Losing Juliet: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming. June Taylor
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Manchester: 2007
‘So did you go to the party?’
Eloise was desperate to know more but Chrissy had come to an abrupt halt. It was time to go in any case. Her cheek still felt sore as it brushed against her mother’s, kissing her goodbye, reminding her of the slap she had received earlier and for no apparent reason. It was more the shock than any physical pain that had bothered her, but it was a sign that she would have to tread carefully.
Something Eloise had been doing for years.
‘Wouldn’t you like to see her again, Mum?’
Chrissy shook her head, a small movement at first, as if a tiny part of her was still undecided. Then, an emphatic, ‘No.’
‘Well, tell me some more later, yeah? When I get back.’
‘Do you have to go?’ said Chrissy.
‘What, to meet Anya? Or do you mean Inter-Railing?’
The lack of reply annoyed Eloise, almost as much as her question. She bent down to pick up her bag, feeling her mother’s gaze burning into her back. She stood up again, moving towards her until their faces were almost touching.
‘Goodbye, Mum,’ she said, meeting her glare, confident she would not be the one to back down first. She just had the edge in her shoes. But in the end Eloise did look away first, her mother’s face was so full of anguish, and she turned to leave before she felt that she couldn’t.
‘How’re you getting home?’ she heard Chrissy shout as she made for the door.
‘Dunno.’ She was already halfway out.
‘Well, can you walk back with Anya?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
The Mancunian Way rumbled on like a Big Dipper ride over the Stockport Road, the grey-white tower of the university protruding above it. Clouds had closed in on the sun, stealing the warmth out of their summer’s evening. The estate was quieter now, apart from the murmur of traffic.
The key turned in the lock behind her, startling Eloise; she had been using the door as a backrest. Then the chain slid across. She kicked out at a piece of Lego, shooting it off the walkway, and moved over to grab the railings, fingernails digging into her palms. If her mother thought a harmless bit of Inter-Railing around Europe was a problem, what would she be like with a whole gap year after A-levels? And what about Bournemouth Uni? Eloise had convinced herself, and her mother, that it was by far the best course in Travel and Tourism. It was also the furthest away.
Of course she would go Inter-Railing; there was never any doubt about that. If she couldn’t get Chrissy to agree to it, she would still go. It was for four weeks, not forever. Nevertheless, she could still hear her dad’s words, as if it was only yesterday when he had uttered them: ‘Look after your mother, Eloise. You’re all she’s got now.’
At the bottom of the stairwell, these thoughts still pinballed around inside her head. As she walked along Grosvenor Street the pair of trainers looped over the telephone wires swung back and forth. She watched them; they had been there for years, condemned to a life of futile hanging in the breeze. This was not a bad area by any means. The centre of Manchester was less than a mile away, and with the university close by they had the whole world on their doorstep. ‘So why go anywhere else?’ her mother would say. She had even suggested that Eloise could go to Manchester Uni and live at home. ‘It’d be so much cheaper,’ she insisted, but they both knew that wasn’t the real reason.
The pedestrian crossing on Upper Brook Street was beeping insistently at her. When she failed to cross, a sleek black car with tinted windows allowed her to go, and the motorist in the car behind sounded his horn, revving his engine impatiently. Eloise walked over to the other side, oblivious to the real world. Chrissy would never get in touch with Juliet, of that she was sure. Why did she never allow anyone else into her life? No one could even get close. Even when her dad was alive it was probably just the same, she realized. Except, when her dad was alive it didn’t matter, because her mother always had him.
Without Eloise, Chrissy had no one.
Turning right onto Oxford Road there was something of a Friday night buzz. The sleek black car with tinted windows was making slow progress, crawling along beside her in the slow-moving traffic. Up ahead, Eloise could see a crowd of smokers gathered outside Maria’s Café. The green sign distinguished it from the kebab shop and the music shop on either side. It was a popular spot, especially with students.
Eloise pushed open the glass door. She smiled at a group of regulars, squeezing between the benches, and waved at a couple of Sixth Formers from her college that she recognized. She was glad not to be working tonight.
Maria looked up from the spurting coffee machine and nodded towards the end computer. After a while she came over. ‘Someone was in here looking for you earlier.’
‘Really?’ said Eloise. ‘Who?’
‘A man. Wearing some sort of uniform, not sure what he was.’
‘Could be Anya’s dad, he’s some kind of security guard. Did he leave a message?’ Maria shook her head. ‘He was probably looking for Anya then.’
‘He asked for you.’
Eloise smiled, hoping she would go away. It was only when she brought up the Inter-Rail website that Maria took the hint.
‘Who is Juliet Ricci?’ she typed once she had gone.
The computer fired a string of results back at her. She checked to see if anyone was watching before scanning down the list. They all sounded rather dull, except for one. She clicked on the link.
A website of translucent greys and whites began to unfurl. Moody images of long, pale models, dressed in outfits that looked more like works of art than clothing, appeared across the screen.
‘Enter the exclusive World of Ricci. Shop the latest collections of this luxury Italian fashion house. Read the latest news about the brand …’
It was ridiculous even to imagine this Juliet Ricci in the same room as her mother, let alone breathing the same air.
‘ENTER: Juliet and Luca Ricci, internationally acclaimed designers producing iconic work as seen on red carpets and catwalks throughout the world. Two major collections a year, distinctive designs.’
A selection of menus along the top enticed her further:
‘Womenswear, Menswear, Accessories, Evening Wear, Lingerie, Shoes, Fragrance’
The prices were eye-watering.
‘CONTACT’
There she was: Juliet Ricci, standing back-to-back with her Italian husband, Luca, a fluffy white cat intertwined through his legs. She had a beehive, dark with red streaks running through it, and something silver, like a big hairslide pinned into it. She wore a blue and silver Japanese-looking tunic, silver platform shoes.
Eloise clicked on a map of the world covered in white arrows:
‘There are Ricci stores in all the major capitals and over 120 concessions within the world’s most prestigious department stores.’
She imagined the possibilities. Trips to Italy. New York. Tokyo. Paris. Long weekends in London. A never-ending supply of free designer clothes for her and Chrissy.
The website disappeared off the screen. Eloise needed to force herself back to reality. She pulled her phone from her pocket and brought up Juliet’s number, telling herself that, even if it turned out to be the boring Juliet in IT from Cambridge, it really didn’t matter. What did matter was that this woman should become her mother’s best friend again. Someone else to share the burden.
‘Pronto?