The Perfect Couple: The most gripping psychological thriller of 2020 from bestselling author of books like The Party and Have You Seen Her Read online

  ‘I know. Thank you, Sadie. I promise I’ll call you if I need to talk. But you really should go now, it’s getting late.’ He places his hand on her shoulder, just firmly enough to make her start and pull away.

  ‘At least now we’ve had the memorial service you can start to move on, Rupert.’ Any inhibitions Sadie may have about speaking her mind have disappeared with the alcohol as she looks around the room. ‘It’s time you sorted yourself out. You know, get this place tidied up, start taking care of yourself – it can’t be good for your mental health, living like this. Caro’s gone, Rupert, but you aren’t. You’re still here.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s getting late. You should go.’ Rupert doesn’t want to talk about it, he never wants to talk about it.

  ‘Of course.’ She puts her empty glass on the low coffee table, jumping slightly as the front door slams closed and Miles appears, rubbing his hands together against the cold and stinking of cigar smoke, thick and heavy in the air. ‘Miles, we should leave Rupert in peace. It’s been a long day.’ Parroting Rupert’s words back to him as she reaches behind her for her coat, her leopard print scarf, then reaching for Rupert himself, pulling him towards her as she kisses his cheek leaving a dark red stain from her lipstick. And then they go, and he is completely alone.

  Any buzz that Rupert might have got from the wine is long gone now, as he shifts in the chair, a chill settling over him despite the warmth blasting from the radiators. He feels clear-headed suddenly as he looks around the kitchen, taking in the dust that thinly coats the kitchen table, the window sill and even parts of the worktop. He let the cleaner go after Caro died. Tea stains litter the floor around the waste bin and Rupert feels a sudden surge of nausea. Sadie is right. This is not who he is. He needs to sort himself out. Caro would be appalled to see the way he’s been living since she’s been gone. He shakes his head at the thought of Caro and reaches for the bottle of whisky on the kitchen counter. He pours a healthy measure and opens up his laptop, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waits for the browser to open. He’s going to do what Sadie said – he’s going to sort himself out and get things back on track. He can’t change what happened, but he can start to move on. She’s right, it’s been long enough.

  An hour later, he rereads what he has written and presses the submit button, a fluttering in his stomach making the nausea rise again, as he waits for the confirmation email. It’s done.

  Chapter Two

  I heave a sigh of relief as I let myself into the flat, dragging Tiny behind me. I dread walking her most of the time, my heart sinking as she dances in circles whenever Mags gets the lead out. Tiny has no idea how to behave in public, having taken to peeing on things she shouldn’t and barking at every single person who crosses our path, but the alternative is to sit in the flat all day while Mags smokes joint after joint, and sometimes I just can’t bear the thought of it; I have to get out, get some fresh air.

  The strong smell of weed in the hallway tells me that Mags is awake, and she hasn’t left the flat yet. I unclip Tiny’s leash, wincing as the little dog rushes into the kitchen, barking her high-pitched, ear-splitting yaps.

  ‘Your dog is a psychopath,’ I say to Mags as I walk into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. I pull out a carton of orange juice, drinking deeply and ignoring my flatmate making a fuss of her socially inept chihuahua.

  ‘Well, there’s a reason why I ask you to take her for a walk, and it’s not just because you’re not paying me any rent at the moment.’ Mags resumes her position, sitting on the table top, and peers through the smoke curling from the end of her joint to where Tiny has tucked herself into a ball and promptly gone to sleep.

  ‘I am looking for a job, there just doesn’t seem to be much out there,’ I say quietly, a fizz of irritation burning low in my belly. No ‘thank you’ for taking the dog out, just a dig about my finances. I turn to the sink and start washing the glass out, letting the cold water run over my wrists.

  ‘Oh, you know I don’t mean it,’ Mags snorts, stubbing her joint out. ‘Take as long as you need, I can make the rent. I know you’ve had a tough time. It was just a joke.’

  Secretly, I think that perhaps Mags needs to take a second look at her ‘jokes’ because they’re really not very funny, but I don’t say anything, instead just keep drying my glass until it squeaks under the pressure of my hand.

