Losing Juliet: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming

Losing Juliet

JUNE TAYLOR

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

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London SE1 9GF

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © June Taylor 2016

June Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Cherie Chapman © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008215088

Version 2017-07-27

for Pearl

my big sister

The adventure is in the risk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part Two

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading...

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The words sounded blurred and far away, as if someone had pushed her head underwater. She ran off into the rain and into the darkness. Her mother shouted her name but didn’t come after her. In any case she was too quick. She cast off her shoes, tossing them into the air, wishing they would explode into little pieces. She wanted to break something. Hit something.

The water running down her face was a mixture of rainwater and tears. She wasn’t cold but her dress was stuck to her skin, which was visible through the thin fabric. She didn’t know where she was heading and somehow found herself by the side of the lake. How different it felt to the last time she was here.

She removed her clothes, all of them, ripping her dress in the process. What did it matter? What did any of this matter?

The rocks tore at her feet. But what couldn’t be seen couldn’t hurt you. She knew that now. It’s what you could see. It’s what you did know. That’s what hurt the most.

The icy chill of the water seemed to take away some of her pain.

‘There is no better freedom,’ she wanted to say, but the words froze as soon as her lips tried to shape them. She swam to keep warm, soon becoming disorientated. Where was the shore and where was the middle of the lake? Impossible to tell with the darkness wrapped around her and the rain coming down again. The middle of the lake was too deep, she remembered. Soon she would be out of her depth and was already getting tired.

Did it matter? Did any of it matter?

Treading water she turned full circle on herself. The shadows and outlines all looked the same. Her knees scraped against rocks. Crawling over them she managed to stand up, the water to her waist, and she began to wade through it, pushing hard against the lake, feeling exhausted and numb with cold.

Gradually her steps became easier. Somehow she had reached the lakeshore and looked around, hugging her shoulders, searching for her dress swallowed up in the gloom. She ran. She must have, because suddenly she found herself at the tiny hut by the side of the tennis court where the racquets and balls were kept. The director’s chair was in the doorway, wet beneath her skin when she sank into it. Pressing her hands hard against her ears she slumped over her knees. If only Chrissy’s words would stop echoing inside her head.

She was shivering; naked, alone, and curled up like a foetus.

To think that only a few weeks ago she hadn’t known any of this. Was it better now that she knew the truth? She had wanted it so desperately.

CHAPTER 1

Manchester: 2007

The phone rang. She picked up.

‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘I wonder: can you tell me, does someone by the name of Chrissy live there?’

She tried to tune in to the sounds at the other end for clues. Music. Opera, was it? A clanking of cups, possibly in a café?

‘Erm, who wants to know?’

‘I’m Juliet, an old friend from uni. We were best friends.’

The voice had a late-night feel to it, deep and smoky; the sort you might want to get to know.

‘Chrissy’s my mother,’ she said, seeing no reason to keep that from her.

‘Oh that’s brilliant! I thought I’d never find her, been trying for ages. Can I speak to her?’

‘She’s not here at the moment.’

‘Okay, well I’ll give you my number. If you could tell her I phoned?’

‘Okay.’

‘And you are?’

‘Eloise.’

‘Eloise. What a beautiful name. She chose a French name for you, that’s interesting.’

‘Is it?’

‘It’s a lovely name. She’s never mentioned me to you, Eloise?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it was a long time ago, must be nearly twenty years in fact. Getting on for that. It would be so lovely to see her. And to meet you, too. How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Well, tell Chrissy to hurry up and get in touch or you’ll have left home!’

‘I’ll try.’

***

‘Are you absolutely sure she said Juliet?’

‘Yes, for the hundredth time, I’m sure,’ said Eloise, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

‘And she definitely asked for Chrissy? Not – oh, I don’t know – Flissy. Or just Chris? I bet she said Chris.’

Eloise gave her papers a shove down the end of the table to make some room, causing a pen to roll off the edge before she could catch it. But Chrissy made no effort to pick it up, so immersed was she in her thoughts. Eloise slid a slice of pizza onto her mother’s plate, hoping the conversation could move on from this now.

‘There you go, Pizza à la Freezer with some extra Cheese Eloise,’ she announced. But Chrissy was giving her a pleading look. ‘Oh, Mum, I told you. How many times? Definitely Chrissy. I said that you were my mother, and … What? What’s wrong with that?’

