The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist

by Teresa Driscoll

  I challenged her. Not a full-on row, not that, but I did say that she should have waited. Had absolutely no right. And in the stress of the moment, I brought up the gossip over France, wondering why on earth she hadn’t told me about her time there, about her loss.

  OK, OK, so I should have told you. About my mother. At least mentioned it. It’s just I didn’t want to start life here as an emotional leech. Bringing all my baggage. I wanted a fresh start.

  I didn’t say what I was really thinking. That the explanation was fine to a point. Privacy – sure, I could understand that. But not to mention it at all – not even in passing? Quietly I also felt uneasy about Emma’s dogged refusal to report the brick through the window to the police.

  And to install my equipment – to have it all transferred from storage without even asking . . .

  ‘You’re still cross with me.’ Emma was wiping the inside of the windscreen with an old rag as I threw my small grey rucksack through the gap between us on to the back seat.

  ‘Not cross exactly.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  We fidgeted as she pulled out of the village – me with my seatbelt and Emma rewiping the windscreen, both in turn stealing a glance sideways at each other.

  ‘So Ben was fine, then?’

  ‘Yes. Too relaxed. It sounds crazy but I felt hurt.’

  ‘Theo was the same. I guess it just means we’ve done OK by them.’

  ‘That’s what Mark said.’

  ‘So – I’ve checked this route on the map and we’ll have bags of time. We can either circle back via Thurlestone—’

  ‘I am cross with you, actually.’

  ‘Oh, thank heavens.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I turned to see she was frowning. ‘You’re saying you’re pleased that I’m pissed off?’

  ‘No – of course not. I’m just saying it’s such a bloody relief to get this over with.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our first row.’

  ‘Oh – don’t be so childish, Emma. We’re not going to have a row.’

  ‘Yes we are. It’s precisely what we need.’

  ‘Need?’

  ‘Yes, Sophie. It’s what people do. Say what they really think and feel. Have a row. Clear the air. Move on.’

  ‘I don’t see your point.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you don’t do rows, do you?’

  ‘And now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s the truth, isn’t it? That you bottle things up. Do anything – say anything to keep the peace. To avoid conflict.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Is it? OK. So when was the last time you had a fight? With Mark? With anyone? Not just a passive-aggressive niggle but a proper, let-it-all-hang-out ding dong. You know, where you say what you really think about something instead of eggshells and martyrdom.’

  ‘Look, I have no idea where this is coming from. But if you’re going to be like this, I think you’d best just turn round and take me home.’

  ‘See. That’s exactly what I mean. Sometimes I wonder how you ever held your own in advertising.’

  There was a pause and I felt this strong tightening in my chest, my left hand clasped into a fist so that the nails were digging uncomfortably into the flesh – turning away to look out of the window because I didn’t want Emma to see my face.

  ‘Look – I shouldn’t have mentioned work. Or Mark,’ Emma said suddenly. ‘I’m sorry. But the point I’m trying to make is that you always go with whatever will make for the easy life. In all the time I’ve known you, you always let me pick what we do. Where we go. What we eat. What we drink. It’s a nice quality, Sophie. I admire it to a point, but in the end it’s dishonest. Because the problem is you sometimes get this little look on your face, which you’re wearing right this moment, which means that you’re thinking something entirely different from what is coming out of your mouth. And it gets to the point where I just wish you would spit it out for once, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Why? So we can shout at each other?’

  ‘No. Because I want things to be OK between us again.’

  ‘They are OK.’

  ‘Oh, I give up.’

  ‘All right, then.’ I turned to stare at her as she indicated to turn left, glancing at me when she could. ‘I can’t believe you would start work on the deli without my say-so.’

  ‘But I thought you were on board? I wanted to surprise you. Cheer you up. I did it for you, Sophie. I thought it would give you something to look forward to.’

  ‘But you should have waited, Emma. Until I said yes. And it’s . . . well, it’s not just that. I mean – I know it hasn’t been long but I thought we were pretty good friends. Getting close. And then I hear from other people that your mother died while you were in France. And I know you say you didn’t want to talk about it, but it just feels a bit odd not to have mentioned it at all. I mean – it’s a pretty big thing. Your mother.’

