The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘While you get some overnight stuff, I’ll have a look for Smudge,’ I offer.

  Despite her delicate frame, Carrie’s steps are heavy as she goes upstairs. The moment she’s out of sight, I start searching – not for her cat but her address book. I looked before, when I was organising the party, but now there’s a new urgency. If Carrie doesn’t want to go to her parents yet, then I’ll willingly risk a spot of busybody interfering for the greater good. I’ll contact them, tell them to come over, because despite the brave face she’s got plastered in place, their daughter needs them. They might not welcome me sticking my nose in, and Carrie might be annoyed, too, but I don’t care because they’d all thank me if they knew the truth.

  The only flaw in the plan is that I can’t find an address book. Drawers are quietly opened, items moved around, shelves searched; I even peer under the sofa in case it’s fallen there. No luck. There’s not much to look around in, and once again I’m struck by how little Carrie owns. The furniture came with the maisonette; none of it is hers. It’s strange, because her parents sound like they’re reasonably well off, with her father a head teacher and her mother a solicitor. I know Carrie’s only work is as a cleaner, along with some shifts behind a bar at weekends that now seem to have dropped away to nothing, so she’s barely making ends meet, but I’m surprised her parents don’t help out a bit more.

  Perhaps they don’t realise how broke she is, and that the poor girl is wearing jeans that are more hole than material. It would be typical of Carrie to put a brave face on it.

  A thought strikes. Her solicitor mum is in a perfect position to know how to tackle the troublemaking messenger. I should talk to her. The thought urges me on, the search becoming even more determined.

  Eventually I stand in the middle of the living room, hands on hips, slightly out of breath. Perhaps it’s old-fashioned to have an address book, and no one younger than me has one. How on earth am I going to contact Carrie’s parents, then? She’s not on social media, so it’s not as though I can make friends with them that way.

  There’s only one option, then. Somehow, I’m going to have to get hold of her phone.

  I’ll do it tonight.

  Twenty-Two

  I shift awkwardly, crossing my arms. Uncross them. Rest my hands on my lap. They feel strange. What would I normally do with them?

  I’ve spent the whole evening like this, posing, like a poor impersonator pretending to be me. Conversation has been just as stilted. With every subject Carrie and I cover, I try to steer it round to her parents, and when it arrives there I panic and think it sounds obvious what I’m attempting to do – so then change the subject away from it. Knowing her wrecked car is outside doesn’t help. Its presence accuses me of failure, and there’s no argument I can give to the contrary.

  Someone is after her, or me, or us both. The thought sends me to the doors again, surreptitiously checking they’re locked. Turning the key as far as it will go. Definitely locked. Another push against the key. It won’t go any further.

  It’s locked. But I still don’t feel secure.

  My stomach is heavy as a rock, and I only eat because I have to make something for my friend, who also seems quieter than usual. The chemo or radiotherapy or whatever seems to have taken a toll today.

  But now, at last, I have a real opportunity. Carrie has just nipped to the loo and left her mobile phone on the side of the sofa. It seems to fill my vision, my heart rate rising along with my fear.

  What I’m about to do isn’t right; I can’t spy on a friend. Guilt is like a shattered mirror, reflecting my own pain back at me. Showing me that I must do this.

  Hardening my heart, I lunge forward – just as Carrie walks back into the room. Yanking my hand back, I make a big show of scratching my head, horribly aware that I’m a bad actress.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I say, then scurry from the room, feeling hot and stupid. I come back, brandishing two cups of lemon and ginger tea as though they’re prizes.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, it seems like it was a rough day at the clinic. I wish you’d talk to me about it,’ says Carrie.

  With everything she’s going through, she still notices I’m not myself.

  ‘Everything’s fine, I’m just not gaining weight as quickly as they’d hoped. But it’s all good.’

  ‘You’ve barely eaten tonight.’ She points to my plate. ‘You only gave yourself a child’s serving, and you left half of it. Do you still have that stomach bug from yesterday?’

