The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘I wish you’d call me Mum—’

  ‘Earn the title!’

  Edward gets between us as I try to explain.

  ‘I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Give me a little more time and I promise I’ll do better.’

  ‘Dad says—’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything your father says.’ My voice is sharp. Scared of what may have been revealed. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped. I don’t want to speak ill of—’

  ‘You don’t speak at all. You don’t do anything. What did you eat tonight?’

  ‘I… Damn, I forgot. I’ll get something now.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ offers Edward. ‘How about pasta and veg?’

  The move to the kitchen brings the argument to a close, for which I thank my lucky stars. It’s so wonderful to see the twins, but lately our meetings are so fraught, and I’m at my wit’s end as to what best to do. I know what Rosie would say, of course, about guilt, honesty, facing up to reality, and so on. For now I’m choosing to ignore. Instead, I keep the conversation light while the food is cooked, but there is no laughter or fun between us. They stay long enough to make sure I eat every mouthful, then return to their father.

  The house is so empty without them. Pulling the warm woollen throw from the back of the sofa, I hunker inside it, wishing I could hold the children instead.

  A noise outside. Have they come back? There’s no sign when I peer round the curtains on to the tree-lined street, flooded with light from a street lamp. It must have been my imagination. Unless… The memory of the photograph of Carrie and me ambushes me. My heart thuds harder, imagining someone outside, watching me, waiting. Skin prickling, I rush round the house checking every door and window is locked. They are, of course. But after that each noise seems to give me goosebumps, and sleep is hard to find when at last I go to bed.

  * * *

  The next day I get up bright and early, the sunshine banishing paranoid thoughts of people trying to break into my home, or standing outside watching me. I start decorating the bodice of the dress. Each tiny, glittering bugle bead has to be hand-sewn, and after a couple of hours my sore eyes need a break. Perfect timing, because Carrie should be back from her cleaning job.

  I text her.

  Fancy going for a walk or something?

  * * *

  Sounds good! If I don’t answer the door, let yourself in with your key, cos I might be in the shower still.

  She’d given me her spare key in case she ever got locked out, and often tells me to let myself in.

  * * *

  It takes me fifteen minutes to wander to her house, walking slowly to make the most of the brilliant winter sun on my skin, despite the biting breeze. Above, chiffon clouds easily overtake me as they race one another in a cerulean sky. It’s the sort of day that makes me feel good to be alive.

  Carrie lives in a cul-de-sac, and at its entrance a group of mainly pre-teen kids are hanging about. They lean on their bikes, ribbing one another and cracking up. Every now and then one breaks away and rides a slow circle, or speeds across the road to a low wall and jumps their wheels onto it to cycle along the top, before returning. One of them is wearing a balaclava that looks like a screaming skull, the mouth wide open to show horrific teeth. He’s only about thirteen, but there’s a tingle of intimidation at the base of my skull, as if someone has placed an ice cube there, and I walk that little bit faster. The huddle pause and watch me go by, nudging each other. Whispering. I can feel their eyes on me still as I approach Carrie’s cherry-red front door, calling her name as I push it open.

  ‘Down in a minute!’ the reply floats from upstairs.

  But I’m not looking for Carrie. I’m staring straight down at the doormat. A manila envelope lies on it, with Carrie’s name written in red capitals.

  The same handwriting as the box. I’d recognise it anywhere.

  Floorboards creak upstairs. Carrie is coming. Quickly, I pick up the envelope, look around for somewhere to hide it, to retrieve later. There isn’t anywhere.

  Footsteps above me approach the stairs. She’s coming! I undo my jacket and shove the envelope inside, clamping it awkwardly against my body with my arm and slamming a rictus smile on my face just as Carrie appears at the top.

  She pauses, head on one side. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine! Yeah, fine. Can I use your loo? Thanks!’

  Not waiting for a reply, I scurry past her and bang the lock in place.