  And now Emma looked away momentarily through her side window, then back to the road ahead, fumbling once more with the little cloth to wipe the windscreen. We had reached one of my favourite stretches of road – closer to the coast. A snake of a road through the swollen, billowy hills which earn the South Hams its brown tourist label. An Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

  In the ensuing silence, I watched a group of sheep huddled together near a fence at the far side of a field adjoining the road. There was just one ewe standing apart from them, near a large oak tree, and I stared at it, this strange sensation sweeping over me as if I knew precisely what the sheep was thinking. That to outsiders it looked lonely. Set apart. But that was not what the sheep was thinking at all. No. The sheep was thinking, I’m quite happy here, thank you very much. The grass is nice here.

  ‘I needed a fresh start here, Sophie. No baggage. Not just for me but for Theo.’ Emma’s voice was flat. ‘Look – it was cancer and it was ugly. I wasn’t very good at it and I’m not proud of that. We never had a good relationship, me and my mum, and I just couldn’t handle it. She was like a child again. Needing to be carried to the toilet. Her arse wiped. And I hated it. All of it.’

  I had no idea what to say.

  ‘You’re right. I should have at least mentioned it, but when something big goes unsaid and you leave it too long, it becomes too late. Like a lie. I just wanted a clean slate here, Sophie. It seemed easier. The thing is, I’ve never really clicked with someone like I’ve clicked with you and I didn’t want to spoil it. For you to think badly of me.’

  Still I stared at the fields, taking in the various shades of green. Pale. Deep. Some of the patches closest to the trees almost brown. ‘So how long were you in France?’

  ‘Three months. She had a private nurse who did most of the real work. I just went out of guilt. She was leaving me quite a lot of money so I suppose I had hoped to make some kind of peace with her, but it had gone beyond that.’

  ‘So why didn’t you two get on?’

  ‘Look – please don’t take this the wrong way. I will talk to you about this – if it’s important to you – but not now, please. Not in the car. Not today. Not like this.’

  I turned to examine Emma’s crumpled face. ‘I’m sorry. I was overreacting. It’s a weakness. Overthinking things. Not my business what you decide to share with me.’

  ‘So we can still walk today, Sophie? Yes?’

  I nodded, though I was aware something had fundamentally changed between us and we said nothing more for the rest of the journey – me fumbling with the radio until I found a classical channel. Rossini. Which I turned up loud.

  I also felt ridiculous that I couldn’t put the stupid woman on the cliff in Cornwall out of my mind. For here we were. Another coastal path . . .

  There were just four other cars in the car park – Emma pulled up alongside a dark blue Volvo. A couple were seated on the rim of the open boot, readjusting their walking boots – the woman, with a shock of white hair, was skinny with bare, muscular a
rms but the paradox of an enormous walking stick. For some reason I remembered a promise me and Mark had made years back, to walk the whole South West Coast Path when we retire. Six hundred and thirty miles. Don’t know why the statistic stuck in my head. Would I need a stick by then myself?

  It had been years since I walked this stretch – west from Bantham. We had to give up the coastal routes once Ben was too big for slotting in a rucksack carrier – a free-range toddler proving too stressful near the cliff edge.

  The first section was a gentle climb, fenced and wide. Emma strode ahead, and then as we turned further west, the path rose more steeply to take in magnificent views across to Burgh Island to our right. I had forgotten how fabulous this felt. Majestic. Magical. The wind stronger against my face now. The white horses far below, smashing on to the rocks. I started to relax.

  The spectacular view of the Burgh Island Hotel made my mood soften, thinking of our first visit to that beach and of the effort Emma had made over the summer. How good she was at getting me out, not just physically but out of myself too. Also how relaxed she was around Theo and how she had taught me to stop fussing over Ben.

  I was a worrier. She was not. Oh, just let them play, Sophie. They’ll be fine.