  My forehead crinkles, until realisation dawns. She’s thinking of me hiding in the toilets when the second message arrived. Yesterday seems like a lifetime ago.

  ‘Yeah, it’s still not right.’ Fingers lace over my stomach to reinforce the words.

  ‘You need to look after yourself. And, well, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you should join a dating site,’ Carrie announces.

  ‘Where did that come from? No way. It’s not very me.’

  ‘Falling in love and living happily ever after isn’t very you? Don’t be daft. A nice fella would look after you, make you eat more. I want to see you settled and sorted before I shuffle off this mortal coil.’

  ‘You know I hate you talking like that.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject—’

  ‘I’m not, I just, well, I’m not interested in being with anyone right now.’ Not after the repercussions of last time’s disastrous foray. ‘Maybe I’m meant to be alone.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. “Meant to be” is something smug people hide behind when life works out well for them and they get exactly what they want. It’s right up there with “everything happens for a reason”. What a load of bull!

  ‘What about people who live and die in war zones? What’s “meant to be” about that? Or a baby that dies in the womb before it’s even had a chance to take a breath?

  ‘If you want something, don’t sit and wait for fate to step in and make it happen for you – get out there and grab it. And if you do sit on your backside twiddling your thumbs, don’t blame anything or anyone but yourself for your failure. Don’t hide behind “meant to be”. You’ve got an incredible life, Alex, so make the most of it.’

  The speech has made her breathless. She glares at me, panting, knowing that I have choices and opportunities she’ll never have herself.

  ‘You’re right,’ I nod, chastened. ‘I’m sorry for being so negative. I whinge in group meetings about having no husband, children who don’t speak to me, no friends or social life, being in a body owned by anorexia. But they’re because of decisions I’ve made. It’s slow, but I’m starting to become myself again, and once I am, then I can work out what I want – and make sure it happens.’

  Carrie smiles. Reaches out and gently forces my hand away from my mouth, where it had flown as soon as I stopped speaking.

  ‘First things first: you could try not gnawing on your nails constantly.’ Eyes flick up – ping – she’s got an idea. ‘You got any nail varnish? I’ll give you a manicure.’

  For the rest of the evening, we gossip while Carrie tries to transform my chewed stumps into something pretty. Even painted, they look dreadful. She sits back, appraising.

  ‘Hmm, maybe we could get you some false nails instead.’

  ‘That’s so not me.’

  ‘That’s the point.’ There’s no arguing with that grin, so I give in. It might be nice to pretend to be someone else for a while.

  The stress of the last few days is making me exhausted, though. I spend the rest of the evening fighting heavy lids and the desire to go to bed and never wake up. I am a Russian doll of secrets, so many cradled one inside the other, all looking like me but diminishing until what is left is so tiny I fear I’m disappearing.

  ‘Bloody hell, that was a big yawn. I’m surprised you didn’t turn yourself inside out,’ Carrie says, but then yawns herself. Gets up, stretching. ‘Time for bed.’

  ‘It’s a chilly night, want a hot water bottle?’


  ‘Oooh, go on then.’

  She’s in the bathroom when I take the hot water bottle up. Enter the room – and hold my breath. There, beside the bed, is her beaten-up old phone, the screen cracked from when she dropped it a couple of weeks back.

  I hug the hot water bottle to me to stop nervous goosebumps forming. Here’s my chance… again.

  This time I move quickly towards it, pushing thoughts of guilt and betrayal to the back of my mind. I’ll grab her parents’ number, call them and get my pal whisked safely away from Tynemouth.

  Luckily, the phone is so cheap and basic there’s no security number or password required to open it. Working quickly, I find her contacts list. Frown, confused, come out and click on it again. The same result. I come out of it again, looking for another list, because I must surely be in the wrong place.

  A cough comes from the next room, then the taps come on. She won’t be much longer. I’m fumbling the keys in my haste. Once again I try the contacts list, but my eyes haven’t deceived me. There are only two on it: mine and ‘work’.

