The Perfect Girl Read online

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like your cake?” Verity asked her grandson, while Simon was in the gents.

  “But it’s not my birthday!” Anthony said in exasperation. “And I’m into robotics and space stuff now. Spider-Man’s for kids.”

  “Can’t you go along with it, just to make your dad happy?” Verity said.

  “I’d rather have my present early.”

  “Then you’d have nothing to look forward to on your actual birthday. Though, if I were you, I’d start dropping a few hints about what you’d really like. Otherwise you might end up with more Spider-Men.”

  “There’s only one Spider-Man, Grandma.”

  “Break it to your dad gently, won’t you? I think he still likes Spider-Man.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”

  The old lady smiled.

  “What’s all this really about?” Verity asked, as Simon paid. Anthony was at the jukebox, delightedly jamming the last of his holiday money into the slot. They would probably be paying the price in bad music for the next half an hour.

  Simon sighed. “Kym wants to take him to Australia for the summer, so we might not get to see him again till October.”

  “Then you must stand up to her! Say no!”

  “I don’t want to do him out of a holiday. It will be an experience for him.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have to be all summer, does it? We hardly get to see him as it is. It’s no wonder he ran away. It’s important for a young boy to see his dad.”

  Simon looked away. “It never did me any harm, not having my dad around.”

  Verity frowned. “I’m not so sure. Look at you; you spend your life obsessing about some tiny hole in the ozone layer.”

  “It’s the size of North America!”

  “All the same, do you want Anthony to grow up like that? Filled with existential angst?”

  “Actually, I’d be very proud,” he said seriously.

  “Yes, I’m sure you would.”

  After the disastrous meeting with her dad, Gertrude just wanted to go home to England. She booked herself a last-minute flight and took a taxi to the airport. As she was a little early, she decided to have one last cup of coffee. Of course, they had coffee in England too, but it didn’t taste or smell quite the same as it did here. As she sat drinking her coffee, the voice on the loudspeaker started to announce the details of the next flight, first in French then in English.

  “Flight 9012 to Milan will be boarding in ten minutes. Gertrude, stop slurping your coffee!”

  What?

  She sat up, but no one else seemed to have heard the strange announcement. She opened a packet of sugar and stirred it in. She took a sip, but it didn’t seem any sweeter, so she added a second packet.

  “That’s too much sugar!”

  She looked up. This time the voice hadn’t come from the loudspeaker, but a man in a green raincoat who happened to be walking by. Gertrude watched his departing back, but he didn’t look back.

  It started to rain outside and Gertrude relaxed once more as she watched the water trickle down the windows. Rain had always had a calming effect on her, as soothing as any massage she’d ever had. Finally, they called her flight. As she walked towards the gate, she heard another voice in her ear.

  “Not you, Gertrude. This plane’s not for you.”

  She turned round but there was nobody there. Then she caught sight of the screen next to the gate. Instead of displaying the flight number and destination, as it had a moment earlier, it now read:

  ‘Not for you, Gertrude!’

  “Can I see your boarding pass, please?” the flight attendant asked, hand outstretched.

  Gertrude looked past her, at the people descending into the tunnel. The man in the green raincoat looked back at her and made a slashing motion across his neck.

  “Not for you, Gertrude!” came the voice over the loudspeaker.

  “Boarding pass?” the flight attendant repeated, with practised patience.

  Gertrude began to feel lightheaded.

  “I … I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I don’t feel well. I don’t think I should travel.”

  A first-aider was called, accompanied by a couple of security guards, who seemed suspicious of her story. Her bags were located, searched and returned to her. The first-aider declared her fit to fly, but she declined the offer of a later flight. Instead, she called herself a taxi, travelled back to the café and begged Sondra to let her stay.

  She hadn’t realised she was ill, not at first. It was only the next time it happened, a few days later, that she began to see it. The man in the green raincoat came into the café and plonked himself down at a vacant table. She glanced at the other waitresses, but no one went up to take his order. Finally, she approached him herself. He leaned forward and looked right into her eyes.

  “Daddy never loved you!” he hissed.

  “You’re not real,” she told him and went on with her work. The next morning, she went to the medical centre and the doctor agreed that it was likely she was suffering from schizophrenia: the same disorder that had afflicted her mum for as long as she could remember. It was likely brought on by the incredible stress she had been under. But unlike her mother, the anti-psychotic drugs they gave her eased the symptoms considerably. She was careful to avoid alcohol, or anything else that could screw up her meds, and she felt she had it under control. She still heard things that were strange and unpleasant, and couldn’t quite ditch the man with the green raincoat, but the important thing was that she knew what was happening. She knew what was real and what wasn’t.

  Dylan went out of his way to ignore Jock. He would leave his room just as Jock was leaving his and very pointedly push past him, letting the hall door slam in his face. Jock responded by throwing himself into his work. Without Dylan to distract him, it looked like he was going to meet his deadline. He became so engrossed in finishing his story that it took him a couple of days to notice that he was no longer running into Dylan everywhere he went. Dylan wasn’t just pretending to ignore him; he really was ignoring him.

