The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller Read online

  It is. I’m wearing black jeans, black boots, black suede jacket, and have just realised my new top is also…

  ‘The label describes it as onyx,’ I say.

  Carrie herself is a kaleidoscope of colour in her multihued, floaty dress, which is a firm favourite from the charity shop.

  ‘Well, the outfit matches your hair,’ she laughs.

  Actually, I’m a very dark brown and have pulled the frizzy mess into a ponytail.

  I fake-tut and, with a gentle hand on the small of her back, propel Carrie towards The Priory pub, on the busy main street. Despite being a small town within half an hour of the city of Newcastle, Tynemouth has its own personality as a quaint seaside resort and bustling town that stares out at the North Sea. It’s unique again from the busy fishing quays and more industrial feel of North Shields, down the road. Independent shops, cafés and pubs thrive along the wide streets of pretty Georgian and Victorian buildings.

  From the way Carrie’s pushing against my hand, she clearly fancies visiting one of the other pubs – she’s certainly spoilt for choice.

  ‘It looks dead in there. I can’t hear any noise coming from it.’

  ‘Well, that’s great, means we’ll have the place to ourselves.’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere livelier. How about—’

  I yank open the door, shove her through.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Surprise!’ a sea of faces yell.

  Carrie jumps a mile, then her face lights up.

  Phone calls, emails, hustling face-to-face, it’s been a whirlwind thirteen days launching the fundraiser and organising this surprise party. It’s taken everything out of me, but it’s worth it to see the look of joy on Carrie’s face.

  ‘Oh, Alex! This is wonderful!’ she gasps.

  Originally my idea had been to make Carrie’s dreams come true myself. It had been easy to start a conversation about things she’d have loved to have had the chance to do or see. I’d discovered that she’d always wanted to go on the Orient Express. ‘No murders, though, hopefully!’ she’d joked.

  She’d had loads of ideas, in fact. Go to Marrakesh, meet Brad Pitt ‘and snog his face off’, see the Angel of the North and abseil down it, go scuba-diving. She even mentioned that when things had been particularly bad during her treatment previously, she’d made up her mind to organise a big charity run, ‘to give something back’, but had never got around to it.

  Beams of enthusiasm had seemed to radiate from her to me, and despite her protestations that, as lovely as these dreams were, she really wouldn’t want the fuss involved in them coming true, I had made an executive decision. I knew I had to make these things happen – although snogging Brad Pitt might be impossible. In fact, that night, I’d hopped onto Twitter, knowing Carrie would never find out, and tagged Mr Pitt, asking if he’d be interested in doing a favour to a dying woman, and attaching a picture of her. He hadn’t replied, but the tweet had got a lot of likes, comments and retweets.

  The kindness of strangers had overwhelmed me – and given me a thought. My counsellor at the eating disorder clinic I attend twice a week is always telling me that when there’s a problem I should acknowledge it, and seek assistance to resolve it if necessary. It’s something I generally struggle with, but looking around the buzzing room, I can’t help thinking she’d be proud of me right now, because that’s exactly what I’ve done. Inspired by the reaction on Twitter, I’d set up a Facebook page. It had been the perfect place to organise the fundraiser in secrecy. Clothes shops had donated stock, a beauty salon had given a makeover, then there were massages, chocolates, cakes, a spray tan, a meal in a restaurant, even a weekend in a luxury hotel; a deluge of incredible prizes for the raffle.

  Everything was done online so Carrie wouldn’t know a thing until now. The Priory pub has pulled out all the stops for us. The party was organised at such short notice that it hasn’t had time to change its decorations, which are up for the next big celebration, so it’s full of cotton wool cobwebs, skeletons and the occasional pumpkin.

  ‘Sorry it’s a bit inappropriate—’

  ‘No! I bloody love Halloween!’ Carrie’s rapid-fire laugh sounds out. To prove her point, she shows me a pink diamanté skull ring she’s wearing on her finger. I bet my daughter, Elise, would like that.