  My pale reflection, framed by dull, dark hair, stares back at me from the mirror over the sink. Fever-bright brown eyes, flushed cheeks. Should I tell Carrie about the envelope, or once again keep it to myself? I don’t know what to do for the best. Perhaps it’s a card, making it clear the last message was a weird joke. Or perhaps there’s something even more sinister inside.

  A gentle knock plays on the door.

  ‘You got a dodgy stomach? You’ve been ages. Sure you want to go for that walk?’

  I don’t answer. Instead, I flush the loo and fold up the envelope so it fits in my inside jacket pocket and quickly zip it up. Wash my hands, then open the door.

  ‘Sorry. Period pain,’ I grimace. ‘But I’ve necked some painkillers, so I’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go.’

  * * *

  The boys are still wheeling like bored seagulls at the mouth of the cul-de-sac. I keep my eye on them as we walk by, a cloak of guilt over me as I wonder at what age children change in people’s eyes from cute to something to be approached with caution, fear even.

  ‘Smile!’ laughs one, a cheeky grin on his face as he holds his empty hands up as though framing us for a photograph. His friends snigger. Join in.

  ‘Say cheese.’

  ‘Click, click.’

  Realisation dawns, slow as a sunrise.

  He’s the one who took the picture of Carrie and me, and his little group of friends think he’s hilarious. Stealing one of her tops from the washing line is just the sort of stupid thing a kid would do, too. Relief and annoyance swirl into a ball of fire. Of all the idiotic pranks. He could have scared Carrie to death thinking she’d got a stalker after her. But I can’t confront him like I want to while my clueless friend is here, otherwise she’ll know I’ve been keeping things from her.

  We stroll on, ignoring the catcalls. Soon we’ve turned the corner and are heading to the beach. I pull up short, start patting my pockets.

  ‘Ooh, I’ve forgotten my purse. Took it out of my pocket when I went to the loo,’ I tell Carrie. ‘I’ll run back and fetch it.’

  As I round the corner, the adrenaline is thumping through me. They might only be scrawny kids, but there’s about ten of them and only one of me. I can’t keep quiet, though. In and out quick, before I can change my mind.

  ‘Oy! You lot!’ I shout.

  They freeze in confusion as I get closer. In my pocket, my gloved hands are balled into fists, making me feel braver, despite the throb of nails bitten down so low they’re painful. The screaming skull mask balaclava seems to leer at me.

  ‘Listen to me. The stupid practical jokes, the photographs, everything, it all stops right now. You hear me?’

  ‘What? It wasn’t me,’ whines the nearest lad. A reminder they’re more children than adults.

  ‘I don’t care which of you it was. You do it again, you so much as look at that house in the wrong way, let alone go near my friend, and I’ll go straight to your parents. They’ll make your lives a living hell.’

  Each of them gets a glare that I hope shows I mean business. Then I march off, before their shock can turn into something else. By the time I’m out of their sight, I’m trembling at the thought of what I’ve done, but elation lifts my steps, too. Just as promised, I’ve protected Carrie.

  Fifteen

  ‘Cor, it might be sunny, but there’s a nip to that wind. It’s cutting straight through my holy of holies.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ I laugh.

  ‘My nickname for these jeans. Put it this way, if I bend over in
them, someone might get blinded by the terrible sight they see. The knees aren’t the only place these babies are ripped.’ Carrie cackles, bending her knees to expose white kneecaps.

  By silent agreement, as usual we’ve bypassed the side road that sweeps down to Longsands and would bring us out beside the Surf School where Simon works. Instead, we’ve gone further along the main road until we reach a smaller walkway and steep steps to the beach.

  Marching across the soft golden crescent of sand is giving me a rosy glow, but the wind seems to have grown knives that slice through the relative warmth of the sun. Carrie must be really feeling the chill, despite the sunshine-yellow padded jacket.

  ‘We need to buy you some clothes – you can’t be going around in rags. Maybe we could spend some of the bucket list money on that. And we need to book your trip on the Orient Express – sorry, I’ve not got round to it yet, I really must.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, and honestly, it’s a lovely thought, but I’d rather the money went to charity.’