  Enough was enough, Jock thought, as he typed the last few sentences onto his laptop. It was time he had a proper talk with Dylan. He didn’t know how much longer he was going to be staying in Fleckford and it seemed ridiculous to leave it like this. The thought of leaving without finding Sapphire haunted him, too, just as Stavely had said it would. He was carrying on with his life as best he could, but it had been three weeks now and he was beginning to accept that this might not end well.

  He dropped his bag off in his room, took a much-needed shower, then headed back down to the bar. It was about seven o’clock, around the time Dylan would usually be sinking his third or fourth pint. He would be just starting to argue with anyone who would listen about politics or religion or anything else with the slightest whiff of controversy. Jock braced himself for raised voices, but he wasn’t at the bar.

  “Have you seen Dylan?” he asked Neil.

  “No.”

  “He hasn’t been in tonight?”

  “He hasn’t been in all week. Maybe he’s found himself a new local.”

  “What could be more local than this?” Jock asked.

  Neil met his eye. “Didn’t he tell you? He moved out.”

  “When?”

  “End of last week. He still owes me a month’s rent, the git.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “Ha ha! That’s a good one!”

  “So you’ve no idea where he is?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be in touch – when he wants something.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “If you hear from him, tell him I want my money. Unless you’re good for it?”

  “Yeah, right!”

  He bashed out a text on his phone. But with the mood Dylan had been in lately, he would be lucky to hear from him. If only he didn’t care.

  He wandered outside. He had seen posters advertising a screening of The
Godfather at the village hall. There was no guarantee that the projector would be working any better than last time, but he liked their cake and there was nothing better to do.

  To his amazement, the queue was out the door. He heaved a sigh. Did he really want to join a queue for a film that may not even be showing? As he hovered at the back of the queue, not quite sure what he wanted to do, he spotted a familiar, black ponytail bob by.

  “Gabriella!” he shouted.

  She didn’t turn round.

  “Gabriella!” he shouted, a bit louder. “Gabriella!”

  He ran to catch up with her. “Hey! I thought it was you!”

  “Oh, hi, Jock!” she said.

  “What brings you back to Fleckford?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m here on business,” she said with a breezy smile.

  “Really?” How much business could she possibly have in Fleckford? And at this time of an evening.

  “I’m sorry, I’m running late for a meeting,” she said with an apologetic smile. “But I’ll give you a ring later in the week, OK?”

  “OK.”

  He watched as she hurried off towards the Cherry Tree Hotel. If he hadn’t looked back, he would have thought she had gone in, but he did glance back, just in time to see her dash across the road into McDonald’s. Not the most obvious place for a business meeting. What on earth was she really doing in Fleckford that didn’t involve him?

  24

  Warm, midday sun shines on my back as I remove the first frame from the hive. This disused field with its high hedges is the perfect place to keep my bees. And I don’t even have to pay rent.

  “How are we today, my little beauties?” I ask, as the bees buzz around me. Such industrious creatures. Perhaps that’s what I like about them. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a sloth.

  I prop up the frame and peer in. The sunshine lights up the hive, illuminating all the little details. The bees watch me as I inspect for eggs and larvae. The queen bee is alive and well. She looks up at me with respect as the worker bees attend to her needs. I breathe in their wonderfully rich, butterscotch smell. Unlike her, they are all disposable.

  After a year in Corsica, Gertrude was finally ready to return to England, but not to her old life. She began to think about what she would like to do and settled on opening a café of her own: a traditional English Tea Shop, selling fresh cakes and scones. She already knew how to bake, but the glamorous French women had taught her so much about elegance and charm. She now knew how to hold herself and how to walk, how to make every customer feel special by making the effort to come and talk to them. She knew she could do it. She had written Claire’s proposal for the ballet school, after all, and she still had it on her computer, along with a ton of other useful documents. She could use them as a basis to build her own business case. She would need one if she was going to convince a bank manager to back her.

  There was one last change she needed to make. Throughout her life, she had been blighted with the name Gertrude Scutter. Her father couldn’t very well help his last name, but he had insisted on naming her after his mother. Apparently, she had loved her name, but Gertrude hated it. It felt dowdy and boring. That awful name was like a chain around her neck. She was filled with shame every time she had to introduce herself. She didn’t even feel like a Gertrude anymore. She needed something more glamorous, more inspiring – the sort of name that made people look twice. She wanted a name that sparkled, a name like … She paused in front of a jeweller’s window and glanced down at the rings and necklaces on sale. Sapphire! It was perfect. Her new name would be Sapphire. She glanced up at the name of the shop. Butterworths the Jewellers. That was it! Sapphire Butterworth. It had a ring to it. She already felt like a somebody.

  By the time she opened the tea shop, Gertrude was well-accustomed to her new name. Only once did she let it drop, when making an appointment at the hairdressers. She quickly corrected the mistake, ignoring the confused look on the receptionist’s face. As time passed, her confidence grew and she managed to keep her unhappy past locked up inside. She maintained her new figure with the help of regular workouts in the privacy of her living room and anytime she felt like she wasn’t good enough, she just asked, “What would Claire do?” Claire had always assumed things would work out for the best and up until her disappearance, they had. And now Sapphire had gained in confidence, she felt the same was true for her. You couldn’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You had to make things happen and that was exactly what she did.