  Okay, they’ll be in ‘called numbers’. Only my number is listed there. Next door, the taps turn off. She’s coming! Desperation births inspiration. Received calls. Carrie’s skint, so probably relies on her parents getting in touch with her.

  Once again, my name and number is the only one in there.

  The bathroom door opens. Time’s running out. Glancing at the ‘work’ number, I memorise it – I’ve always been good with numbers, sums, accounting, that kind of thing. Trembling hands almost fling the phone back onto the bedside table. Then I yank back the duvet, shove the hot water bottle into the bed.

  ‘Oh! Hi!’ Carrie’s voice comes from behind me.

  I slowly smooth the comforter back in place, forcing my breathing to calm, fighting to look normal. Turn and smile. ‘Just making sure you’re cosy tonight. Sleep well.’

  ‘You too. Good night.’

  But as I walk from the room, I can’t hide my frown. Why is there no sign of Carrie’s parents’ number in her phone when she speaks to them all the time?

  Twenty-Three

  Sleep refuses to come. Instead, I lie on my back, sick with exhaustion, staring into the blackness. Listening out for someone breaking in. Churning over what’s just happened. It’s odd that there are no friends or family listed in Carrie’s phone. She’s always talking about them and how brilliant they are. Her childhood friends have sent her flowers and cards constantly to support her. She and her mum are particularly close, talking at least three times a week and often every day, from what I’ve heard. Only the other day she was telling me about how she and her dad had been reminiscing about the blanket fort he’d built for her in the corner of her bedroom as a child, playing board games together and reading to each other. It was the sort of thing I’d wanted to do with my kids.

  My own father wouldn’t have been able to do something like that, bless him. He and Mum had been in their fifties before they successfully adopted me as a baby, and although older parents may be more the norm now, my childhood was dominated by friends from school asking if they were my grandparents. My reply had always been fiercely protective – as far as I was concerned, I had the best parents in the world, showering me with love and constantly telling me how lucky they were to have been able to choose me. I’d always felt lucky, too.

  I’d stayed close to my parents until their deaths a few years ago. Dad went first, of a heart attack, and just months later, Mum fell asleep and never woke up. A post-mortem discovered she’d suffered a catastrophic stroke that would have killed her almost instantaneously. Their being together, and neither of them suffering, was a huge comfort to me, but it means I truly am alone in the world now.

  Which brings me back to thinking of Carrie and her parents. She’s dying, so why wouldn’t they be in touch more? Why aren’t their numbers listed in her phone? Unless she’s memorised them. It’s a possibility, despite Carrie, unlike me, not being good with numbers.

  The hospital isn’t listed either. Or her doctors. Memorising her entire address book seems a little odd.

  I shake my head, sending the thoughts scattering into the black void of the bedroom. Turn my pillow to the cool side, pull the duvet up around my neck and try to relax.

  A noise outside. My eyes fly open. I clamber out of bed and peer round the curtain, but I can see nothing in the orange glow of the street lamps. Carrie’s car is still parked on the street, cardboard and masking tape covering the gaping hole to stop the elements getting in. We’ll have to arrange for it to be fixed, but with no insurance to cover the tyres and windscreen replacements, it’s going to be expensive. I’ll have to have another word with Carrie about using some of the money we raised for her. She’s worried about what people will think, I’m sure, but no one will mind once we explain the situation.

  One more look up and down the street, then I go back to bed with a sigh.

  Voices. Soft laughter. A door slamming shut. Every noise outside has my heart doing a samba. How I wish Owen were here to give me a hug and tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m so, so lonely. Memories rear up, snapping and snarling like rabid dogs, threatening to rip apart the paper-thin protective walls I’ve built around me over the years. The tears grow fatter, until I can see the past replaying through them…

  Owen’s face was glowing from his cheeks to the tips of his auburn hair. He always had a smiley face, but that day he looked fit to explode.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he checked. I waved the pregnancy test in the air.