  The religious men of the actual priory would have almost certainly disapproved, but as long as the guest of honour is happy, who cares? Perhaps they would have enjoyed it, I muse, as I look around at everyone’s happy faces. After all, they built above the mythical Jingler’s Cave, which is said to be haunted by infernal souls and demons, so they clearly weren’t without a sense of irony.

  Disco classics from the 1980s strike up as we move through the crowd. Carrie looks radiant. She’s the centre of attention. I’m so happy my gamble paid off. Well-wishers and friends surround her, and there is so much positivity it’s inspiring.

  ‘You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. You don’t deserve this,’ says one woman. ‘You’re in my prayers.’

  Her friend nods. ‘Keep fighting, we’re all here cheering you, beautiful.’

  ‘Stay positive and kick cancer’s arse!’ says a third, punching the air.

  ‘As long as I’m able to kick, I’ll be doing just that,’ Carrie promises.

  The first woman cups my friend’s face in her hand. ‘If this isn’t beauty, I don’t know what is. Stay strong!’

  As they walk away, Carrie leans over to me. ‘Are your kids coming?’

  I scan the room, then shake my head. ‘I didn’t really expect to see them here, to be honest.’

  ‘Things no better? Surely they’ll calm down eventually and start talking to you again. I thought I’d actually see them tonight.’

  ‘They’re angry with me. They blame me for their dad leaving.’

  ‘Well, if they’re old enough to abandon their mum to go and live with their dad, they’re old enough for you to give them a good talking-to. Tell them the truth!’

  ‘Reasoning with sixteen-year-olds isn’t always easy. The truth is, it’s my fault my family fell apart, okay? There’s no one to blame but me.’ I force myself to take a calming breath. ‘Anyway, tonight’s about you. You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course! It’s so kind of you. Seeing all my Tynemouth friends together is all I could ask for.’

  If I were dying, I’d want to get in touch with old friends and loved ones and tell them how much they meant to me. I’d want to say goodbye properly and not have any unfinished business. While thinking about that, after hearing Carrie’s news, I’d had a brilliant idea – I’d organise a surprise party for Carrie, invite friends she hadn’t seen since moving to the area. Doing things was nice, and a bucket list is a wonderful thing to have, but for me, life is about love and people more than anything. When sitting on my deathbed, the material things I’d gathered around me, or the places I’d visited would be lovely memories, but what gave my life meaning was my kids. They were my greatest achievement, and what life was all about: love and family.

  Carrie doesn’t have kids, but she has lots of love in her life. I’d tried to do some detective work and get in touch with everyone. But try as I might, I hadn’t been able to find an address book to sneak a look at, and Carrie thinks social media is a waste of time, so I’d no way of finding anyone. Not at the speed things had moved, anyway. It means none of her family are at this do, but at least she’s surrounded by Tynemouth pals from the support group, as well as those eager to discover if they’ve won a raffle prize.

  Jackie comes over, squeezes my arm, interrupting my thoughts. Although she’s a whisper under 5ft and barely comes up to my chin, she has the type of confidence that makes her seem taller. She almost vibrates with energy.

  ‘What you’re doing is amazing. I’m in awe of you,’ she whispers. I freeze and shake my head, embarrassed.

  ‘Organising karaoke and dance nights, or facing death? I know which I’d rather do. This isn’t about me,’ I prot
est quietly.

  ‘Of course not, but that doesn’t mean that what you’re doing isn’t incredible. You’re a good person, Alex, feel proud of yourself.’

  A good person. What would she say if she knew the truth?

  As I’m worrying, the familiar face of local journalist Belinda Edwards appears across the room. She gives a thumbs up and nods to the man next to her, with a camera slung round his neck. I nod back, feeling the warmth of a smile spread inside me.

  It had been one of the supermarkets that had suggested I call the local newspaper.

  ‘We’d definitely be interested in donating. Would it be okay to invite a photographer along? Get a little write-up in the local press? It might encourage more people to donate, once they read about Carrie’s story,’ the manager had said.

