“I guess I just liked the look of your face,” she murmured. “You looked kind, and clever. I liked your brown eyes.”
Gently, she replaced the book on the barren shelf, sighing deeply.
“But I guess my lies caught up with me. My sister always had a better imagination that me. After I met Ethan, I had to have a valid reason for Hugh to go away, and that Gavin Henderson, crime thriller book set in Scotland about the lawyer defending a killer inspired me. At the time it seemed as good a reason as any to explain Hugh’s absence. It was the best I could come up with anyway, but it wasn’t good enough. Like you say, my brain got lazy.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Chloe. You haven’t done too bad. Hugh looks so much like your father, doesn’t he? He certainly has his work ethic. Good job Freud isn’t here.”
Chloe spun around to face him.
“Would you mind leaving? I appreciate you helping me with some of my problems, but I can’t go back to my normal with you around.”
“Don’t blame me. It was him that shattered your existence.”
“Maybe. But please?”
Dr Thornton smiled up at her in that kind, knowing way of his.
“Will you still keep your appointments with me, in my office?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Dr Thornton nodded, looking pleased. For a second, Cassie thought of Dr Thornton’s ‘office’, which wasn’t a smart office near the seafront at all, but the crumbling shed at the bottom of the garden.
Then she pushed the thought away. She didn’t like reality, her other life was so much better.
Yes, it was so much better being Cassie, scars and all. All her life, she had hated her twin for her goodness. But more than that, Chloe had been jealous of her. Why had she been blessed with kindness and decency while all she wanted was to hurt others?
There simply wasn’t enough room in the world for them both to co-exist. And as Chloe had ruined her own life, she simply had to take her sister’s.
And she liked being good. It felt, well, good.
I’m not going to ruin this life as well.
“I’m glad you’re going to keep me in your life, Cassie. I so enjoy our little chats.”
“Me too.”
“I think you need to convince Hugh to stay in his job a little while longer, don’t you? It will upset the delicate balance if he’s at home all the time.”
“Yes, you’re right,” she nodded. “But sometimes things get complicated.” She turned to look at the dead body on the floor. “I have to deal with this. I guess I’ll just dump him behind the sofa for tonight and start cutting him tomorrow. It’s going to be a messy job and…”
She swivelled her head around to look at Dr Thornton as she was speaking, but he was gone. She smiled to herself. She was feeling better – more on top of things.
Grabbing Jon by his feet, she dragged him along the floor, breaking out into an instant sweat as she did so. He was a lot heavier than she thought he’d be, even though he was far from a slight man.
As she dragged him, she thought of the two threatening letters that he had written, and the heavy-breathing phone call. This was before he had seen the pictures of her scarred back, when he had known that she was really Chloe. Now, she also remembered throwing both letters in the bin in one of her hazier moments. She hadn’t wanted to confront the problem. Hadn’t wanted anyone to challenge her carefully built-up fantasy of a life. She conceded that she had made a mistake.
I should’ve confronted the problem as soon as I got the first letter.
Huffing and puffing, she manoeuvred the man behind the sofa, then pushed the brown sofa with the disintegrating leather cushion covers back against the wall as far it would go. The size of the body meant that there was a gap of an extra two or three inches between sofa and wall, but it was barely visible.
Nodding slightly to herself in approval, she stopped to catch her breath, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She was feeling a little strange, a little lightheaded. Oh God, surely she wasn’t having a panic attack, please not now…
Taking deep, steadying breaths, she kept her eyes closed, cleared her mind, and counted to ten.
When she opened her eyes again the blood was gone. The room was immaculate. All that remained was a shattered champagne flute lying on her beautifully polished, wooden floor.
She frowned. When had she dropped that? She couldn’t remember.
She swayed slightly on the spot, her head reeling. Of course the room was immaculate, it always was, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t it be?
And where the hell was Hugh?
Her head snapped in the direction of the door at the sound of voices.
“Hugh,” she gasped when he entered the room, closely followed by Bob and Mandy. “Where did you go?”
He came up to her and placed his hand on her lower back.
“I was just showing our guests around upstairs.”
“Yes, hope you don’t mind, Cassie,” Bob laughed. “Hugh’s always talking about the decorating miracles you’ve performed on this place. I have to agree, it really is quite something.”
“Darling, I just love what you’ve done here, it’s divine. You could always have a career in interior design if you wanted it,” Mandy gushed.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Cassie laughed, waving off the compliment but secretly loving it.
Yet she still felt unaccountably out of sorts. It wasn’t anything that she could put her finger on, but something just felt a little off. For a second, the strangest sense of déjà vu washed over her. Was there someone missing? Wasn’t there supposed to be someone else coming tonight?
“Are you okay?” Hugh asked her, rubbing her back. “Oh, you dropped your wine glass, did you hurt yourself?”
“What?” she asked feeling a little dazed.
And then her head cleared and everything seemed to click into sharp focus.
“I’m fine, I just had a clumsy moment, that’s all.”
She bent over to pick it up, careful not to cut herself on the jagged glass, even if she was wearing gloves.