  ‘What? No, you deserve this.’

  ‘So do loads of other cancer sufferers. I’d far rather the money went towards stopping anyone else having to go through this. It’s not even having to deal with the cancer itself, though, that’s hard enough; no, it’s everything. No one but doctors should have to know the names of drugs like Herceptin, epirubicin, cyclophosphamide, Taxotere. My hair fell out, my toenails turned black, I got “chemo cough” and even developed nosebleeds. Because my eyelashes fell out, I got loads of styes, too.’

  The coward in me is so glad I didn’t witness this, as it all happened before I knew her; the mother in me wishes I’d been there to take care of her.

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ she adds. ‘The treatment may not have saved my life, but it bought me extra time. I’ve made new friends, met you…’

  I make a comment about how amazing she is, but she dismisses it by blowing a raspberry. We always have a giggle together. Despite our age gap and being total opposites, we’ve become firm friends. She seems to like older people and feels more comfortable with them, though. Simon’s thirty-nine.

  Carrie links her arm with mine as we continue walking.

  ‘Enough about me – how are you doing? Any news? Have Elise and Edward realised they’re being daft buggers yet and started talking to you like you’re an actual human being?’

  ‘They’re not that bad.’ Sadness leaks through my smile. ‘Eating disorders are tough on families. The children said they felt they were treading on eggshells, scared of saying the wrong thing and triggering something in me that would stop me eating again. It’s hardly surprising they find it easier to avoid me. Knowing they’re tiptoeing around me makes me so angry for what I’ve put them through.’

  ‘Er, you do know that what you’ve got is an illness, not a lifestyle choice, right? No one chooses to be this way. We’ve all got stuff that makes us do crazy shit sometimes, stuff that doesn’t always make sense. But the people who claim to love us are supposed to understand, not hurt us. They can’t use our problems as a weapon to beat us with.’

  ‘I know, but I’m their mother.’

  ‘They’re lucky to have you. I’d have given anything to have a mum like you when I was growing up.’

  ‘Thought your mum was great?’

  ‘Well, yeah. But you can’t have too many brilliant mums in your corner.’

  ‘Daft beggar.’

  For the next minute neither of us speaks, as we climb the steep steps taking us from Tynemouth towards Cullercoats Bay. At the top, I enjoy the view across the wide, battleship-grey sea. The spray at the top of the waves makes brief rainbows in the sun; gone in the call of a gull.

  ‘Anyway, I thought your kids left before you got your eating disorder.’ Carrie has a habit of picking up conversations minutes after they’ve ended and continuing them as though there’s been no pause.

  ‘Uh-huh. I was feeling low after the kids and Owen had left, and I was suddenly all alone, and… the rest is history.’

  ‘No offence, but I always thought it was teenagers that developed eating disorders.’

  ‘According to my therapist, it’s more common than you’d think in women my age. She says that, in some ways, we’re not unlike teenagers: our bodies are changing, our hormones are all over the place and it can be hard to deal with. We’re bombarded by pictures of women older than us who look about twenty years younger. It’s exhausting trying to have the body of Elle Macpherson. Especially when I didn’t have a figure like that my entire life. Of course, the reality is often far, far more complex than looking at too many doctored photographs of supermodels. It was for me, anyway.’

  ‘But you nearly died, Alex. Surely your kids realise they should be making the most of you, not making life harder.’

  ‘People tell me I almost died,’ I agree. ‘For a long time I’d roll my eyes and think they were being melodramatic. Even when I was in hospital I felt it was rubbish and begged to be allowed to leave. I thought I looked fine. Now, despite accepting it as the truth, it’s still hard to get my head around. Knowing they almost lost me is the bit the children struggle with – and let’s not forget, they are only teenagers, so it’s second nature for them to hide fear in anger. They’ve had a lot to deal with, and Owen is always there for them.’