  ‘I like having you here, you know that.’ Mags jumps down off the table and pulls me into a musty, patchouli-scented embrace. ‘I don’t mind looking after you.’

  ‘I don’t need looking after,’ I pull away, resisting the urge to wrinkle my nose. I’ll never get used to the incense that Mags burns day and night. Mags has been kind to me after what happened with Harry, but honestly this was only ever meant to be a temporary thing. I didn’t envisage myself still living here six months on.

  ‘Well, clearly you do.’ Mags’s voice takes on a snippy tone. ‘Not being funny, Emily, but you didn’t exactly have people beating down the door to take care of you when Harry treated you the way he did. It’s not like you had anywhere else to go, and your mum didn’t really rise to the occasion, did she? Too busy sunning herself.’

  I squash down a sigh. It’s not the first time that Mags has thrown back in my face how she was the only one who helped me when I was literally on my knees, and once again, I wish I hadn’t revealed to Mags how I felt about my mum, after two bottles of wine in front of the telly one Friday night. ‘I know, Mags, and I do appreciate it, you know I do.’

  And I do appreciate it, I’m not lying. I still remember the fear that gripped me every time the buzzer rang, or the neighbours banged on the wall, when I first arrived – how the blood would speed around my veins, making my breath come short in my throat, believing that Harry had found me. And I remember the way Mags didn’t mind me leaving the chain on twenty-four/seven, even when it meant that she missed her dealer dropping off her gear one Saturday evening. The way Mags would sit with me for hours, watching old movies with one arm looped over my shoulders, so I didn’t have to be alone, even though she probably had a thousand and one better things to be doing. But I don’t want to live like this anymore. I’m ready to get back to the old Emily.

  ‘Did I get any messages?’ I ask. I handed my CV to a recruitment company in Swindon town centre last week, and they’d said they’d call but they haven’t.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I might call them. I just think it’s time I got back out there, you know. Properly out there, working, not just taking Tiny out for a walk twice a day. I can’t hibernate in here forever.’ I move towards the clothes airer in the corner of the kitchen, even though there is barely any laundry on it and start to fold the few things that hang there.

  ‘You don’t have to, Em, you know that.’ Mags follows me, standing close behind me as I fold and smooth the fabric. I can feel her breath on the back of my neck, a grass-scented huff raising the wispy hairs that don’t reach my ponytail. ‘I like you being here, and it honestly doesn’t matter about the rent; you know my dad pays it anyway.’

  I realized this not long after I moved into the flat. I had answered Mags’s Gumtree advert, taking the flat without even looking at it in my desperation to get away from Harry before he carried through the threats he hurled at me daily, and when after the third month of living there I had run out of money and couldn’t pay the rent, Mags had waved me away and said not to worry.

  ‘I think I need to look for a job though.’ I worked in IT before everything went so horribly wrong with Harry, but now I think I’d take any job, just to get back on my feet. ‘I don’t want to sponge off you forever, I have to be able to take care of myself,’ I say again gently, as Mags takes my hand and leads me through to the sitting room. She pulls me down next to her on the grubby couch, an overflowing ashtray on the ring-stained coffee table in front of three dirty mugs – one with a layer of mould sitting on the surface – and once again I have to resist the urge to sigh.

  ‘Listen. You don
’t, Em, not if you don’t want to.’ Mags looks at me earnestly as she puts a fresh joint to her mouth, inhaling sharply as she lights it. ‘We can manage here, just the two of us. I like it being just the two of us.’

  ‘I do, too, I promise,’ I say, wanting to cross my fingers. ‘You’ve been so brilliant, Mags.’ I slide my phone out of my pocket. ‘Help me look for something suitable? You’ve always got such a good vibe about things; you’ll know if something feels wrong.’

  Ego massaged; Mags nods her head slowly. ‘Yeah. You’re right. I got a good vibe about you, didn’t I?’ She nudges me and laughs. ‘And this place. I suppose… if you get a job, then we can maybe do something in here? Decorate, maybe. Get some fancy cushions or something.’

  I paste a smile onto my face, but my heart sinks a little. I want to get a job so I can move on – much as I am grateful to Mags (and I am, God only knows what would have happened to me if Mags hadn’t let me move in), this place is stifling, and Mags, although she means well, is more than a little suffocating. ‘So, let’s see…’ I pull up Safari on my phone and type in the name of a local job search site. ‘Bar staff?’

