The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  While others her age were gaining freedoms and learning to make decisions for themselves, everything about Claire’s life was decided, of necessity, by others.

  There was comfort as well as need in its familiarity, but it also meant that she became institutionalised. Every time she was well enough to be allowed home, the world seemed a scary place and she’d fall straight back into her routine of stopping eating. She admitted as much to me one day.

  ‘I like it here,’ she’d told me, as she dug out the glitter-covered nameplate she’d made for her room and hung it once more on the bedroom door at the clinic. ‘It’s all I’ve ever known. I don’t like it out there in the world. Suddenly I have to make decisions for myself – I feel all this pressure. If I could just live here for ever, I’d be happy.’

  In some ways she reminded me of an old lag who keeps stealing so he can get back to the routine of prison, which is all he’s know his entire life, his one constant. Without the routines and protections in place, though, she’d have starved herself anyway, so what was the alternative?

  ‘There was a hideous inevitability to her death,’ I tell Rosie. ‘She was only three days away from her twentieth birthday, you know. That was when I knew I couldn’t carry on like this. I had to get better. I had to stop lying to myself and everyone else. So here I am, a recovering liar, slowly leaving behind adult-onset anorexia, a condition that’s controlled my life for years. And, I don’t know, maybe I recognised that fragility in Carrie, too. Maybe I could see death closing in on her—’

  ‘That’s very sad, but it’s not the whole story and I think you know it. You wanted to mother them both, would you say? Yet you’re deliberately leaving something out.’

  ‘I’m—’ My whole body shakes, not just my head. ‘We’re not talking about that. We’re… there’s something else I need to tell you.’

  Eyes prickle in protest; Rosie’s face blurs as she drowns in my tears. The reprieve is purely visual.

  ‘You know, at some point you’re going to have to be honest and face the truth,’ she says. No accusation, no judgement, simply a statement.

  ‘I am honest! I’m—’

  ‘You won’t truly begin to get better until you accept reality. Stop lying to yourself.’

  ‘You know nothing about me. You don’t even listen to me. Call yourself a counsellor? I talk to you and you refuse to listen. You just see me as someone to be fixed, when I’m not broken any more.’

  A stupid lie that doesn’t even fool me. I sound like a sullen teenager, not a forty-something. But why has Rosie chosen today of all days to push me? I haven’t had a chance to talk about what I have on my mind.

  She’s been leaning forward, but sits back again and nods as she runs a hand through her hair from the neck up to the crown. That’s why her hair’s always messy.

  ‘Okay… Let’s go back to Carrie and the first time you met her.’

  ‘Good, well, at that first support group meeting she talked about moving to a new area and having trouble making friends at work, but that she’d met someone and fallen in love. She’d thought she’d finally met a good man, someone to settle down with, maybe even have children. She kept saying he’d made her feel safe – I got the impression that was very important to her, and that it wasn’t something she’d ever had before. But then she’d got cancer, a very aggressive form of breast cancer, that starts with a rash. She told us all that her cancer was what had pushed a wedge between herself and Simon. She blamed herself for them splitting up.’

  I look anywhere but at my counsellor as I speak. Shame is a neon sign, lighting me up for the world to see.

  ‘That wasn’t the truth, though. As she described her “perfect” boyfriend, I realised I was the reason he’d disappeared on her during her treatment. I was the reason she was alone. I stole her boyfriend.’

  Thirteen

  There’s sweat on my forehead and my heart is pounding. I want to run, fast and far, to distance myself from the admission, even though Rosie has heard it before. The shame never lessens. I used Carrie’s boyfriend, and she was the one who paid the price, being left alone to face the biggest fight of her life. She’d managed to beat the cancer, but now, just a couple of months on, it’s back, worse than ever. That’s why nothing on earth will make me step away from her, because it’s my fault she’s alone.

  My breaths are deep and shaky as I try to calm down enough to speak again. Rosie doesn’t say anything, simply leans over and grabs a box of tissues which she then proffers.

  ‘I’m responsible for Carrie’s situation,’ I gasp, dabbing at my face.