“Here, let me,” Hugh said, taking the glass from her. “I’ve got this.”
“Excuse us for one moment,” Cassie said to Bob and Mandy before following her husband into the kitchen.
“You sure you’re okay, darling? You look a bit pale,” Hugh said with some concern.
“I’m fine.”
And she was. She felt good. Better than she had for days.
“I’m glad I’ve got you alone for a second. The thing is, Bob was talking upstairs, and I don’t think I can hand in my notice just yet. Bob needs me, we have a big case coming up. Like, this thing is gonna be huge. This case will put us on the map…”
She pressed her fingers to his lips.
“It’s okay. I understand, really, I do. That’s why I seemed a little down on the idea of you retiring earlier. You love your work, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
Gently, he removed her gloved fingers from his lips and clasped her hand.
“I’ll try to make more time for us, I know I’ve been neglecting you lately.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
And she meant it.
Hugh grabbed a cloth for the spilled wine, and Cassie grabbed a dustpan and brush for the remains of the broken glass.
“I love you,” he said, kissing her in her dream kitchen.
“I love you too. Come on, we’re neglecting our guests. Let’s just have a good night, okay?”
Yes, she and Hugh were a team, and she loved him. She would never stray from him again.
For a split second, she thought of Ethan. He may have disappeared from facebook, but she felt sure that she could track him down and put an end to him once and for all. She still needed closure for the way he had treated her, but after that she wholeheartedly promised herself that it would be like he had never existed.
But she wouldn’t think about that now. Tonight was about her and Hugh.
Together, they made their way back to their guests.
The end.
Hello, intrepid reader, you’ve reached the end of the book! Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Please check out ‘Collette Heather’ on Amazon for more of my books.
Below is a sample of ‘From The Inside’ if you’re interested in taking a sneak peak inside my latest thriller. This book will be available for purchase in April, 2020.
Thanks again for sticking with me until the end. It’s been a pleasure having you along for the ride.
Until next time,
Collette.
PART ONE
DAISY
CHAPTER ONE
DAISY
March 18th
He comes to this coffee-house chain in Liverpool Street most mornings, on his way to work. I don’t know why. One would think, with him being at the higher end of the food chain in the financial sector, he would have access to a kettle.
Today, he has company – a man, slightly younger, a little taller, but a clone of him. Both are dark, handsome and wearing suits from Saville Row. Luke’s grey suit came from Saville Row anyway – I know this because I followed him there once. They carry themselves with all the entitled arrogance that only the more successful in life were able to do.
“You haven’t forgotten about The King’s Head after work, have you?” the younger man asks him as they queue up for their coffee.
“No. I can’t stay for long, though. I promised the wife I’d be home at a reasonable hour.”
“Go to keep the ball and chain happy, I suppose.”
I don’t catch Luke’s reply as the queue has moved forward slightly, further away from my window seat where I sit perched on a stool at the long wooden bar that runs the length of the front window overlooking the busy street.
He doesn’t see me. He never does. Not to my knowledge, anyway. I can blend when I need to. Today, I have my expensively highlighted hair scraped back in a ponytail and tucked into my green parka, a dark beanie pulled down to my eyebrows. A woolly cream scarf hides my chin. I am invisible.
I don’t care that I’m going to miss the rest of the conversation – I’ve heard everything that I need to know. This is what one might call my lucky break. He never goes out after work hours. Not without her anyway, and not in the two months that I’ve been following him.
Finally, things are going my way. Finally, I can put my plan into action.
*
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe door in the cramped bedroom. I look good – a far cry from the way I look when I am secretly watching him. Most women have that power, I think – women, far more so than men. The average woman can look like two different people; there is the dolled-up version and the slobbed-out version. Men always still look like themselves, just a scruffier or smarter version thereof. I like that about my own sex. Our chameleon abilities.
Coldly – clinically – I assess myself in the mirror. I derive no real pleasure from my relatively newfound perfect figure, it is merely a means to an end. A weapon of destruction, if you will. I don’t consider myself arrogant, just honest. I work hard to look this way. It is an ongoing, expensive and time-consuming project that has taken exactly one year, it being exactly one year ago that I had made the decision to change. To change into this, for him.
Smoothing down the knee-length, long-sleeved, tight black dress over my firm curves, I stare dispassionately at my flat stomach. Any red-blooded man would notice me – he would have to be blind or gay not to.
Mind you, I need to look this good, if I am to compete with her. She may have had a ten-month-old child, but she has kept her figure. And I could never attain her tall, naturally willowy figure, no matter how many surgeons I consult, or gym hours I put in. I am bigger-boned, wider-hipped, and five foot four, which is almost five whole inches shorter than her.
But I still look good. It all comes back to the whole chameleon thing. Any woman can become beautiful, I truly believe that. Deformities notwithstanding – and even those can usually be glossed over, provided they aren’t too extreme – all women are capable of appearing beautiful.
Happy with my choice of clothing, knowing that this dress will look great with the shin-length, dark brown boots and the leather jacket in the exact same shade, cropped short so that he won’t have the chance of missing the sight of my well-squatted derriere, should I be wearing said jacket at any point during our encounter – I make my way into the bathroom, which is just off the small bedroom.
