Losing Juliet: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming. June Taylor
‘Juliet Ricci speaking. Who is this?’
Eloise cut the call. What could she possibly say to Juliet when her mother didn’t seem to want to know? A text message, she suddenly thought, wishing she had done this in the first place instead of making a fool of herself. It would also give her time to plan. Several attempts later, she settled for:
‘Would love to meet you Juliet.
Please don’t call again.
Email me – [email protected] XXX’
Her finger hovered over the ‘Send’ button.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Christ Almighty, Anya! You frightened the life out of me.’
Eloise stared at the words:
‘MESSAGE SENT’
***
Eloise assumed her mother was out when she didn’t answer her shout through the letterbox; something she was meant to do before unlocking the door – if she remembered to do it. Rooting in her bag for her keys, Eloise stuck her head over the side of the railings, discreetly, just to be sure. At one point she had thought she was being followed, but when the man had turned off before the Salvation Army building she changed her mind. Besides, he seemed more interested in his phone than anywhere she might be going. Nonetheless it had shaken her; she had quickened her pace, taking the stairs two at a time when she reached them, checking behind her all the way.
When the door wouldn’t open she banged on it loudly with her fist.
‘Mum, why is the bolt on? I can’t get in. It’s me.’
It clunked across, top and bottom. The place was in darkness, apart from a candle flickering on the coffee table.
‘What’s going on? Are you okay?’
Chrissy nodded. She seemed calm enough.
‘Has there been a power cut or something?’
‘No, I’m just meditating,’ she replied.
‘Oh,’ said Eloise, trying to weigh up her mood and eliminate the flashbacks from earlier, walking home.
Chrissy returned to the sofa, sitting down cross-legged. The TV was on but muted, some talk show with a sofa full of vaguely recognizable people on it, and Eloise noticed a plate of toast and Marmite on the coffee table next to a half-drunk glass of wine. She wondered whether to remove the bottle that was down at her feet but left it where it was.
‘So did you make it to your yoga class?’ asked Eloise, bouncing down next to her.
Chrissy shuffled along, continuing to stare at the TV. ‘No. I went for a run instead.’
‘Oh. How many circuits did you do?’ Eloise wasn’t at all interested, but running was her mother’s thing and sometimes a good way to engage. As far as Eloise was concerned, running was a form of torture.
‘Actually I ran into town and back.’
‘You never,’ said Eloise, screwing up her face. ‘Centre of Manchester on a Friday night? What’s that about?’ Her usual circuit was down to the Apollo, weaving back through the Brunswick Estate. She had been doing that for years, never deviated.
‘I changed my mind.’
‘Why though?’
‘Just a feeling,’ she said, still not making eye contact.
‘Well, what sort of a feeling?’
‘I wanted to be in a crowded place, that’s all.’
Eloise grabbed the remote and zapped the TV off. ‘Can we talk, Mum?’
‘Why, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’
Chrissy lunged for her glass and turned her body round to face Eloise, who was slightly regretting this tactic now. It had crossed her mind to mention that she thought she had been followed, but didn’t dare do that now; it would only play into her mother’s paranoia. Besides, it was just in her head, so hardly worth a mention.
‘No, nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I’ve just been wondering about your friend, Juliet, and what she did after uni. Have you any idea?’
Chrissy polished off her wine and poured herself another. ‘Is that what you want to talk about, Eloise? Because if it is I’m not in the mood.’
Eloise wished she had taken the bottle away now.
Chrissy was looking at her awkwardly. ‘Listen, I’m sorry for slapping you,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘It’s okay,’ Eloise replied, knowing her mother’s guilt was to her advantage. ‘So, when will you be in the mood?’
But instead of answering, Chrissy sank another large mouthful. Before leaning back again, she began rearranging the cushions behind her, pulling out the little yellow bear, a present to Eloise from her dad. It had become a game of theirs, putting the bear in unusual places so the other person would find it: in the biscuit tin, swinging from a light fitting, it could even be found hiding in a pocket. A smile spread across Chrissy’s face at the discovery, and Eloise felt herself softening towards her again.
Her cheeks were still flushed from her run, hair swept back in a ponytail and tiny beads of sweat glistened in the fine creases around her mouth. Eloise wished she had her mother’s lips; they were heart-shaped and she was lovely when she smiled. This thought saddened her all of a sudden, although she didn’t quite know why, not until she started speaking. ‘Do you remember, Mum, that time when Dad told me you’d gone running? I thought he meant you’d run away, like forever, and were never coming back. I cried for days.’
She put down her glass and pulled Eloise into her side. ‘I’d never run away from you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, ’course I do,’ Eloise replied, leaving it a moment before adding: ‘But I don’t know why you run away from everyone else. Why won’t you see Juliet? She’s your best friend.’
‘Was.’
‘Okay “was”, but you said yourself that you never fell out.’
Chrissy stood up. ‘I’m going to run a bath,’ she said. She left the room clutching her glass, and Eloise tossed a cushion across the floor.
‘Damn thing,’ said her mother, shaking her head at the trickle coming out of the hot tap.
‘Can’t you just tell me?’ said Eloise, kicking the doorframe.
Chrissy sank down onto the side of the bath, tucking her hands between her thighs. ‘Look, do you have to keep on at me, Eloise?’
‘Just tell me why you don’t want to see her again.’
‘Because …’
She let the word drift into the sound of the water. The tap was flowing now, which seemed to soothe her, then she remembered her wine and tipped the final dregs into her mouth. Eloise took the glass out of her hand and put it down by the sink.
‘It’s complicated,’ said Chrissy. Her face was red from the steam and from rubbing it so much. ‘Anyway, it’s not possible to see her again.’
‘Of course it is, Mum. You just get in touch and say—’
‘It’s not possible.’
She made a chopping motion with her hands as if to say ‘The End’. It caught the stem of the glass, clattering it into the sink.
‘I’ll sort it,’ said Chrissy, shunting Eloise out of the way.
Eloise backed off, her hands up in submission, and went to get some newspaper. When she returned, Chrissy was holding out the remnants