The Role Model: A shocking psychological thriller with several twists

by Daniel Hurst

  Now I just need to persuade her that this dress is not as short as she thinks it is.

  As I get dressed as quickly as I can, my mind can’t help wandering back to Rupert. I wonder what he will be wearing tonight. He is quite fashionable, at least from what I have seen of him at sixth form. He is definitely trendier than the other guys in my classes, although it’s not hard. They come in wearing football shirts or baggy jeans, and while they are taking full advantage of the informal dress code at our college, they aren’t going to win any awards for good fashion sense. But Rupert is different, and that is why he is the one who got my attention.

  Back in my normal clothes, I pull back the curtain and step out of the changing room, smiling politely at the store assistant sitting nearby as I walk past her with my black dress in hand. Rounding the corner, I see my mum standing by the doorway to the shop, looking a little perturbed by the music blasting out of the speakers in here. Even I have to admit it is a little loud, so poor Mum must be going deaf. But she puts a smile on her face when she sees me approaching, and I smile back to let her know that my time in the changing room was a success.

  ‘I take it that you like that one,’ she says to me, her eyes studying the piece of black material with scepticism.

  ‘I love it!’ I say so passionately that it is sure to make her think twice about telling me that it’s too short.

  ‘Let me have a look at it,’ she tells me, and she takes it out of my hand before I have the chance to defend it better.

  ‘It fits perfect,’ I make sure to add as Mum holds it up against me and frowns.

  ‘I’m not sure about the length.’

  ‘It’s fine!’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘And did I mention it’s on sale? Because it is!’

  Mum thinks about it for a moment while I keep the ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ expression on my face. It must do the trick because she gives in.

  ‘Okay, come on,’ she says, heading for the tills, and I follow gleefully behind because I’ve got my own way. It doesn’t happen as much as my friends think it does. I’m lucky to have a mum like Heather, but I’m not spoilt. She has brought me up well, instilling good values, and I appreciate things like money and the work that goes into paying for nice dresses like this one.

  I’m just not going to say no if she offers to take me shopping, am I?

  As I stand beside Mum in the checkout line, I think about all the other things she has taught me. She has shown me how to handle rejection because I have seen her return from a date disappointed. I hope I won’t be feeling the same way tonight. She has shown me what it is like to have a goal and work hard to achieve it, mainly through her tireless efforts to become a fully trained policewoman. That work ethic is why I went into further education after school, and I can’t wait to go to university at the end of this year. And she has also shown me what is right and wrong and how to walk the fine line between doing things you shouldn’t and doing things you can get away with.

  Basically, she has done what a good parent should do. She has been a great role model.

  I would be thrilled to be more like her as I get older.

  I doubt many teenagers would ever say that about their mums.

  3

  HEATHER

  I double-check in the fridge to make sure that I definitely put the white wine bottle in there earlier. To my relief, I see it on the second shelf beside the bag of salad and the packet of sausages that I will cook for tomorrow’s breakfast. But I’m not going to take it out and pour myself a glass yet. I’ll wait until Chloe has left.

  She doesn’t need to know that the grand sum of my plans this Saturday evening involves sitting in the house drinking by myself.

  She is upstairs in her room, getting ready for the party tonight. I can hear her footsteps on the floorboards creaking above me, as well as the dance music that is coming out of her laptop. Thankfully, it’s not quite as loud as the music in that damn shop today. I had to raid the various pill packets in the bathroom cupboard when we got back to find something to take the edge off that headache. But my head is much clearer now, and I’m looking forward to an evening in front of the TV, when the house will be much quieter with Chloe out of the way, and there won’t be a dance track to be heard, for a little while at least.

  Walking into the dining room and tidying up some papers as I go, I’m struck by the sudden and sad realisation that I am getting old now. It happens from time to time, and this particular revelation has occurred because I just told myself how I couldn’t wait to have the house to myself for a quiet Saturday night in.

  No young person would ever think like that.

  I’m only thirty-nine, so I’m not exactly enquiring about a bus pass or a new hip yet, but there’s no doubt that my best days might be behind me. Unlike my daughter, who has so much to look forward to, I’m now wondering what I will fill my time with outside of work when she leaves home and goes to university later this year. While she has so many parties to look forward to, never mind relationships, travel and forging a career, I’m pottering around the house right now with nothing more to excite myself with other than a bottle of chilled wine and the sounds of silence.

  I wouldn’t say I’m jealous of my daughter because I’m not. She deserves all the exciting things coming her way in the future, tonight’s house party included. But I sometimes wish I had my own parties to look forward to on occasion or perhaps my own guy to try and impress with a slinky dress.

  I tried to broach the subject of who Chloe might be looking to impress at this evening’s party as we drove home from town this afternoon, but she was unsurprisingly tight-lipped. I don’t blame her. I would never tell my mum about guys I fancied when I was a teenager. I would just keep that jumble of confusing and nerve-jangling hormones inside and express them in the only way a sane person does.

  By getting drunk and seeing what happens.