  ‘He never leaves their bloody side,’ Carrie grumbles. ‘It’s suffocating, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Everything that’s gone wrong in this family is my fault.’ My answer is prim but honest, but my young friend instantly tenses.

  ‘What do you want your gravestone to say, Alex? “Here lies a doormat”? Fight for what you want, because no one is simply going to hand it over because you’re a good girl who plays by the rules. If you’re not doing something every day that you’d be proud to put on your gravestone, then you’re not living right.’

  Currently my gravestone definitely feels blank.

  As we reach the end of the path, we pause at the top of the stairs down into Cullercoats Bay. I use the excuse of being breathless to not reply to Carrie’s goading. Below us, a group of children are darting in and out of one of the caves below, laughing at the pigeons they scare out. Other families play on the curve of sand, which is wide at the moment because the tide is low. Dogs splash joyfully in a shallow lagoon created by two piers which stretch out from either side of the beach like arms trying to hug the sea to land.

  ‘I had been thinking of asking for my ashes to be scattered somewhere hot, like the Cayman Islands,’ Carrie says suddenly. ‘But I think I want to stay here, where I’ve been happiest. I want friends, family and loved ones to get together and have a party. There should be laughter and fun when I’m sprinkled.’

  ‘You might have to allow us the odd tear, too.’

  Grief inflates my chest, making it hard to breathe. I sniff, clear my throat. I can’t think about the world being without this bright, inspirational young woman. Instead, I stare down at the piers covered in multicoloured seaweed. Then I point to the far side of the bay, and the buildings above it.

  ‘Fancy a drink at the Queen’s Head?’ Anything to change the subject.

  Freshly motivated, we quickly reach our destination. It’s only 11.30 a.m., so the pub is almost empty, apart from two women leaning against the bar.

  ‘Two pints is fine, but make your excuses after that. You hit six pints with her and you don’t know which way she’ll go. She can get nasty,’ I overhear, as I order a couple of orange juices. The laughter of the two women is a hoot of joy in the cavernous room, softened only when it hits the pool table.

  ‘Ooh, slot machine!’ grins Carrie. She shoves in a couple of quid, but gets nothing in return apart from brilliant pulses and glows of light and crazy noises as she pushes buttons.

  ‘Not my lucky day,’ she says finally, sitting beside me at one of the small round tables. ‘Hey, I better sit with my legs crossed or people will see my holy of holies!’

  ‘You didn’t mean what you said about not wanti
ng the money, did you? We raised it for you.’

  ‘Don’t need money where I’m going.’ A shadow of sadness flits across her face, a cloud covering the sun. Then she smiles and blasts the cloud away. It gives me the courage to try again.

  ‘But I was thinking about setting up a website and putting stuff on social media to get more money coming in. Enough for you to go on the trip of a lifetime—’

  ‘I don’t want it. And I definitely don’t want to go on social media.’

  It’s happening again. Carrie looks nervous, just like she did at the do the other night. I can’t help feeling she’s keeping something from me. I try to tell myself it’s okay, because I’m hiding something from her, too. Something big. It’s so awful that she’d never speak to me again if she knew, so bad that probably no one would ever speak to me again. Whatever she’s hiding, it can’t possibly be as bad as my own secret.

  ‘What’s your bugbear with social media, anyway?’ I ask. ‘Isn’t everyone your age on everything these days?’

  ‘I just don’t see a reason to publicise my every move to the entire world. I’m a private person.’

  ‘You just announced that you’ve got a hole in your jeans that virtually shows off your backside, and you’re claiming to be private?’

  ‘Well, maybe I’m old-fashioned, then. Taking pictures and sharing them all over Facebook or whatever isn’t my style. Besides, there are some weird people out there, trolls and troublemakers.’

  It makes me think of the envelope digging into my ribs. I haven’t dared take off my jacket, in case it falls out. But Carrie’s right, most younger people would head online if they wanted to play a prank on someone or bully them. They almost certainly wouldn’t print off a picture and post it through a person’s letterbox. It’s too much effort for kids.