  I stared at her back, and she turned to hold my gaze just long enough for her face to soften with apparent relief.

  And then we picked up the pace, our breathing rising with the effort of the climb. I remembered there was a bench at the top where me and Mark would sit to eat our sandwiches in that former life, Ben’s head peeking out of the rucksack carrier to receive crisps and a drink like a little bird in a nest, eager to be fed.

  I stared again, this time at the back of Emma’s head. I was glad of the noise from the wind. I was just beginning to feel that it was going to be OK between us again, though I did not want to break this silence – not yet. I needed to take in the unexpected relief that I was feeling – a recognition also that at least some of what Emma said earlier was true. In work I have always been happy to take anyone on. But in my private life I hate confrontation. Mark expressed the same frustration as Emma when we first met.

  Not that I feel they are entirely right. Some rows are best avoided; things said that cannot be taken back. I can hear the echo of my mother’s voice from when I was a child. Seven years old. Maybe eight . . .

  If I hadn’t been bloody pregnant, you think I would have lumbered myself with this life?

  She was shouting at my father and he turned, startled, as I appeared in the doorway. I remember looking down at my fluffy rabbit slippers and then back up to see my father’s face, panic-stricken across the room. ‘We thought you were asleep, Sophie.’

  Suddenly Emma stopped on an especially narrow stretch and stood with her back towards the cliff. ‘Goodness. Look at me striding out. Why don’t you go past, Sophie, and set the pace. Selfish of me, I wasn’t thinking.’

  I’m good with heights. Coastal paths don’t worry me. But the path was only just wide enough for me to pass safely, and for some reason I paused. Inexplicably I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t want to admit to this and I didn’t want to tell her that I was thinking about the woman up on the cliff in Cornwall either, but I also didn’t want to step past her. It was odd, ridiculous even.

  And then, just as Emma was tilting her head and frowning, clearly waiting for my response, there was a burst of the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ – a terrible, tinny version pulsating from her bag.

  ‘Damn – my phone. I’m surprised we’re still in range.’

  Emma carefully swung the small rucksack from her left shoulder, unzipped the front pocket, trying to shield the phone and her ear from the wind.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Her face was screwed up as she struggled to hear. ‘You’re kidding me. Theo?’ A pause then, as she listened intently.

  ‘Yes. I’ll come straight away . . . Of course. I understand. Policy . . . Yes. Yes. Whatever you say. Of course . . . No, I’m not at home so I’ll be . . .’ She checked her watch. ‘Look, I’m sorry – it’ll be half an hour at least. Is that all right?’

  She snapped the phone case shut. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, but we’re going to have to go straight back. It’s Theo.’

  ‘Oh my God. Is he OK? Has he been hurt?’

  ‘No. Not him. He’s bitten someone in playgroup. There’s a real meltdown going on.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I wish. Bad enough to draw blood. The other mother’s been called in and is making a complete meal of it. Apparently it’s policy to ask the biter to go home.’

  Instinctively I then leant back into the cliff edge so that Emma was the one to pass me to lead the way back.

  ‘That’s not like your Theo.’ I didn’t know what else to say; he was such a sweet child.

  ‘I know. I don’t get it. He’s never bitten anyone before, Sophie. Never. I just don’t understand it.’

  CHAPTER 20

  BEFORE

  Mark wasn’t hungry but knew that Malcolm would be.

  Malcolm was always hungry – one of those infuriating people with a skinny gene. Lucky metabolism, Malc called it, though Sophie’s theory was he was using cocaine, like too many of the creative crowd they used to hang out with in town.

  Mark stared at the menu. Christ. Some days he wished he was the type to use drugs. No, he didn’t mean that. A punch of guilt as he pictured Ben with tangled kite strings on the beach last weekend. No. Absolutely not.

  Right. Steak and salad. He would resist Malcolm’s insistence on fries and go for a run this evening. He smoothed his hand down his shirt as if straightening the fabric, while secretly feeling his stomach. Time was, Mark could also eat precisely what he wanted – but not any more.