  When I think about it, not much has changed. I’ll still be battling my real thoughts and feelings tonight and using alcohol to help me along only, unlike Chloe, I won’t have any chance to drunkenly express them with anyone.

  Oh well.

  I try to busy myself with tidying up all the paperwork in the dining room, which are mainly bills that require my attention, although they will not be looked at this evening, that’s for sure. But before I know it, the image of the bottle of wine on that shelf in the fridge has returned to me, and I’m drawn out of the dining room and into the kitchen again.

  I’ll just pour myself a small glass. I can drink it down here, and Chloe doesn’t have to see that I have opened it. She also doesn’t have to know if I leave the house later tonight to buy a second bottle from the corner shop.

  Well, it is Saturday night, after all.

  Taking the cold bottle from the fridge, I unscrew the lid and pour myself a small measure as I listen out for any footsteps coming down the staircase. But I can still hear Chloe walking around in her bedroom, so I know she isn’t going to catch me taking a big gulp.

  It’s not that I don’t like her seeing me drinking; it’s just that I try to keep her exposure to alcohol to a minimum. As her mother, I’m aware that I am one of her role models. Therefore, I need to set a good example, and that means I don’t want her to think that the answer to problems like boredom, frustration or sadness are dealt with by a glass of something strong. I’m sure she will learn that for herself as she gets older, but at least it won’t be me who taught it to her. As far as I’m concerned, I am only showing her the right way to do things.

  As the alcohol hits my bloodstream, I feel instantly relaxed and before I know it, the glass is empty. But I’ll hold off on a second one until Chloe has left. A glance at the clock above the microwave tells me that she should be getting picked up in ten minutes. Her best friend, Zara, is collecting her, having just passed her driving test and no doubt keen to get some more practise in behind the wheel. Their plan is to go back to Zara’s parents’ house to finish up getting ready before bei
ng dropped off by Zara’s dad at the party across town. Then they will return to Zara’s for a sleepover after that.

  I feel a little guilty about inflicting my daughter’s noise into the home of somebody else this evening, but Zara’s parents are pleasant people, and they don’t seem to mind having my daughter around, for a short while at least. Another thing they don’t seem to mind is knowing that their child will be consuming alcohol tonight.

  Let’s face it; if there is a house party for a bunch of seventeen-year-olds, then there is going to be alcohol involved. The way I see it, and the way Zara’s mum and dad seem to see it too, is that there is no point in trying to deny that Chloe and Zara will be drinking something slightly stronger than fruit juice this evening. But we have decided between us to play it cool and not make a big deal about it. We are treating our children as adults and allowing them to make their own choices, rather than forbidding them from certain things, which will only make them want to do them even more.

  I learnt this from my own mother. She did her best to keep me away from alcohol when I was Chloe’s age, not allowing me to attend parties before I turned eighteen and grounding me at the first sign of any sneaky drinking on my part. She even went as far as putting markers on the bottles of spirits in the cupboards so she would know if anything had been taken.

  Yes, she was one of those kinds of parents.

  But it didn’t stop me. Her attempts at keeping me away from drinking until I was of legal age only made me want to seek out alcohol even more, which is why I am approaching it differently with my daughter. I give her the odd word of warning and tell her to be careful, but other than that, I say she is big enough to make her own decisions. Essentially, I have removed the taboo, and in personal experience, once you do that, you remove a lot of the temptation.

  As I stand here now craving a second glass of wine before 6 pm, I wonder if my mum’s behaviour is the reason why I find myself always seeking out alcohol when I have nothing better to do. Maybe so, maybe not, but I don’t want Chloe to drink as much as I do when she is older, so hopefully, I am doing the right thing in treating her like an adult.

  I guess tonight will go some way to letting me know that. Either she drinks responsibly, or she is going to overdo it and make herself sick. Only time will tell.

  Then again, I can say the same thing about my own drinking tonight too.

  I suddenly hear a car pull up outside, and I’m on my way to the window to check if it is Chloe’s lift when I hear her bedroom door open, and she comes bounding down the stairs.

  ‘Mum, I’m going!’ she calls out to me, but I’m not going to let her make her escape that easily.

  I need to make a final check on the dress situation before she goes.

  Walking into the hallway, I see my daughter putting on a leather jacket, but it’s the sight of her bare legs that my eyes are drawn to the most. As I suspected, the dress is a little too short for what I would deem suitable for my daughter to be going out in tonight.

  ‘Chloe, I’m really not happy about that dress,’ I say, even though I know it will cause an eruption from my daughter. Sure enough, it happens.

  ‘Mum! It’s too late now! Zara is here!’

  ‘I told you to come and show me before you went.’

  ‘The dress is fine. I have to go!’

  She turns for the doorway, and I think about being firmer and insisting she wears something else, but in the end, I take the easy option.

  ‘Okay. But be careful tonight. And go easy on the drink.’

  ‘Yes, Mum! Bye!’

  The door is barely open before she slams it shut behind her again, and now I’m alone. Chloe didn’t even look back as she said goodbye, but why would she? Her mind is full of all of the exciting things she has to look forward to tonight.

  I’m happy that she is happy.

  I’m also happy that I get to have that second glass of wine now.