Chrissy was sawing at her crust, her fingers turning white at the ends. She caught Eloise’s eye and put down her knife, pushed away her plate and sank back against the chair. It sliced through Eloise’s optimism; she was already pinning her hopes on this long-lost friend.

‘She sounded all right to me, Mum. Why have you never mentioned her?’

Her mother tapped her lips whilst she considered her answer. ‘It’s just a surprise to hear from her after all this time,’ she said finally, allowing a sigh to escape through her fingers. ‘I never expected to. That’s all.’ She seemed to linger on that for a while until the phone started to ring, then she jolted into the air with her hand to her chest.

Eloise let it ring a couple more times. She knew her mother wouldn’t answer it; she never did.

‘Should I get it?’

Chrissy shook her head.

‘CLICK: Hi, Eloise, we spoke earlier. And Chrissy, if you’re listening to this I just thought I’d try you again, but you’re obviously out enjoying yourselves. Well, it is Friday night. I would love to see you after all these years. I hope you think it is okay for me to contact you now. You have my number but I’ll keep trying. Ciao for now. Oh, it’s Juliet, by the way. Juliet Ricci. Well, Juliet Shaw, as I was then. Remember me?’

Juliet’s words drifted into every corner of their room, twisting like smoke, fading too quickly.

‘What did she mean?’ asked Eloise, trying to hang onto them for as long as she could. ‘Why wouldn’t you think it’s okay for her to contact you now?’

Her mother stood still for a moment – she had begun to pace – frowning at the answer machine.

‘Did you fall out or something?’

Dropping forwards over her knees, the way she did when she came back from a run, Eloise was about to repeat her question when Chrissy straightened up again. Her breathing seemed normal but her hands had a slight tremble as she scooped her hair back into a ponytail, quickly letting go again.

‘No, we never fell out. Hey, shall we go and see a film tonight? I’ll skip my yoga class.’

‘Mum!’

‘What?’

‘I’m seeing Anya later. I told you that.’

‘Did you?’ said Chrissy, rubbing her forehead.

‘Oh come on, Mum. We’re going to plan our Inter-Rail trip, remember? Well you could at least try and be a bit excited for me.’

Eloise watched her mother move across to the window. It wasn’t dark yet but she snapped down the blind.

‘You’re not going Inter-Railing, I’ve changed my mind. You’re too young.’

‘What?’ Eloise let out a mocking laugh. ‘I’m seventeen for god’s sake.’

‘Besides, I don’t know Anya well enough.’

‘Of course you do.’ Eloise let her body go limp in the chair, one arm dangling by her side. She didn’t want a fight. ‘You can’t treat me like a kid, Mum. You should have done that when I actually was a kid.’

‘That’s enough, Eloise. And if she calls again, just say you were winding her up; it’s the wrong number; there’s no Chrissy living here.’

Eloise almost laughed at that too, stopping herself when she realized her mother was being serious. ‘I can’t do that. Anyway, why?’ She glanced at the time on her phone; still nearly an hour before she needed to set off. ‘So is this Juliet the reason you dropped out of uni then?’

‘Of course not,’ Chrissy replied, sounding irritated. ‘You know that was my decision.’

‘Well how would I know that? You never tell me anything.’ Then she panicked, noticing her mother was drifting, and said: ‘Okay, so you had some embarrassing girl-on-girl thing that you’re too ashamed to talk about. Is that it?’

At least it got a bit of a smile. She racked her brain for more possibilities.

‘Well did she try and steal Dad away? Did she know my dad?’

‘Yes,’ said Chrissy. ‘I mean, yes she knew him.’

‘But was it over a boy though? Was it? I bet it was.’

Chrissy got up and walked around the back of Eloise’s chair, but didn’t respond to the question.

‘God, it’s like living in a tunnel with you sometimes,’ said Eloise, trying to prise her mother’s hands off her shoulders. She wanted to turn round, but couldn’t.

‘It never goes away, Eloise. It never can.’

‘What doesn’t?’

