The Best Friend: a chilling psychological thriller Read online

  She lays her small cream leather messenger bag on the table and slides out a notebook and jewel-encrusted silver pen. I curse myself for not being quite that organised, but I’m sure I’ll be able to remember everything that’s needed.

  ‘Hi, Flora, I’ll have a decaf Americano, please,’ Darcy says.

  I turn my head to see a stunning waitress standing behind me. She’s tall and slim with coffee coloured skin and black, spiral corkscrew curls which tumble over her shoulders, ‘Oh,’ I say, momentarily distracted by her beauty. ‘Hi. A double-shot cappuccino, please.’

  ‘Flora, this is Louisa,’ Darcy introduces us. ‘Louisa, this is Flora’s place – she set it up two years ago – it’s won awards and everything.’

  ‘You’re embarrassing me now,’ Flora says, dimpling.

  ‘You have to try her pastries,’ Darcy says. ‘Can you bring us a plate, sweetie?’

  ‘Sure,’ Flora replies before sashaying away.

  ‘So,’ I say, turning back to Darcy. ‘How are you? How’re Mike and Tyler?’

  ‘Everything’s good,’ she says. ‘Tyler can’t wait until Sunday.’

  ‘Nor can Joe. It’s like he has ants in his pants. He can’t sit still, he’s bouncing all over the place.’

  ‘Tyler’s the same. I think they might just explode when the big day actually arrives.’

  I chuckle, picturing Joe’s face, his eyes shining with excitement.

  ‘So . . .’ Darcy opens her notebook where she’s written out some kind of schedule. ‘The party starts at ten, but I thought you and I should get there at about nine thirty to check the place out, set up the birthday cakes on the table, that kind of thing, okay?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?’

  ‘Maybe some balloons or streamers?’ she says. ‘To decorate the room where they’ll be eating afterwards.’

  ‘Great. And we’re bringing our own cakes, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how about party bags,’ I say. ‘I know you said you had them covered, but do you want me to add anything to them?’

  ‘No, honestly, they’re done. All named and set out in boxes.’

  ‘You’re so organised,’ I say as Flora returns with our coffees. She puts them on the table along with a plate of fresh pastries that smell heavenly.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Those look great.’

  ‘Freshly baked,’ Flora says with a wink. ‘Enjoy, ladies.’ She leaves to take someone else’s order.

  ‘Try one of the maple and pecan twists,’ Darcy says. ‘They’re to die for.’

  I break a piece off. The pastry is warm, flaky and light. I put it in my mouth and sigh with pleasure. ‘Oh my God, that is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Told you.’ She pushes the plate towards me.

  ‘Aren’t you having any?’ I ask.

  ‘Gosh, no. I try not to eat sweet stuff – it’s terrible for my weight.’

  I wipe a few crumbs from my mouth. I really want to finish the pastry, but then Darcy will think I’m a gluttonous hog.

  I see someone out of the corner of my eye. All other thoughts jolt out of my head. It’s him. Again. I can’t believe it. My nails press into my lips as my stomach clenches. He’s pretending to study the menu in the window, but now he catches my eye, holding my gaze for a moment, making me gasp. He lowers his head once more. What should I do? I can’t pass this off as a series of coincidences. Not anymore. This man is everywhere. Wherever I go. I’ll have to report him to the police, and I’ll have to tell Jared.

  ‘Louisa?’ I realise Darcy is talking to me. Staring from my shocked face to the man standing outside.

  ‘Hm?’ I say. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ I drop my hand from my mouth and give myself a shake.

  ‘You’re white,’ she says. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Uh, nothing, nothing. I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine.’ She lays her pen on the table. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. Who’s that man you’re looking at?’

  I wasn’t planning on telling Darcy anything about my stalker – it sounds so dramatic. But now we’re here, and the man is still there, my worries come spilling out. ‘He’s . . . I think he’s been following me.’

  ‘That man at the window’s been following you?’ she asks. ‘The one in the corduroy coat? With the beard? Are you sure?’