  ‘Brilliant idea!’ I’d replied, kicking myself for not thinking of it. The more people know about how wonderful Carrie is, the more money will be donated, and we can really make her dreams come true.

  Now the press is here, I can officially kick the event off. Smiling, I start towards the raised platform that will double as a stage tonight. A hush descends, electric with anticipation.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, for coming. We’re going to be announcing the prizewinners, who have been drawn at random, in an hour’s time, so make sure you stick around for that.’

  Some people look at their watches, but I carry on.

  ‘Tonight is all about a truly special person who is very dear to me – to us all here: Carrie Goodwin.’ Applause. I wait for it to die down. ‘Before I get you up here to make a speech yourself, Carrie – yes, I’m afraid you’re going to have to – I wanted to say a few words myself. Carrie, we haven’t known each other long, just six months, but in that time we’ve become great friends, because you’re such a special person. You’ve been through a hell of a lot, but you’ve never complained, and always make time for others. Well, now we want to make sure you put yourself first for once. We want to make your dreams come true, so tonight we’re raising money to do just that. So far, donations have reached £18,250! Can you believe it?’

  Everyone whoops. Carrie looks absolutely stunned. I really wanted one of those big cheques to present to her, but the bank was a bit funny about it because the account is in my name. Not ideal, but opening an account for a single fundraiser had been, though not complex, not as straightforward as I’d anticipated. As the clerk had started talking about private trusts, unincorporated bodies, paperwork, my impatience had kicked in, and I’d just opened an account in my name instead. Then arranged for the JustGiving page I set up to pay directly into it. I wanted to concentrate on getting as much money for Carrie in as short a time as possible, not messing about with tedious money management. Shame, though, as a giant cheque would look great in the pictures. Still, the photographer captures everything, his flash making my friend jump and cover her face in surprise.

  ‘Come on up, Carrie, this is all for you! You might not kiss a film star, but tomorrow I’m booking the Orient Express for you.’

  All eyes are on her. My smile is sliding away as I look. She’s shaking her head, hands over her face. Backing away. Running from the room, a trail of shocked silence left behind her.

  Four

  I close the door to the ladies’ loo and lean against it to stop anyone else entering. Carrie is dabbing at her eyes with a piece of screwed-up loo paper, a stall door swinging closed slowly. She looks at me in the reflection and gives a shaky laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s so lovely of you, but it’s all too much. A photographer? A story in the newspaper? I don’t want this kind of attention, Alex.’

  Carrie smiles a tight little line that barely lifts the corners of her mouth and doesn’t get rid of the frown around her eyes. She must be in pain. She never cries – or if she does, she doesn’t show it, instead always radiating peace. Not tonight.

  It was stupid of me to hope my surprise would help her forget about her terminal cancer. I should have listened to her. She didn’t want this fuss, but I’d ignored her, thinking I knew best. In trying so hard to please, I’m making things worse. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Somehow I need to make things right.

  ‘Do you want me to get rid of them?’

  Carrie nods, eyes shining with tears. Her hands are loose fists, fingers rubbing against one another. She’s worrying. And angry. With me.

  Guilt rips through me. I’ve done this to her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’

  Her relief is an audible sigh and a whispered ‘thank you’, before she turns the taps on and starts splashing cold water onto her face.

  It doesn’t take long to find Belinda, the reporter, who is working the room getting quotes from people. With a jerk of my head, I motion her to one side as George Michael starts singing about how he’d like someone to wake him up before they go-go. The crowd starts to join in, party atmosphere restored. Not among everyone, though; some are throwing me curious glances, wondering what the gossip is, while others look full of pity that Carrie’s been taken ill.

  ‘Is she okay?’ asks Belinda.

  ‘Look, would you mind not running this story, please? This is too much for her, she’s overwhelmed.’

  ‘Ah, thing is, we’ve left a space in the paper. I’ve got to write it up now so we can go to print tonight. It’s too late to pull it.’ She seems to be thinking. ‘Listen, this is a lovely feel-good story. The community rallying round, local businesses getting involved. Carrie’s probably a bit embarrassed about all the attention, and I understand that, but it’s no harm to anyone to run it, is it?’