  ‘Responsible.’

  The word drops like a lead weight between us.

  ‘Alex, you use that word a lot when talking about your friend. Let’s explore that a little. Why do you think that you should be culpable for what happens to her, simply because you slept with her partner?

  ‘You didn’t give her cancer. You didn’t encourage Simon to leave her. And we’ve discussed before the fact that you wouldn’t have slept with him in the first place if you’d known he was with someone already. Correct?’

  No matter how many times we go over it, Rosie never understands my point.

  ‘I owe her. Besides, she’s all alone, fighting for her life. She’s close to her parents, yet they aren’t here with her. If one of my kids had cancer, I’d drop everything and be by their side battling it with them. Why aren’t they?’

  Rosie opens her mouth to speak, but I bulldoze over her.

  ‘They’ve never visited, as far as I know. She makes excuses for them. It makes me furious.’

  ‘Why do her parents’ actions annoy you so much?’

  My arms fold firmly across my chest, barring that line of questioning. There’s an awkward silence before Rosie tries a different tack.

  ‘Tell me what you were feeling about yourself when you decided to sleep with Simon that first time.’

  I shrug, confused. Loath to explore.

  ‘Let me ask another question, then. When you were at your lightest weight, did you feel attractive? Did you become anorexic in order to feel beautiful?’

  ‘It’s never been about being attractive, not for me. I know I don’t look good being skeletal. I know I look better being a normal weight. That’s not the point. I don’t really know what the point is. Perhaps if I did, I’d be able to get better.’

  My eyes dart this way and that, trying to herd my thoughts.

  ‘It’s not about attention-seeking, either. It’s more about punishment. I don’t deserve to eat, I don’t deserve nice things, I don’t deserve to enjoy myself.

  ‘It’s a form of self-harm, like cutting, only this is more internalised. I want to tear my skin off, and the fat beneath it, I feel so disgusted with myself.’

  My fingers flex against the skin on my forearm. Three red welts are left behind. Hiding them under my hand, I tumble on.

  ‘Simon was only meant to be a one-night stand. That was the initial idea. It was something wild and out of character because I wanted to feel womanly again. I’d put on some weight and felt conflicted about it. Everyone told me it was a good thing – I knew it was a good thing – but I didn’t feel it.

  ‘There’d been no denying the extra calories I’d been eating had boosted my energy, though. The lethargy that had dragged me down previously had disappeared by that point, and I’d felt—’ I search for the right word, brushing against various descriptions and tossing them to one side. Normal. That was the one.

  ‘It had been such a long time since I’d felt normal that it took a while to identify.’ I give a little smile, remembering. Emotions that had lain dormant had started to stir. One that grew was curiosity… Was I desirable? It had been a long time since I’d been with a man.

  ‘I wanted to feel the weight of a man on me again. To feel sexy. To be seen as a woman, rather than a genderless, invisible forty-something. It seemed impossible to imagine anyone looking at me and feeling passion,’ I explain. ‘It wasn’t just about
someone wanting me, though. It was that I couldn’t remember what it was like to see a man myself and want him.’

  To play the game of flirtation, the push and pull of looks, of longing and lingering touches that grow into heat and action.

  I shrug my slender shoulders. ‘My life had narrowed down until it was all about food, and I wanted to expand it.’

  ‘What attracted you to Simon?’

  ‘This might sound counter-intuitive, but it had to be someone who didn’t matter to me. Sex was such a big deal already, the thought of exposing myself physically to rejection was bad enough. Add in the complication of emotional attachment and it was more than I could cope with.’ A shudder quakes my body. ‘It needed to be an experiment, a chance to rediscover myself sexually. If it went well, then perhaps, one day in the distant future, I could think about risking a relationship.’

  Although who would want me with all my baggage, anyway?

  ‘One day I’d stopped for a hot chocolate from Crusoe’s – you know, the café on Longsands beach, near the abandoned Victorian outdoor swimming pool?’