  I nod. ‘Don’t stare,’ I say, my voice dropping to a whisper.

  ‘How do you know? Maybe he just happens to be in the same place at the same time.’ She looks sceptical and I can’t blame her.

  ‘That’s what I thought, at first,’ I say. ‘But, Darcy, he’s everywhere.’ My voice is becoming shrill so I make an attempt to lower it again. ‘I see him wherever I go – on the school run, when I’m shopping, near my house. He was even at Poole Quay yesterday when Jared and I were at the offices. It’s really been freaking me out. What if he’s dangerous?’

  ‘What does Jared say?’

  ‘I . . . I haven’t told him.’

  ‘What? Why not?’ Darcy rises to her feet, a look of determination on her face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m going to tell him to get lost,’ she says, flicking her hair.

  ‘No. No, it’s okay,’ I say. ‘Look, he’s leaving. You can’t approach him. He might be dangerous. He could be violent.’

  ‘He looks like a homeless person,’ Darcy says. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll leave you alone after I have a word with him.’

  My pulse is racing. I can’t allow Darcy to do this for me. What if he attacks her? But she’s already left her seat. She’s winding her way between the tables, heading for the door. I grab my bag and follow like a scared school child, while she’s already out the door and striding up the hill after him.

  ‘Hey!’ Darcy calls out to the retreating man. ‘Hey, you!’

  My stalker throws a glance over his shoulder but he doesn’t stop or even slow down. Darcy begins to jog after him. I have no choice but to follow. Eventually, she catches him up and puts a hand on his shoulder. I gasp – convinced he’ll lash out. He stops and turns, his head down, his beard and cap obscuring his features.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at!’ she snaps. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, following my friend around. You need to leave her alone.’

  I come to a stop a short distance away from them, unable to draw any nearer. My hands are shaking, my heart is thumping, and there’s a lump in my throat preventing me from speaking. Being in such close proximity to this man is freaking me out.

  The guy mumbles something unintelligible.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Darcy continues as if speaking to a child. ‘You need to stop following this person.’ She points to me and I cringe as the man stares up at me. ‘If you don’t leave her alone, I’ll call the police and report you.’ Darcy’s voice suddenly becomes steel-tipped: ‘and I can do much worse than that – believe me. I know people who can fuck you up.’

  I inhale sharply at her words, and the man flinches, averting his gaze from mine, staring instead at his own worn boots.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Darcy says.

  He nods quickly.

  ‘If I hear that my friend has caught so much as a glimpse of you again, you’ll wish you’d never been born.’

  The man shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.

  ‘What did you say?’ Darcy takes a step closer, putting her face near his. I don’t know how she has the courage to confront a complete stranger like this. How she can be so . . . dauntless.

  ‘Darcy,’ I squeak.

  She holds her hand up to silence me.

  The man shakes his head again.

  ‘Tell me you understood what I just said,’ Darcy says to him.

  He nods.

  ‘Say it,’ she demands.

  ‘I understand.’ It’s not the loud, gruff voice I was expecting. It’s calm and quiet.

&nb
sp; ‘Good,’ Darcy says. ‘Now piss off.’ She grins up at me as if what she just said was wildly funny.

  Her levity shocks me more than her previous cold anger. How is she not trembling right now? She turns her back on him, takes my arm and we head back to the café. My coat is still inside, and the autumn wind slices straight through my shirt to my shivering skin.

  ‘That was mad,’ I say. ‘Weren’t you scared?’

  ‘He won’t bother you again,’ she replies.

  ‘Thank you, but how do you know that?’ I say, worried she might actually have made things worse. ‘What if he gets angry and tries to get some kind of revenge?’

  ‘If you see him again, tell me,’ she says. ‘I know people who could dangle him off the top of the multi-story parking garage in town. I think he understood that I know those types of people.’

  ‘Do you?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Know those types of people.’

  She laughs. ‘Oh, Louisa, you’re so funny. Come on, let’s not let that weirdo ruin our day. We need to get back to planning our boys’ party.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nod, relieved to be returning to normality, although my heart is still pounding, my brain still whirring, unsettled by my stalker and by Darcy’s behaviour back there.