Eloise gave her a moment then snapped herself free from her mother’s grasp, rubbing her shoulders where she had been pressing down. ‘Right okay, I’ll just call this Juliet woman and ask her. I have her number.’ Eloise waved her phone defiantly into her mother’s face.

For one brief second the world went dark. Chrissy had slapped her on the cheek.

‘What the hell was that for?’

‘Oh god, I’m so sorry, Eloise. You know I’d never hurt you.’

‘You just did!’

‘I’m sorry, so sorry. Of course I’ll tell you.’

‘Well you better had now. My god, Mum!’

Chrissy sat down and took hold of her hand, staring at their interlocking fingers whilst focusing on her breathing. Eloise grabbed some air for herself. Sometimes there just wasn’t enough to go round. When Chrissy retreated back into her silence, Eloise kicked out at the chair leg, giving her a jolt.

‘Maybe you could start by telling me how you two met, Mum,’ she said, opting for a gentler approach. Inside, she was still screaming at her.

Chrissy closed her eyes and frowned, as though the memory hung by a delicate thread.

CHAPTER 2

Bristol: 1988

The first lecture, French Literature in the twentieth century, was not until eleven o’clock. But Chrissy’s nerves were not prepared to wait and she set off much earlier than was necessary. New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ was thumping out from across the corridor as she stepped out of her room. She had no idea who lived there, or anywhere else on her floor for that matter.

The School of Modern Languages was housed in a series of grand old Victorian villas along Woodland Road. At nine thirty, she left her halls, Cliff Lawn Halls of Residence, down the hill, but with so much time to spare she decided to meander first. The sponge covers of her Walkman had been lost, causing the plastic to nip into her ears, but The Smiths was the perfect soundtrack for her mood.

A dense fog lingered in the air, giving the streets of Clifton an eerie feel. The way it clung to her was like a damp cloak, even entering her nostrils as she reflected on why she hadn’t yet clicked with anyone when she had been here for almost a fortnight. It wasn’t due to a lack of trying on her part. During Freshers’ Week she had joined the Film Soc, French Soc, been to Happy Hours with people on stage giving blowjobs to hotdogs, and drinking a yard of ale in their underwear. She had even forced herself to do the three-legged bar crawl and that hadn’t yielded anything either. To make matters worse, she had woken up this morning paralyzed by fear, convinced that all the other students on her course would have been to better schools and read far more books. Plus, that she had been given someone else’s A-level results by mistake and had no right to be here in the first place.

Dan assured her it was still early days and things would get better once lectures had begun. Speaking to him daily on the payphone downstairs she assured him she wouldn’t call so often once she had found a bunch of people to hang out with. Looking around her now as the tiered rows curving round the lecture theatre filled up and the noise level reached an almost deafening crescendo, she was not so sure she ever would. Everyone else was in full-flow conversation; she was the only person sitting on her own.

How many times could she lace up her Docs? Rub at the coffee stain on her stonewashed jeans? Or keep going over the date she had written in the top right-hand corner of her A4 notepad: ruled narrow feint and margin? The coffee stain was still wet and she could see her leg, red and sore, through the rip in her jeans. She had gone into the common room just before the lecture in the hope of meeting a few people off her course, but had to settle for the vending machine’s buzzing and clanking for company as it squirted a dirty brown liquid into a polystyrene cup. Then, whilst she was pretending to read the noticeboard someone had bumped into her without realizing she was even there. And no apology for causing her to tip hot coffee down herself either.

It was a relief when the lecturer walked in. The place fell immediately silent as a small, rotund man with a long beard, tweed jacket and yellow cravat, placed his notes on the lectern, sweeping his eyes over each student, already weeding out the Firsts from the Fails.

‘What is existentialism?’ his voice boomed round the lecture theatre. ‘Who wants to have a shot?’

There was no other hand up, only hers. Suddenly sixty pairs of eyes were upon her and she flushed, feeling like a swot. A phoney swot at that because no words were coming out. On the verge of putting her hand back down, she suddenly remembered something she had read.

‘A view of the world in which man is condemned to a life of freedom and has the full burden of responsibility?’

She felt her cheeks catch fire.

‘Meaning?’ said the lecturer.

Meaning? That was good enough, surely.

‘Erm, well, meaning that he can’t hide behind God or science but he makes his own choices about absolutely everything. Even under pressure, in a split second. I think.’

