Prologue
I can’t live like this anymore. When I walk down the street, I look over my shoulder. The hairs raise on the back of my neck whenever someone comes too close to me. Fear is a shadow always following me and I don’t feel like I’ll ever be free.
There’s no way to turn back time and stop myself becoming a victim. But at least I can be the last victim. No matter what happens now, I want this to stop. I want this story to have an ending.
I feel like my life is hanging by a thread because I know who is out there, coming for me. I used to have a bright future. But now life is dark, and I want to find the sun again. I know things between us are complicated but please, if you ever had any real feelings for me, help me. Help me put an end to this sick game once and for all.
Chapter One
EFFIE
I’m growing tired of letting my husband win. But there are times in a marriage when it’s best to follow your gut and mine told me to give him this one. That doesn’t mean I’m not fucking resentful about it, though. I’d rather be on a beach right now, sauntering across the warm sands of the French Riviera. Instead, we’re at Ivy Oaks and the grey clouds are threatening to burst with spring rain.
The men from the removal company carefully place wine glasses in our display cabinet. I grab one, twisting it right out of his fingers, and fetch a bottle of Merlot.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I say, using my husky voice, the one that makes young men blush and old men touch my arm. He laughs and continues unpacking. It’s just gone midday.
All this noise is giving me a headache, so I make my way through to the front garden. The back garden would be more peaceful, of course, but I wouldn’t be able to people-watch there, and I love people-watching. Somewhere from inside the house, I hear Ben’s voice, a touch louder than usual. My lips thin. The thing about my husband is that he can charm the birds out of the trees but only if you play by his rules.
Don’t get me wrong, I give as good as I get in our relationship, and I enjoy the games we play just as much as he does. But what happened last time has soured things a bit. I’d feel safer if I was in another country right now.
I move a deck chair closer to the drive, throw myself down and pour a glass of wine. The first sip tastes delicious—a full-bodied red. I’m drinking on an empty stomach, which means I’ll get drunk quicker. Moving house is stressful, even when you barely need to lift a finger.
The sky is in between sun and rain. We’re in “warm but overcast” territory. I slip on a pair of sunglasses, tinting the grey world sepia, and then I light a cigarette and wait. Surely someone in this community will be bold enough to come and speak to me. Someone will allow curiosity to beat their social anxieties. I look at the houses, one by one, wondering which door will open first.
Well, hello, house number five. The curtain twitches. Then the door swings open. I adjust my gaze to see the tiny woman exit the house. Her purple-tinted hair is cropped fashionably short and she wears big, thick-rimmed glasses, reminding me of the old-school fashion designers who aged ungracefully after the swinging sixties. She makes a beeline straight for our house. Lazily, I pull myself onto my feet and stroll down to the front wall, leaning my arms against the stones.
“You’re brave sitting out here,” she says. “Looks like rain.”
I smile. “I needed a break from all the commotion.” I tap the side of my head. “It’s giving me a migraine.”
“You poor thing,” she continues. I notice how made-up she is for an older woman. Red lipstick bleeds into the wrinkles around her mouth. If I had to guess, I’d assume she’s in her early eighties. Maybe late seventies, though the hint of frailty in her walk suggests otherwise. She glances at the removal men. “There’s nothing more stressful than moving house, is there?”
I shake my head, allowing my blonde curls to shiver, then I remove the sunglasses. Her eyes are drawn to my hair, mouth, eyes. She’ll see what everyone else sees: I’m beautiful and yet not beautiful. An ex-model who had many casting agents tell me there’s nothing classically symmetrical about my face. I don’t have those movie-star features, but everything taken together is striking enough to trick people into thinking I’m a natural beauty. I watch the hint of confusion on everyone’s faces when I smile at them, and something about it gives me a small surge of power. I feel confidence flood through my veins.
“I’m Effie by the way.”
“Beryl,” she says. Her eyes narrow. “Are you Isabella Dupont’s daughter?”
Before I answer that question, I take a long glug of wine to hide my annoyance. It grows tiring being constantly compared to your supermodel mother. “I am. Are you a fan?”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Oh yes.” Her smile stretches.
“Have you lived here long, Beryl?”
“Oh yes, longer than anyone,” she says. “I know all about this place. Its history and everyone who lives here.”
I lean closer to her. “Tell me everything. I’m nosey.”
Beryl’s eyes sparkle and she leans towards me, eager to gossip and give me what I want. Let the games begin.
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