  4

  CHLOE

  I’m on my third vodka and lemonade. Or is it my fourth?

  Ooops, I’ve lost count.

  All I do know is that I’m well on my way to being drunk, and it’s not even ten o’clock yet. Maybe I should pace myself, although judging by the state of everyone else around me, I’d be the only one to do so.

  Everybody is wasted.

  I’m standing in the kitchen with my back to the counter and my drink in hand, pretending to be listening to Zara and another girl talking about the latest Netflix series they are binge-watching, but really, I am watching the guy across the room. It’s Rupert, of course, and just like I predicted he would be, he is well dressed. He stands out so much when compared to the other guys at this party. Most of them are wearing scruffy t-shirts and either playing FIFA on an Xbox in the front room or passed out in a bedroom upstairs. But the problem with him standing out is that I’m not the only one who has noticed him. I’ve seen him chatting with at least two other girls from my form since he arrived here tonight, and I can tell they fancy him just as much as I do.

  The question is, does he fancy them?

  That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out as I stand here and sip my drink while keeping an eye on him across the room. So far, I haven’t noticed him glancing in the direction of the other girls, which is a good thing. But I haven’t seen him look at me either, which is obviously bad. I guess it’s time for me to get his attention.

  It’s time for me to start working this dress.

  ‘Does anybody want another drink?’ I say as I head for the table in the middle of the room, and I hear Zara say she wants some gin, but I only asked to get Rupert to look up.

  Thanks to my peripheral vision, I can tell that he is looking in my direction as I reach the table and start fiddling around with the packet of plastic cups. I pretend to struggle to get it open, but I’m hoping he will come and offer to help, and sure enough, two seconds later, he appears beside me.

  ‘Need a hand?’ he asks, taking the packet from me before tearing it open effortlessly and taking out a couple of cups.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, making sure to give him a big smile and a flutter of my eyelashes, which I hope he enjoyed.

  I guess he must have because now he is asking me what drink I would like.

  I opt for gin this time, just like Zara, which means I’m now mixing my drinks, but that’s the least of my worries. That’s because one of the girls I saw chatting to Rupert earlier is now heading for this table too.

  I guess she isn’t going to let me near him without a fight.

  Fortunately, I consider myself much wiser than my age would suggest, so I know that the best thing to do to get a guy to like me is not to be too keen. Instead, I should play hard to get, which is why I thank Rupert for the drink and walk away, leaving him to the clingy girl who approached him.

  I smirk to myself as I return to my spot by the kitchen counter and notice Rupert looking at me from across the room while my rival tries in vain to get his attention. I also feel the alcohol’s buzz in my system, and it’s starting to become a familiar feeling ever since I started drinking regularly at sixteen. Of course, Mum doesn’t know I’ve been drinking as long as I have. If she did, I doubt she would be so casual in how she handles the subject of alcohol with me.

  Zara and I are lucky. Our parents treat us like adults and understand that we are going to drink at the weekend. In return, we do our best not to overdo it at parties like these, which is more than can be said for almost everybody else here. But I am aware that I have already consumed more than I have ever done before, and I should probably slow down if I don’t want this night to end badly.

  ‘Hey, where’s my drink?’ Zara asks me, and I remember I forgot to make her one.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I say. ‘Here, you can have mine.’

  I hand her my cup, and she is happy to take it, which is fine by me because I needed that break. But I’m not the only one who should slow down a little. This party is getting rowdier by the second, and I have a feeling it won’t be
long until the neighbours call the police, if they haven’t already. Almost as that thought passes through my mind, I hear a loud knock at the door and then somebody turns the music down in the other room.

  ‘Ben, the police are here!’ comes the call from the hallway.

  The warning was intended for Ben, the host of this raucous event, but somehow, I don’t think he has heard it. That’s because he is currently face down on the carpet in the dining room with a cup of something bright orange spilt on the carpet beside him.

  Several people rush through the kitchen on their way to the back door, clearly not wanting to hang around and risk coming face to face with a police officer. I think about doing the same, but I can’t leave without talking to Rupert.

  ‘Afterparty in the park! Let’s go, guys!’ someone calls out as they leave, and that is enough to get everybody heading for the doors now.

  ‘Come on,’ Zara says to me before taking the bottle of gin and the plastic cups from the table. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘I need my jacket. I’ll catch you up,’ I say to her, and she nods before heading for the door while I go deeper into the house, where I see two police officers making their way inside.

  ‘Party’s over, guys!’ one of the officers shouts, but I ignore him and head into the front room and that’s where I find Rupert unplugging his phone charger from the wall.

  ‘Shame about the party,’ I say to him before he can hurry past me out of the room.

  ‘Oh, yeah. But I think we’re all going to the park instead,’ he replies.

  ‘We could,’ I say with a mischievous grin. ‘Or we could go somewhere else.’

  Rupert takes a second to get on my wavelength, but he finally figures out what I’m suggesting.

  ‘Errr, okay. Have you got any drinks?’

  ‘There’s some vodka in the kitchen,’ I say just as one of the police officers enters the room.