  Before speaking again I think, sending myself back in time. In my mind’s eye I can see the rocks, the golden crescent of sand. Nearby, children are at the half-term Surf School, their cheeks red with excitement as much as the cold. I sit beneath the fairy lights strung across Crusoe’s patio, on a bench made from silvered and salted driftwood that’s smoother than silk beneath my fingertips. Waves, clouds, families at play, ebb and flow as I eat the mountain of cream on my hot chocolate, using the Flake as a spoon. Decadent and challenging. When just the right amount of cream is left, I stir it into the steaming drink with the Flake, which melts deliciously until only the nub is left, which I then pop into my mouth.

  I can still taste it, my mouth filling with saliva even as I sit in my counsellor’s office. It’s such a simple thing – and the perfect illustration of how much I’d achieved. At one point, the thought of being in the same room as that hot chocolate would have had me literally shaking with fear, as though I could somehow absorb the calories from the air. While it wasn’t quite correct that I’d eaten it without a second thought, it was true that I’d enjoyed it. Just as I’d been celebrating internally, I’d seen Simon. Choice made.

  ‘What it was about him that drew my eye, I don’t know,’ I tell Rosie. ‘He’d got a fit body in his wetsuit, and a confident ease about him – he smiled with the children a lot, laughing with them. I liked that. But honestly? I don’t know why I chose him, apart from the fact that he was there. Right place, right time.’

  I’d cracked out rusty flirtation skills that hadn’t been used since my husband and I got together. A smile and a lingering look. Wandering over to make small talk. Laughing. A hand on his bicep. Brushing a line of sand from beside his eye. All the time talking myself into what I was about to do.

  Why not? Why shouldn’t I do something silly?

  As soon as the children left, I’d taken him to my house. His tanned skin smelled of salt and fresh air ozone, with a tang of musk. His hands were rough as driftwood, but tender. The sex was better than I’d thought it would be, but afterwards I’d felt ridiculous and ashamed. Still, when he’d suggested meeting up again, I’d found myself agreeing. My libido had been woken and refused to go back to sleep.

  ‘I hadn’t thought the fling was hurting anyone. But after about a fortnight, we were lying in bed together when he announced that he loved me and was going to leave his girlfriend for me.

  ‘It was the first time he’d ever mentioned being with someone else. I was bloody furious with him. I’d thought this was a harmless shag, that it didn’t hurt anyone – us included. I’d had no idea he was in a relationship, or that he’d developed feelings for me. I’m shouting at him, telling him all this, when he drops the bombshell that this woman has cancer. What a shit! I told him to get out, that I didn’t want anything more to do with him.

  ‘But the damage had been done by then. The following week Carrie joined the support group, and as she talked about battling cancer and losing the love of her life, it became obvious she was Simon’s ex.’

  The memory envelops me. Once again, the guilt is a physical blow, making my stomach throb. Words dam my throat, unable to escape, leaving me gasping for air. It’s several moments before I can speak again.

  ‘She’s so hurt by the break-up. Yet another person I’ve damaged without even trying. I jinx everything.’

  ‘So you befriended her to somehow make amends. Alex, how has your eating been since the news that her condition is untreatable?’

  ‘Fine.’ Then I remember the barely touched scampi and chips. ‘Well, maybe a bit less than usual.’

  ‘How are you coping emotionally?’

  It’s tempting to say ‘fine’ again.

  ‘Umm, Carrie’s my top priority. I’m devastated she’s dying, and worried for her, obviously. I’m upset that I’ll never really get the chance to make amends to her. And… ’ I’m unsure whether to continue. My therapist is watching me carefully, pen poised. ‘I think someone is messing her around, as well. Maybe picking on her because they know she’s vulnerable. So I’m going to have to keep a close eye on her.’

  ‘What makes you think someone is picking on her?’

  The constant questions were once annoying, but I’m used to them now. Still, I feel a niggle of irritation at having to explain every tiny detail of my life. Locking down my tears, I update Rosie on what’s been happening with Carrie in the last few days. I swear she’s looking at me strangely. It makes me stutter and stumble over my words and fiddle with a button on my top as I speak.

  She makes some notes, shaking her head almost imperceptibly as she does.