  I chew on my nail, don’t know what to say. The reporter lowers her voice further.

  ‘Thing is, if I don’t come up with a story, my editor will skin me alive. We’ve literally nothing to replace it with. We can’t run with a hole in the paper – I’m going to lose my job over this.’

  She looks really worried. Her photographer pal keeps glancing over, aware something is going on. I feel backed into a corner.

  ‘It’s such a positive piece.’ Her hope hangs in the air, virtually grabs me by the lapels.

  ‘It’s really too late for you to find something else?’ I check.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Well… okay, I’ve got no choice, have I?’

  ‘I know Carrie feels shy about it, but we’ll make sure everyone comes out of this looking good. Promise. Besides, when people read about this, they’ll donate too – you’ll make loads of money, and think of all the wonderful things Carrie can do then. I’d love to think I helped a dying woman get her wish.’

  Of course. That’s what this is about. Carrie might feel overwhelmed right now, but when her dreams start coming true, she’ll be back to her usual self, loving the attention. I keep on chewing my nail, my finger giving a warning throb I ignore.

  Despite the earlier disaster, the night has turned into a success. I’ve announced the prizewinners, and Carrie is out of the loo and has hit the dance floor that’s been spontaneously created near the back of the bar. She’s shimmying – actually shimmying – like a disco diva alongside Jackie, Patricia, Anthony and Parvina. Judging from their wide-open mouths and the way their veins are standing out on their necks, they’re singing at the tops of their voices as they ‘Ride on Time’.

  I hang back, longing to join in but unsure of what to do. All evening I’ve successfully avoided Carrie, so it would be stupid to undo that good work now. If I go near her, she’ll ask me if my mission to stop the article has been successful. It’s one fib I can’t face telling, not right now. Instead, I lie by omission, easing on my black suede jacket and slipping away before anyone can notice. Only Jackie glances over, raising an eyebrow that she quickly hides. No one else sees me glide out the door.

  * * *

  The coverage in the newspaper the next day couldn’t be better. Everyone is smiling in the photograph, although Carrie’s head is turned to the side, as if trying to look away. The write-up is perfect. Hopeful
ly more donors will be in touch. A quick check using Internet banking shows my account’s balance has increased by almost another thousand pounds. I sit at my dining table, staring through the French doors and out across the garden, smiling as hope fills me up. Birds flit at the feeders, but I don’t see them; instead I’m imagining all the wonderful things Carrie can do with that money.

  My mood fades when she calls, though. Her voice is clipped.

  ‘The front page, Alex! Really? It’s lovely of you to care so much, but I don’t need money or bucket lists or anything, okay? All I want is to be left in peace.’

  ‘But the money is there, it’s been raised, so… Well, you might as well enjoy it. It’s what people want.’

  The only sound to fill the silence is a sigh. Finally, she speaks. ‘Okay. Maybe. There’s something else, anyway: I’ve made a decision. I’m moving back to my parents in Plymouth.’

  ‘I thought they were somewhere in Derbyshire?’

  ‘Yet more proof that you never listen to me. Don’t try to change the subject, Alex. Just promise me this is the last bit of stupid publicity you’ve organised. My life – and death – are no one’s business but my own.’

  ‘Of course. You’re right. I’m so sorry.’

  An insignificant word for the damage I’ve done. The better I try to make things, the worse they become. I’ve never before heard Carrie sound so annoyed.

  ‘I’ll see you tonight at group?’ I ask.

  She confirms and says her goodbyes, leaving me feeling heavy, as if I’ve swallowed a stone. She’s wrong, though: her death isn’t just her business. It’s mine, too.

  Whether she likes it or not.

  Five

  Then

  Milk dribbled down my chin. Head thrown back, I finished my drink with a gasp. Wiped my face, then filled up the glass. At the gentle thunk of the fridge door closing yet again, followed by the glug, glug, glug of liquid, Mum came in.