  Jock’s phone bleeped with a message. His heart leapt as he realised it was from Dylan.

  ‘Housewarming, 8 p.m. tomorrow. Wear a tie. P.S. – I’m registered for gifts at John Lewis.’

  Typical Dylan, Jock thought – rude and to the point. But he hadn’t even included his new address. Had he just forgotten or was Jock expected to work it out? He re-read the message. No explanation, no apology. He ought to be royally pissed off, but he just felt relieved. Dylan was talking to him again, at least for the time being.

  He shouldn’t reply. He knew he shouldn’t. He should at least leave it till morning, but his eager fingers betrayed him.

  ‘Just don’t expect me to drink,’ he typed back. ‘P.S. – I don’t have your new address?’

  He immediately regretted it. Why had he bloody well replied? It made him look overeager. He should have played it cool, let Dylan sweat a bit. Now he would think he had won.

  It wasn’t until quarter to six the next day that Dylan finally deigned to send him directions. Jock had already showered and put on a clean shirt. He didn’t know why he was going to so much trouble but he had no idea how posh this party might be, or who would be there. He might as well make an effort.

  Dylan’s instructions were odd and erratic, leading him past the square and down to the canal. Surely this couldn’t be right? He held his phone high in the air, but he couldn’t get a signal. It was growing dark as he followed the footpath over the bridge. It was as still and creepy as it had been the day Sapphire disappeared. He felt a shiver run up his back as a twig snapped behind him. Glancing back, he could just make out two shadowy figures. He quickened his pace, but they were gaining on him, matching each of his strides with longer ones of their own. He was almost at a run when he felt a gloved hand on his shoulder.

  “Jock?”

  “Angie?” He sagged with relief.

  “I’m sorry! Did we make you jump?”

  Even in six-inch heels, she only came up to his chin.

  “Sorry,” came Simon’s voice behind her. “We’re looking for Dylan’s place. I take it you are, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh man! You thought I was the May Queen Killer, didn’t you?” Angie said. “I’m sorry; I know it’s not funny. But it’s just so ridiculous!”

  She shone her mobile phone down at the ground, revealing her fluffy, pink stilettos.

  “It’s fine,” he insisted, but even with company, the canal bank was eerie. The last place he would want to stand about having a chat.

  “Look! There’s a rat having a swim!” Angie said, pointing at the water.

  Jock followed her gaze. He could just make out a small creature paddling with its front paws, its tail high in the air.

  “Ugh!” he shuddered. He had always hated rats. “What are we doing here?” he asked.

  “Well, according to Dylan’s instructions, we need to go under the bridge,” Simon said.

  Jock eyed the gap between the bridge and the canal. “Not bloody likely!”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine,” said Angie. “Just hang onto me.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’ll hang onto Simon. Come on, let’s go.”

  Jock wanted to protest, but Angie took him by the arm and pulled him under the bridge. She had an enormously long stride for a short woman. It must be the shoes. He almost had to run to keep up.

  “It’s pitch black!” he said, his voice strange and echoey.

  “It’s OK; j
ust hang on tight,” Angie said. “Dylan’s place should be just the other side.”

  He closed his eyes and allowed her to guide him along. They emerged on the other side to find a dark red narrowboat, the Kingfisher, decorated with lights and streamers.

  “Is this it?”

  “I was expecting a cottage,” Angie admitted.

  “Me too,” Simon said. “But this is much more fun!

  “Hey, do you think Dylan painted these?” Angie asked, pointing to the childlike illustrations of flowers and castles on the side of the boat.

  “Most definitely not,” said Jock. “They’d be a lot less PG if he did.”

  Dylan stood on the deck, clutching a glass of deep-red wine. He had a good-looking woman on either side of him. Jock suspected he was paying them for their company. It was just the kind of ridiculous extravagance he would indulge in.

  “Come on up!” he called out in a princely manner.

  Jock wondered how much of that red wine he had had to drink. Still, he followed Simon and Angie on board.

  “Nice place,” he greeted Dylan coolly.

  “Nice tie,” Dylan said with a snort.

  “How come you’re not wearing one?”

  “Ties are for tossers.”

  Jock glanced around. None of the other guests were wearing ties. He tugged his loose and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

  “I bought that specially,” he told Dylan.

  It had only been a quid from a charity shop, but Dylan didn’t need to know that.

  “Shut up and have a drink,” Dylan said.

  Jock’s heart sank as he clocked the drinks table. There was a ridiculous amount of booze: dozens of bottles of wine, several cases of beer and nothing but bacon rinds and pork scratchings for snacks.

  He watched as Dylan poured a glass of white wine for Angie.

  “What can I get you?” he asked Jock.

  “You got any lemonade?”

  “Under the table.”

  He found a case of soft drinks and grabbed one. He wasn’t particularly thirsty, but it gave his hands something to do. He was damned if he was going to drink tonight, after all Dylan had put him through.