Andrea.
‘Exactly. Just like us,’ replies Joanne. ‘Now, I need you all to stand here in the hall. Zoe, you here. That’s it. Andrea here.’ She leaves a space between them and then takes my arm. ‘Carys, you stand in the middle. I’ll set the timer up and then I’ll hop on the end.’
Joanne moves a pot plant from the shelf inside the door and prepares the camera. ‘I tested it earlier. It’s the perfect height,’ she says. ‘OK, you ready? I’m pressing the timer button now.’
‘Quick, before it goes off,’ says Zoe, as Joanne darts back and joins the end of the line. ‘Smile!’
We all stand rigidly, while at the same time trying to pose naturally with big smiles plastered across our faces. Just as I think the timer isn’t going to work, the camera flashes.
‘Now to see the result,’ says Joanne, returning to the camera. ‘I love this, it’s so eighties.’ After a few seconds, a photograph emerges slowly from the bottom of the camera. Joanne waves the photograph in the air to dry the ink. ‘Do any of you miss the old days? When life was simple, before we had to deal with all the grown-up stuff?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Andrea. ‘I actually like my life now, as an adult.’
‘Mmm … I expect you do,’ says Joanne. ‘What about you, Carys? Do you prefer life now?’
I catch Andrea and Joanne exchanging a look, the latter appearing confused for a moment and then in a display of realisation, throws her hand to her mouth, the photograph still grasped between her finger and thumb. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Carys. That was insensitive of me.’
I force my mouth to curve north in a bid to smile. I’m not sure how effective the action is, but the intent is there. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘No one has to tiptoe around me. Honestly.’
An awkward silence straggles behind my words until Andrea sweeps everything up with her none-too-subtle attempt at changing the subject: ‘Right, let’s see this photograph then.’
We crowd round the image and overly enthuse about it.
‘It’s lovely,’ says Joanne. ‘I love the way the real us shines through.’
I’m not sure any of us quite know what she