  ‘Ugh, no,’ Mags shakes her head, ‘coming home stinking of booze every night?’ Despite smoking an immense amount of weed, Mags is completely teetotal. ‘And what about dealing with pissed-up losers every night? You had enough of that with Harry, didn’t you?’

  She has a point. I swiftly move on, not wanting Mags to start talking about Harry again. It makes my stomach swoop when I think of him, and not in a good way.

  ‘What about this one? The money is a bit crap, but you probably get a discount on the clothes.’ Mags points to an advert for a shop assistant in a well-known clothes shop. I read through it, trying not to frown. I like the shop, wear their clothes even, but I’m not sure that that’s the kind of job I want. Plus, it’s right in the centre of Swindon.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, as Mags’s mouth curls at the corners into a tiny smile. ‘It’s right on the High Street… I’d feel a bit safer in an office somewhere, or at least somewhere where there isn’t so much traffic. What if Harry came in? What if he saw me?’ I blink, and Mags grabs my hand, her fingers crushing mine even though there aren’t any tears.

  ‘I told you, you don’t have to do this. I can… take care of you,’ Mags looks down at our joined hands, ‘you could be Tiny’s dog walker, I could pay you for that if you wanted.’

  I shake my head, gently disentangling my fingers from hers. That would be my worst nightmare – people already cross the road when they see the two of us out walking, thanks to Tiny being an actual maniac. I turn back to my phone, scrolling on, my finger swiping gently at the screen when I see it.

  ‘Oh. What about this one?’ I turn the screen so Mags can see it. ‘Housekeeper wanted for large property in Somerville. Duties to include general housework, ironing, some garden maintenance, light cooking, plus some additional admin duties. Immediate start and competitive salary. Please send CV to…’ I feel my cheeks warm as a flush spreads across my skin from my neckline. This is just the kind of thing I was thinking of. ‘Mags, look, this could be perfect!’

  ‘Is it a live-in position?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but don’t you think something like that would be perfect?’ A flicker of excitement lights a spark in me, and I get to my feet, already thinking what I might wear if I get invited for interview. ‘Can I borrow your laptop?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to apply?’ Mags tucks her dirty bare feet up onto the couch, making no move to go to her room for her computer. ‘I mean… I’m not really feeling the vibe… and Somerville is far.’

  ‘Well, I am.’ I have to temper my tone as I resist the urge to snap the words at Mags. I’m not sure I buy into all this ‘vibe’ thing that Mags has going on, and now I’m so impatient to get my CV over for the job that I don’t have time to pretend I do. And Somerville isn’t that far. Half an hour maybe, if I jump on the train with my pushbike. ‘Come on, Mags, this is perfect. And it says the money is “competitive”, just think what we could do in here.’ Mags could probably get her dad to pay for redecorating, but I don’t want to remind her of that, not now. ‘We could get one of those massive, squashy sofas, and get rid of this old thing.’ I toe the stuffing that leaks out from the bottom of the couch, like some sort of grim, grey lava.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Mags gets slowly to her feet, and disappears into her room, emerging five minutes later with the battered Mac.

  ‘Thank you, you’re amazing.’ I grab the machine, giving Mags a huge smile that makes her cheeks flush pink. ‘Right, here goes.’

  ‘Are you really sure?’ Mags blurts out, one hand raised as if to take the laptop back from me. ‘I mean, think about it, Em, it’s really just a glorified wife. That’s all this guy wants. You’ll be doing all the cooking and cleaning, with none of the benefits.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’ll be OK without having sex with him,’ I say, raising an eyebrow as I turn away and place the laptop out of reach. ‘And anyway, he might already have a wife, the advert doesn’t say.’

  ‘I’m just saying, that’s all…’ Mags gestures to the flat around us, to the clutter that sits in piles in the corners, ‘it’s not like housework is your favourite thing to do, let’s be honest. Like I said, you’ll just be a wife – but doing all the shit bits but without getting any of the good stuff. And Somerville is far, you’d spend an hour every day commuting there and back. You’ll be exhausted.’