If I was feeling generous – and somewhat imaginative – I might describe this bathroom as en-suite, but the truth of the matter is, my flat is just tiny. I live in a ground-floor apartment, situated in a four-storied, Victorian terraced house in the heart of Brixton. It’s a million miles away from the four-bedroomed, semi-detached I used to inhabit with my ex-husband in Brighton.
I lean over the small sink, peering at my face in the mirror. The surgeon who performed rhinoplasty on me deserves a medal. You would never know from looking at me that I’ve had work done. I haven’t had much done, just a few minor tweaks, but it’s those tiny little imperfections that make or break a woman’s face, that lift it from ordinary to extraordinary. Or so I think, anyway. I stare at the smooth bridge of my nose – I had the small bump taken out of it, and now it’s a vastly improved nose. I still think it’s a shade too large, but I guess it gives my face character and a certain strength. It stops me looking plastic and fake. I’ve also had Botox injected into my forehead and the tramlines that used to run parallel to my mouth. I may only be thirty-five, just a year older than her, but a year of solid crying took its heavy toll on my face. I’ve had my upper lip enhanced with fillers – only the absolute minimum, but it makes such a difference. I’ve also had my teeth fixed. It’s amazing what a Hollywood-style smile does for a face, how the veneers work to fill out the jaw area and lend my face far more structured angles. That, coupled with the weight I’ve lost, and the whole series of facials and chemical peels I endured, my face is now more Kiera Knightly (if Kiera Knightly had a larger nose and was a blue-eyed blonde) and less puffy housewife.
I didn’t always look like this. Far from it, in fact. I used to be what you might call mousy. Plain at best, flat-out ugly at worst. I was one of those mumsy types. Overweight, harried, not especially interested in my appearance.
Unless I was going somewhere nice of course, and then I would have a meltdown of sorts in the bedroom because my clothes were rubbish and I couldn’t fit into most of them properly, anyway. I was a size fourteen back then, instead of the neat(ish) size ten to twelve I used to be pre-Lucy, and a far cry-cry from the worked-out size six-to-eight that I am now. I never used to use nice beauty products, and my prematurely greying, mousy-brown hair was dry, frizzy and unkempt, falling to my shoulders in a one-length, cheap and unflattering cut. Back then, I didn’t know my Clarins from Poundland. I would’ve argued with you that all beauty products are the same. I have since found out that they’re not.
Then I would forgot all of my beauty woes over a glass of Chardonnay or three, because who cares about such shallow stuff anyway, which further exacerbated the weight problem and dull, lifeless skin.
I gaze at my face in the mirror. I am ready, but I still have an hour to kill. I apply another slick of gloss to my already-perfect pout, wondering what to do with myself.
But this is a rhetorical question because I know exactly what I am going to do with myself.
CHAPTER TWO
Stalking Tanya on social media is akin to picking at a scab – initially gratifying, then dissatisfying, and ultimately painful. I am fully aware of how unhealthy it is, constantly opening up this old, festering wound, but I can do no more to stop myself than I can prevent the sun from rising tomorrow. She has, unbeknown to her, become the centre of my Universe – someone whom I orbit around.
The point of my existence is to ruin hers.
I perch there on the edge of the three-seater, plain gre
y sofa with the soft-to-the-touch cushions in this tiny living-room come kitchen. I suppose that the place looks nice enough – it’s not like I’m poverty stricken or anything, and I can afford nice things – and if there were more rooms like this one, then my pad would be positively luxurious. But there aren’t more rooms. There is only my small bedroom with the ‘en-suite’ bathroom that is joined to this room by the broom-cupboard of a hallway.
With trembling hands, I open up her Facebook page. I wonder if she even knows that she’s open for all and sundry to spy on. Facebook is constantly changing its privacy settings, catching people like Tanya out. Or perhaps she knows and doesn’t care. She should care. There are a lot of weirdos out there, which is precisely why I don’t use social media. Okay, so I’m on it now, but this is a fake account on privacy lockdown with no friends. I only use it to look at her. Her husband is far more sensible, for he doesn’t use social media at all.
I stare at her name – Tanya Crawford – next to her beautiful profile picture. ‘Crawford’ is her married name, she was ‘Everett’ back when she was a husband-thieving, life-wrecking slut. Not that she has ever stopped being those things, because a leopard doesn’t change its spots. And she must pay for the things she has done.
I realise that I am holding my breath, and I shakily exhale. I force myself to look at her softly-smiling headshot – a selfie – and feel the hatred bubbling and boiling in my guts.
Look at her, a little voice taunts in my mind. Just look at that expression. Like butter wouldn’t melt…
She makes me feel sick. As well as her beauty, which is of the delicate variety, she positively radiates innocence, warmth and kindness. I hate her for that. Her face is a complete lie. She may look like an angel, but she is a whore. She is far more wholesome looking than me, and I will never be as beautiful, no matter what I do.
After She Died Page 16