  ‘This has all happened since she told you she’s dying?’ Rosie checks. ‘Alex, you need to be careful, you’re taking on responsibilities that aren’t yours. I’m concerned this could trigger another relapse.

  ‘In my opinion, Carrie’s terminal illness is reminding you of your other losses. Even if this doesn’t prompt a setback in your recovery, I’m concerned that you may be replacing your reliance on controlling food with a dependency on Carrie. Once she’s gone, I’m unsure how you’re going to cope. We need to address this, Alex. You need to consider pulling away slightly from her.’

  ‘You’re making it sound weird, like it’s something dark between Carrie and me. All I want to do is look after her and make things better.’

  ‘And in trying to do that you may be imagining things you can fix that aren’t there. You need to start dealing with reality.’

  The pen is put down on her desk and rolls under the remains of a paperwork avalanche. I wish I could hide along with it as Rosie continues towards her inevitable conclusion.

  ‘I’m not just talking about Carrie. You know what I’m referring to, Alex. I don’t think you’re ever going to truly recover until you admit and confront your past. Are we ever going to address what really happened with your children and your husband and you?’

  Fourteen

  You know that saying, saved by the bell? Well, that’s what saved me from that nightmare session with Rosie, because even as her stare demanded answers, her electronic timer dinged to say our time together was up. I almost sprinted out, relief lending me wings.

  I spend the afternoon and early evening alone, tucked away in the largest of my three bedrooms, which I’ve converted into a sewing room. Working on the prom dress I’m making, and letting the swish of taffeta soothe my fevered thoughts as I go over what she said. She’ll never convince me to back off from Carrie. I love that young woman like a daughter now, and I’ll see through to the bitter end my promise to be there for her.

  * * *

  Time has flown by; I hadn’t realised it was so late, especially as I’ve had to have the light on since 2 p.m. It’s been one of those murky winter days where the sun barely seems to come up. I’m drawing the curtains when I see the twins heading for my front door.

  ‘What a lovely surprise,’ I gri
n, hustling them inside before they can knock.

  They bring the cold in with them, that sweet, sharp smell, so I immediately fuss around, making hot drinks and wittering about them ‘catching their death of cold’. I can feel Elise growing impatient with me, but Edward soaks it all up, smiling patiently. My sunshine boy. Talking of which…

  ‘Is that new? I love it!’ I run his scarf through my fingers. It’s soft, probably cashmere, and has yellow, burnt orange and charcoal-grey stripes. ‘It’s good to see you in something a bit brighter – suits you!’

  ‘Cheers, Mum.’ He blushes to the tips of his ears, at that age where he seems permanently embarrassed by me.

  ‘We actually came over for a reason,’ Elise cuts in. Straight to the point as ever, she puts her hot chocolate down on the coffee table with a clunk. Her eyes challenge me. ‘We want to talk about what happened between you and Dad.’

  ‘It’s adult stuff.’ I regret the phrase as soon as it’s out of my mouth. The shutters have slammed shut, my daughter’s face closing down in an instant. ‘Okay, hands up, that’s an excuse, and I’m sorry for trying to fob you off.’

  Two pairs of folded arms confront me. I try again. ‘What I mean is, it’s complicated, like relationships always are. There’s no simple answer I can give you. All I can say is that we both had flaws in our personalities that meant the marriage didn’t work out. But it’s not all bad – cracks are what let the light in, too. You’re our light.’

  The truth would destroy all their illusions and plunge them into darkness. I can’t let that happen, even if they do get angry with me. Two red spots have appeared on Elise’s cheeks, and they’re growing, a clear indicator of her annoyance. Edward remains calm as he chimes in.

  ‘You never tell us what happened. It would be helpful if you’d open up about the past.’

  ‘There’s no point going over it.’

  Elise scoffs. ‘Yeah, why bother being honest with your family when you can distract yourself with puzzles and your surrogate daughter? You don’t need your real kids.’ She stands, throws my sudoku book across the room. ‘Look at you. Starving yourself, using diversions and superstitions to pretend to be in control when you’re too weak to actually be honest and really take control of your life, Alex.’