  I open up my Hotmail account, noticing a message from the recruitment company. A quick read tells me they have called and left a message, and they are awaiting my response to a temp job they have. I look over at Mags, who is watching me closely, and there is a stutter in my chest. Maybe she missed their call. I open up a new email and attach my CV, blocking out Mags as I hit send on the email. ‘There, I’ve done it. We’ll just have to wait and see now – if it’s meant to be, then it’s meant to be.’

  It takes me a long while to fall asleep that night, my mind returning over and over to the job advert, as I try to picture the house, whoever placed the advert and what this could mean for me. I think if I get an interview, I’ll print the advert and add it to my scrapbook to document the next stage of my journey. I tuck my hand between the mattress and bed frame, my fingers searching out the comforting feel of the book’s spine, and I imagine myself smoothing the advert into place, before dressing to impress at interview. Smiling, I roll over in an attempt to get comfortable. I can hear Mags’s music through the wall – something slow and turgid that really should help me fall asleep – and I finally doze off around two o’clock in the morning.

  I’ve barely begun to dream when something jolts me from sleep, an unknown noise breaking into my conscience. Keeping my eyes closed, I count to ten under my breath before I open them, my heart thudding painfully in my chest as I try to get my bearings and I listen hard to figure out what it is that has woken me. Breathing. That’s what has dragged me from sleep. The sound of another person breathing in my room.

  ‘Fuck.’ Whispering the word, I push myself up on shaky arms, frantically casting my mind over what is on the bedside table that I could use as a weapon, stifling a shriek as I see the figure standing at the end of my bed, illuminated by the thin shaft of moonlight that streaks through the gap in the curtains. For one moment I think my heart has stopped dead in my chest before the figure takes a step towards me and I realize that it is my flatmate. It’s only Mags.

  ‘Shit, you scared me. Shhh, Mags, come on, back to bed.’ I push back the duvet cover and gently take Mags by the arm, shivering slightly as the night air meets the sweat on my body. Mags mumbles something, something about not letting go, and I shush her again before guiding her back to her room on legs that feel like jelly, making sure the door is firmly closed when I leave. I pad silently back to bed, taking deep breaths to get my heart rate back to normal. It’s been a while since Mags has sleepwalked, and she’s never actually walked into my room before. I le
t out a shaky laugh of relief at it being Mags, and not someone more sinister – feeling foolish now I know I’m not under any threat. I won’t miss this part of living with Mags when I leave. If I manage to leave.

  The job floats into my mind again as I climb into bed and I hug myself tightly, sending up a prayer to whoever is up there that I get called for an interview. I turn the pillow over to the cool side, Mags’s voice sniping in my ear, ‘you’ll just be a glorified wife’, and as I drop off the edge into sleep, my last thought is that perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

  Chapter Three

  I try not to gawp as I hop off my pushbike and wheel it up the path to the house, making out as though houses this huge, this imposing, are part of my world. There is a sweeping gravel drive, leading to the front of a huge, double-fronted house, with a double – maybe even triple – garage nestled to the side. I try to keep my eyes on the front door ahead of me, two stone lions flanking the porch, and take a deep breath.

  Although the house is imposing, and clearly my potential employer is doing OK for himself, there are tiny signs of neglect. Weeds sprout up in the tubs that house straggly-looking topiary bushes on either side of the windows, there is a recycling box in front of the garage that looks as if it is about to overflow with empty bottles, and the window sills look as though they could do with a scrub. Despite what Mags says, I am actually very house-proud, having been brought up with a mother who couldn’t abide dirt. I’ve just given up in the flat, because Mags doesn’t have the same outlook. I could take a picture, I think, once it’s all clean and tidy. I’ll stick it next to the job advert in my book. I finger the outline of my phone in my pocket, resisting the urge to take a ‘before’ picture.

  Smoothing my hair down, I make sure the waistband of my skirt hasn’t twisted round – after what happened with Harry, I lost nearly a stone that I haven’t put back on yet – before taking a deep breath and lifting the brass knocker, letting it fall with a loud bang. There is a long pause, where I think for a moment that perhaps there is no one home; that the guy, Rupert, has forgotten I’m coming, before the door is wrenched open.