The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request. Ingrid Alexandra
air. ‘You both look retarded.’ She looks at me and her brow furrows. ‘Mary?’
I shake my head, ducking to hide the tears. When I look up, Ben’s there, his face close. His irises are a strange colour – not quite brown, not quite green.
‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’ he asks.
I can’t answer; my throat is too tight.
‘Sorry …’ Ben says again, but his kindness is too much. I turn away. Ben lets me go, clears his throat. ‘You know,’ he says, addressing Cat, ‘it’s actually your fault we’re in this … situation.’ He points to the tiles, which are now more grubby and smeared than wet.
Cat ignores him. ‘Good news! I think we might have a candidate for our new roomie!’
‘Seriously?’ I say. The last few applicants have been less than desirable, particularly the creepy middle-aged guy who wouldn’t stop staring at Cat’s cleavage.
‘Yup. She’s our age, I think, doing some kind of arts degree at uni. She works part-time and she’s available right away.’
‘Another girl?’ Ben moans, then pauses. ‘Did she sound hot?’
Cat narrows her eyes. ‘You have a girlfriend. And I only spoke to her on the phone. How the hell should I know if she’s hot?’
Ben shakes his head sagely. ‘You can tell. And Gia isn’t my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.’
‘Does she know that?’ Rolling her eyes, Cat turns to me. ‘What do you think? Are you okay to meet her later?’
‘Sure,’ I say with a shrug, but anxiety whispers across my chest at the thought of meeting someone new. I try to ignore it.
‘Great!’ Cat squeals. ‘I’ll just text her to see when she’s available, okay?’
‘No worries.’ I step out of the kitchen and take a moment to breathe.
Eagle-eyed Cat pauses in her texting and slings an arm around my shoulder. ‘You okay there?’
I manage a smile, though I’m still edgy.
‘It’s better here, isn’t it?’ Cat gestures to the high-security intercom system with its intricate array of buttons. ‘I’m glad we’re here. I feel safer, don’t you?’ She smiles in that goofy, affectionate way that only an old friend can and wraps me in her arms.
As I inhale the smell of coconut shampoo and childhood, the waves of the past whoosh and roar in my ears.
22nd November 2016
Dear Journal,
I guess that’s how you’re supposed to start a journal entry, isn’t it? I’ve never written a journal before. Or I might have, as a kid at school or something, but I can’t remember that far back.
I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Mary. Hello. It’s a while since I’ve written anything, actually. I used to write a lot, I found it cathartic. Anyway, here I am, making a start. I might not be doing everything Doctor Sarah advised in our last session, but at least I’m doing this. Mark used to say I never followed through with anything. ‘Slacker,’ he’d call me, as though he was one to talk. Doctor Sarah said keeping a journal will help to record my thoughts and feelings, so I can catalogue my moods and ‘compartmentalise my issues’, or whatever it is she calls it. She wants me to keep track of any changes. It helps to put things in words sometimes; it makes things seem smaller when you can fit them into a little box. At least, that’s what Doctor Sarah tells me.
There’s a quote I’ve got stuck in my head. I can’t remember where I heard it, but it goes: ‘The only constant is change.’ A profound truth summed up in a paradox. It’s pretty fitting to my current situation. Nothing is permanent, so you’d better not get too attached to anything, right? I mean, why waste your energy? But we do. It’s human nature. People, possessions, ideas – we latch on like molluscs, suctioning for what we crave, whatever we think is going to get us through. The good news? Whatever terrible situation you may find yourself in, it will pass. The bad news? The things you depend on – really depend on – pass too. Often when you least expect it. Often before you realise you’re dependent to begin with.
But I digress. So, changes. Where to begin? The biggest one.
I’ve left.
I got tingles just writing that. Though not good tingles – yet. I’m hoping that will come in time. Yes, there was that initial euphoria – freedom! The world had opened up and suddenly I was able to be a part of it. I wasn’t hiding anymore.
But then something happened, I don’t know what. It shrank back, I guess. Into a claustrophobic bubble I can’t escape. It’s as if reality is elastic sometimes; it can expand and contract, or change shape depending solely on how you view it.
My old fears have crept back in, as though they’d been waiting until there was room for them. And now, there is. They say the world gets smaller the more you see of it … perhaps that’s what’s happened to me. I’m exploring more of the world now, so it’s more accessible, less immense. I say that now, as if I’m the confident, brave person I’m supposed to be, but the truth is I struggle to leave the house most days. The world in here feels so much safer, like I have reign over it, while the world out there reigns over me.
It’s funny, the ‘heebie-jeebies’ (Doctor Sarah uses some of the lamest terms) kick in at the strangest times. Right now, for example, I can smell his cologne, as though he’s just been in the apartment. Which I know is impossible – it’s probably a waft of the cheap deodorant Ben douses himself with after a shower – but I still get a jolt. Sometimes I’ll see him in the faces of people walking past, or in the shadows of my room at night. Adrenalin prickles over my skin like an army of ants and I have to get out, have to walk, skip, do something or I’ll go mad.
The fear can be paralysing. Sometimes I don’t have the drive to do any of the above. Sometimes all I can bring myself to do is drink. That’s proving the hardest habit to break, like saying goodbye to a faithful friend right when you need them most.
I’m lucky. That’s what they all keep telling me. Really? Am I? It seems like a pretty ill-fitting word for someone like me. I prefer Doctor Sarah’s way of putting it. She says I’m brave (whether she means it or not). But lucky? That implies a lack of choice or control, as though I had no say in what happened to me or how it turned out.
When I left Melbourne, my best friend was willing to pack up her life and move out here with me in a nanosecond. But I’m not ‘lucky’ to have her – we both put energy into cultivating and sustaining this friendship. It wasn’t luck that drove me to leave, although it played a role in those final moments. And it wasn’t luck that got us this apartment. It was Cat’s tenacity and charm – and the fact that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She wanted me to be somewhere where I could forget the past, she said. Like a change of location has the power to do that. But it’s a nice thought anyway.
It is pretty amazing, this place. Not so much the apartment itself – the rooms are small, and there’s a disproportionate number of bathrooms to bedrooms (1:4), but it’s brand new (still smells of paint), it’s high up on the fifth floor with a spacious communal dining/kitchen area, and it has a massive balcony out the front, overlooking the water.
We live right in the heart of the northern beaches of Sydney where I used to come as a child, and I have to say, being this close to the sea is a godsend when it’s this stinking hot. We can’t really afford to live here, of course, which is why we’re looking for a fourth