  She pushes open the door to Flora’s and we walk back inside, the comforting aroma of baked bread and coffee enveloping us in its warmth.

  ‘So,’ Darcy says as we settle back in our seats like nothing just happened. ‘What did you and Jared think of the offices? Nice huh?’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I reply. ‘And that view . . .’ I’m trying to make small talk like everything’s normal, but I hear the tremor in my voice. Darcy doesn’t appear to have noticed, or maybe she’s too polite to mention it.

  ‘Yeah, I know, right,’ she says. ‘We bought the premises purely for that view. If the office space doesn’t yield what we want, they’ll make gorgeous flats.’

  My stomach lurches at her words. What if they kick Jared out? I guess as long as he has a lease agreement, he’ll be fine.

  ‘Is Jared happy with it?’ she asks. ‘Will the space work for him?’

  ‘He’s over the moon. Thank you, Darcy. Honestly, you and Mike have really made a difference to our lives. We owe you.’

  She smiles and blows on her coffee. ‘Nonsense. It’s all good business. Talking of owing people, I wanted to thank you.’

  I can’t think what I could have done. ‘Me?’ I reply.

  ‘Yeah, you’ll never guess what?’

  I sip my lukewarm cappuccino, waiting for her to continue.

  ‘Your editor,’ she says, ‘Kathryn, she contacted me a couple of weeks ago. Turns out, she loved the guest post I wrote for you.’

  I put my coffee cup back down on the table. I’m getting a bad feeling about where this conversation is heading.

  ‘We got chatting,’ Darcy continues, ‘and actually we got on like a house on fire. She’s so great, and . . . well . . . she asked me to write a weekly column for the paper. Nothing to do with yours – mine is more to do with style and fashion, but with a humorous angle. Isn’t that cool! You and I, we’ll be stable mates at the paper.’ Her bright hair swings forward, and she flicks it back over her shoulder.

  My head swims with humiliation. I don’t have the strength to tell Darcy that I think she’s actually been offered my column. If I said the words out loud, I think I’d end up crying, and I can’t do that. Not here. Not in front of Darcy and all these people.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say, swallowing down bile. ‘That’s amazing news. I told you your piece was great, didn’t I.’

  ‘You did,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe I’m a writer for an actual national newspaper. And it’s all because of you.’

  I smile and nod, but my chest feels hollow and empty. Like I’ve lost a part of myself. Like I might be shrinking.

  Chapter Twelve

  I wake early. Before Jared. Even before the birthday boy himself. I could barely sleep last night, finally drifting off just before dawn. My heart wouldn’t stop racing, my brain churning around like a piece of chewing gum in someone’s mouth. So I give up trying to get back to sleep. Instead, easing back the covers and sliding out of bed. I throw on a tracksuit and tiptoe down the stairs, slipping my feet into trainers. The heating hasn’t come on yet. At least the chill air inside makes it easier to step out into the dank, grey morning.

  I’m not normally the first up on a Sunday. I prefer to light a fire and curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, rather than leave the house. But I can’t wait. I need to get to the corner shop. It’s drizzling, a fine mist turning my hair to frizz. I don’t have a hood so I step up my pace, my trainers hardly making a sound on the wet, leaf-strewn pavement. No one else is around. It’s just me.

  After a brisk five-minute walk, the shop comes into view – a splash of tatty, garish colour in an otherwise grey street. The news stand on the pavement proclaims that a pensioner was attacked in her home and the perpetrator is still loose. A man is untying his Labrador from the bike railings outside. He nods good morning to me and I give him a brief smile in return.

  Pushing open the wire-lined glass door, I enter the brightly lit shop. A bell jangles above me and the young woman behind the counter looks up and smiles. I mumble a croaky good morning and shift my gaze to the neatly stacked Sunday papers. Feeling slightly nauseous, I lift a copy of my paper. Only, it isn’t my paper anymore. Slotting the heavy weekend edition under my arm, I make my way to the back of the store – may as well pick up some more milk while I’m here. A family-sized bar of Dairy Milk calls out to me, so I grab it on my way back to the counter. Maybe a thick slab of chocolate will help dull the pain of reading Darcy’s new column.