  Good God, Mark, you’re getting a tummy, Sophie had teased last year in Cornwall. He had pretended to be amused but was secretly mortified, confirming in the bathroom mirror later that she was absolutely right – golf no longer apparently enough.

  Mark stared at the cutlery until the glint of steel began to blur. Cornwall. He was thinking how much it meant to Sophie – that tiny haven where a million years ago they had both seemed so different. God. It was scary how much he still loved her. How some days . . .

  He was aware of his stupid foot jiggling and set his legs further apart, rearranging the cutlery on the table.

  ‘Cheer up, mate. Might never happen!’ And now Malcolm, full beam of capped teeth, was towering over him – all Hugo Boss suit and salmon pink silk shirt. Infuriatingly thin.

  ‘Jesus. You startled me, Malc. Sorry. Miles away. Good to see you, mate.’

  They shook hands briefly, Malcolm pulling back to grab the menu, still standing. ‘God. I’m famished. You ordered yet?’

  Mark smiled. ‘No, not yet. I’m thinking just a steak and salad. Dinner with a client later.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘No.’

  Mark then, by way of distraction from the lie, winced and winked his way through the minutiae of Malcolm’s chaotic week – also his love life, which had taken an unexpected turn with ‘the one’ suddenly breaking things off to take up a new post in New York.

  ‘God, why do women have to be so unpredictable? You got so lucky with Sophie.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  They ordered red wine, which Mark knew he would regret, though for now it served a purpose, settling his nerves.

  ‘So then, Malcolm. Where are we at on the money?’

  ‘And do you want the answer from your accountant or your friend?’ Malcolm was buttering bread now – two large pats on to one small slice.

  ‘Would both hats be too tricky?’

  ‘It’s like I said on the phone, Mark. Now is the worst possible time to talk about taking money out of the business. You’ve only just expanded. When we worked through all the figures for the new offices last year, I thought you understood that. It’s a solid five-year plan. You’re pretty much on target. Nothing at all to worry about but there’s not a great
deal of wriggle room just at the moment.’

  ‘Look, I know that. And I appreciate everything you put in place, Malcolm. But I couldn’t see this coming. All this upset for Sophie in Devon. It’s knocked her really badly.’

  ‘So take her on holiday. Long haul. Mauritius . . .’ His voice distorted by munching the bread now. ‘Darn sight cheaper than rethinking your whole bloody cash flow.’

  ‘OK, Malc. Cards on the table. I’m finished with this long-distance commuting. It isn’t working. Living apart midweek. Sophie needs me around more. She won’t even contemplate selling the place in Devon. Between you and me, she’s fallen in with some new friend. Not a good influence, though Sophie doesn’t want to hear that. She wants to stall; still thinks I can move the business, which I can’t. So I’m thinking we hang on to the place in Devon as a second home – for holidays, rental income and somewhere to move back to down the line. And in the meantime I need to raise the cash for a decent place nearer London.’

  Malcolm took a sharp intake of breath. ‘So rent somewhere.’

  ‘No, Malcolm. I want you to crunch the numbers. Big numbers. See how much I can raise against the business. Dividend. Loan. I don’t care how you do it.’

  ‘And Sophie thinks this is a good idea?’

  ‘I told you. She’s not seeing things clearly, Malc. I need to keep her out of the loop for a bit, otherwise she’ll worry and say no. You know what she went through after Ben. I don’t want to do anything which might put us both back there. That’s why I need to do this.’

  Malcolm pulled a face. Paused. The friends locked eyes and Mark wondered if his buddy was remembering the worst of it. The two weeks when Sophie’s postnatal depression was so bad, Mark had to take Ben to his mother’s while trying to juggle everything. The business in London. Sophie. The baby. Malcolm was a rock. On the phone pretty much every night with support.

  ‘OK, mate. Understood. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least warn you – accountant hat on – that this isn’t the wisest move. Not for the company.’

  ‘I do hear you, Malcolm. But I’m big enough and ugly enough to do the worrying on my own. I need you to at least see what you can come up with. Yes?’