  ‘The IVF worked! I don’t know anyone it’s worked first time for!’ I grinned. He lifted me up, then put me straight back down, as if worried I’d break.

  ‘We’re going to be parents,’ he breathed. ‘First time lucky. It’s meant to be. Told you.’

  He had, too, never letting me doubt it would happen eventually, or allowing me to get depressed when my period had arrived every month, regular as an unwelcome alarm. Finally, we were going to have a baby.

  He’d run into the spare room, beckoning me to follow. ‘Hey, we need to get this place decorated.’

  ‘We’ve loads of time yet,’ I laughed. ‘But… well, I was thinking maybe we could have a mural. I could paint tree tops at the bottom, as a border, then have clouds and sunshine, and birds flying over the top, along with all kinds of magical creatures.’

  ‘Like a fairy-tale kingdom – ooh, like at the top of the beanstalk.’

  ‘Exactly!’ We stood hand in hand gazing around the room, imagining a perfect future…

  I turn over now, hugging the pillow tight and squeezing my eyes closed. My eyelids can’t shut out the pictures in my mind, though, which flit to my twelve-week scan.

  The gel the sonographer squeezed over my stomach was cold, making me shiver and giggle. The funny wand swept across my skin. The sonographer stared at the screen, seemed almost to frown.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Owen took my hand.

  ‘Just a moment… Yes, there we go.’ She pointed. ‘Can you see? There’s one baby – and there’s another. You’re having twins!’

  For a second I was speechless. Owen and I kept looking at the screen, then looking at each other and back again, each time more excited, more stunned, fuller with laughter and tears.

  ‘A family in one hit,’ I gasped. ‘Ooh, imagine if it’s a boy and a girl, that would be perfect!’

  ‘It’s too early to tell right now, but we should be able to see at your next scan.’

  ‘That’s at, what, twenty weeks?’ Owen checked.

  I elbowed him. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know, you’ve been reading even more baby books than I have.’

  There’d never been a more enthusiastic father-to-be, I swear. After that scan, he’d started talking to my stomach every night about fresh starts and how much he was looking forward to meeting his children. After so many years of trying, neither of us could stop grinning. Even my constant vomiting didn’t knock my enthusiasm, although it did exhaust me
.

  ‘I can’t wait for our peanuts to be born,’ I’d sighed. ‘And I certainly won’t miss being sick every day.’

  As the memories overwhelm me, tears escape. They drip across my face, make a damp patch on the pillow. I’m too lost to wipe them. I’m remembering the colour draining from Owen’s face at the next hospital visit. The way he wrapped an arm around my shoulders as he reacted to the sonographer’s latest news.

  ‘All our dreams are coming true. We’re the luckiest people in the entire world,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Which is the boy again?’

  The sonographer chuckled and pointed. ‘See, there’s his—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see it now! And the other peanut is definitely a girl.’

  ‘She’s lying a little awkwardly for me to be one hundred per cent certain, but I’m confident enough to say you’re having one of each.’

  One of each. It was all we’d ever wanted; our family complete in one hit.

  After we left hospital, Owen had got a sneaky look on his face, claimed he needed to be somewhere. When I quizzed him he’d insisted it was some appointment or other that he couldn’t get out of. I hadn’t believed him. But I also hadn’t imagined in my wildest nightmares that by the end of the day he’d be dead.

  I turn over again in bed, fling off the duvet, panic making me sweat. The urge to escape is almost overwhelming, but I know from bitter experience that there is no outrunning memories. Goodness knows I’ve run far enough and hard enough, but never managed to escape. My eyes are wide open to the darkness, yet I can still see the memories graffitied across my brain in glorious technicolour. I try to stop them from appearing and trashing what little peace I’m attempting to cling to. They refuse to listen to my silent pleas.

  No, no, no…

  There was something about the knock on the door, all those years ago; its weight seeming to convey doom. Two policemen had stood awkward and solemn on my doorstep. I already knew, without them having to tell me. But still I needed them to say the words. Then they did, and my world collapsed.