  The woman puts my purchases in a bag and I hand over a fiver. I probably shouldn’t even have bought the damn paper. And yet I can’t very well tell Darcy I haven’t read it. She’d think it was sour grapes. She’d be right, but I can’t let her know that. Maybe these things happen for a reason I tell myself as the woman hands me my change. Maybe this disappointment will spur me to finish my novel and I’ll land a big, fat publishing deal.

  I step back outside to see the rain is clearing, revealing a faint patch of blue sky. I’m keen to get home before Joe wakes up. It’s his big day today. I stride back home, less despondent and anxious than earlier. I have a lot to be grateful for. My son is eight today and he’s got a wonderful party planned. Looks like the weather might turn out okay, too.

  The front door is stiff, swollen with rain. Finally, I manage to shove it open and step inside. I tip my head to the side and listen for any noises but the house is silent apart from the hum of the boiler. Jared and Joe must still be asleep. I check my watch – it’s still only 6.40 am. My stomach rumbles, demanding breakfast. I’ll wait until the others are awake. For now, I just need a moment of peace to read.

  I slide the paper from the bag, along with the bar of chocolate. I’ll put the milk away afterwards. For now, I leave it on the floor in the hall. The door to the lounge creaks as I ease it open and settle myself on the sofa, opening up the Lifestyle supplement. My page has always been about one-third in, a three-column spread with my photo at the top – a picture I’ve always secretly liked as I look young and slightly edgy. Today, for the first Sunday in three years, my photo has been replaced with the model-like image of Darcy Lane staring down the lens. It’s a tongue-in-cheek photo, with a nod to the early sixties. Think Bewitched meets Audrey Hepburn.

  I reach for the Dairy Milk, run my nail across the wrapper and break off a line. No one’s here to see me so I shove all four squares into my mouth at once, letting the creamy sweetness soothe my hurt. Darcy Lane has been given a full page spread.

  I skim the headline, Darcy’s short bio, and then the first few paragraphs, but there’s no mention of me or my old column. It’s as though I never was. I force myself to read the whole thing, beginning to end. It’s brilliant, interesting and funny. Uncha
ritably, I wish that it had been a pile of absolute shit. That the guest post she originally wrote for me had been a fluke. But, of course, it wasn’t. I have to face the fact that Darcy Lane is a better writer than me – even if she isn’t necessarily a better person. She did effectively eject me from my job, after all. Surely, after reading today’s paper, and seeing my column’s missing, she’ll realise that.

  * * *

  ‘Party time!’ Jared says an hour later, shimmying into the kitchen doing a seventies-style Travolta dance.

  ‘You’re so embarrassing, Dad,’ Joe says covering his face.

  ‘Sit down, both of you,’ I say. ‘One special birthday breakfast coming up.’

  ‘With bacon and fried bread?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘And scrambled egg, mushrooms and asparagus.’

  ‘I hate asparagus,’ Joe says, screwing up his face.

  ‘But we made you an asparagus birthday cake,’ Jared says.

  Joe rolls his eyes, already wise to his father’s teasing.

  Jared starts pretend-boxing with Joe. ‘Let’s see how strong you are, now you’re eight. Can you take me down yet? Come on, Joe Bo, gimme your best shot.’

  The smile on Joe’s face fills my chest with an ache of love. Jared catches my eye and we grin at one another, shared adoration of our son binding us together. He’s wearing his birthday present – a brand new AFC Bournemouth kit. His sturdy legs clad in black and red socks, and a pair of brand new football boots on his feet.

  ‘Sit down, guys,’ I say again. ‘Before it gets cold.’

  They do as I ask, picking up their knives and forks and tucking in. I sit and join them.

  ‘Reckon you’re going to score today, buddy?’ Jared asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Joe says through a mouthful of toast. ‘Course.’

  ‘Think you can manage a hat trick?’