A commotion at the back of the lecture theatre, a latecomer, made everyone turn round. The lecturer was annoyed, it broke his flow, but then his face melted. Suddenly this student was the most important person in the whole room. Chrissy couldn’t help noticing this girl’s je ne sais quoi factor either, but she was furious with her for stealing her moment.

Most people would have settled on the first gap they came to at the end of a row, keen to end their embarrassment, but this girl had people moving bags, A4 files, coats, legs, arms, to let her through. And to Chrissy’s horror she was making for the centre of the middle row where there was an empty seat next to hers. Chrissy looked helplessly at the lecturer, feeling herself flush again, as though this was all her fault. The girl flipped down the seat and held out her hand, refusing to sit down until Chrissy had shaken it.

‘Juliet,’ she whispered, as she settled down at last.

Chrissy tried to ignore her as the lecturer resumed. She didn’t want him to think they were friends, especially as she had made an impression on him and she actually felt worthy of being here now. Juliet scribbled something on her notepad and pushed it towards her. When Chrissy paid no attention she received a gentle nudge in the ribs. ‘Qui es-tu?’ the note said. Realizing she would get no peace unless she responded she scribbled her name down quickly, still focusing on the lecturer and not prepared to engage any further.

When the session finished, Chrissy zipped up her bag and stood up.

‘Does my head in, all this existential stuff,’ said Juliet.

‘So what are you doing here then?’

Chrissy turned her back, ready to shuffle along the row.

‘Long story. I came to sit with you, by the way, because you looked like the least boring person in the room.’

‘Am I meant to be flattered?’ said Chrissy, half-twisting her head.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can borrow your lecture notes, is there?’

Chrissy pulled down the notepad that Juliet was clutching to her chest and saw it was full of sketches of what looked like fashion designs. She shook her head, turning away again.

‘You want to get a coffee?’

Even if this girl was rather irritating, and certainly not the sort of friend she was looking for, at least she was showing some interest. ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ Chrissy replied. ‘But thanks for asking.’

‘I don’t mean that shit from the vending machine either.’

‘I still can’t,’ said Chrissy, laughing.

Once she was out into the corridor, narrow with a low-hanging roof, it would be easier to lose herself in the crowd, she told herself. But she was wrong.

‘I like The Smiths, too,’ said Juliet, referring to Chrissy’s T-shirt and suddenly by her side again. ‘Saw them twice.’

‘Three times for me,’ said Chrissy. ‘Look, I can’t hang about. I’ve got to go and meet my tutor.’ She speeded up again, heading for the stairs.

‘You know, the reason I was late was because I saw a dog run over and I couldn’t decide if the dog had chosen to run in front of the car, or if it was just an accident.’

‘Really?’ said Chrissy, stopping.

‘Oh. Actually, no, I was trying to be existential. I slept in; I don’t have an alarm clock.’

‘Well maybe you should go buy one then.’ Chrissy carried on up the stairs, reminding herself to trust first instincts.

‘Do you want to come to a party?’

It was just loud enough to pick out above all the other voices. Chrissy reached for the handrail and turned round.

‘Fuck’s sake!’ snapped a girl with pink hair and alarmingly plucked eyebrows. ‘Do you have to stop on the stairs?’

‘When?’ shouted Chrissy, ignoring the complaints.

‘Wednesday. Bring a friend, or friends if you’ve made some. The more the merrier.’

She found herself going to claim the photocopied invite that Juliet was tantalizingly waving at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Where is it?’

‘Cowper Road.’

She was about to ask where that was when Juliet helpfully added: ‘There’s a map on the back of the invite.’

‘Aren’t you in halls?’

‘Stoke Bishop. Miles from bloody anywhere. Luckily I know a couple of people in Redland. Do you know it? Just head up St Michael’s Hill away from town. It’s not far. Where are you?’

‘Clifton,’ she said, tugging the piece of paper out of Juliet’s fingers, giving the map a quick scan. ‘I’ll find it.’ She tucked it into her jeans pocket and then found herself weakening. Handing over her lecture notes, she said: ‘And if you lose those I will kill you.’

‘You’re all right you are, Chrissy Wotsit,’ she heard Juliet shout as she galloped up the stairs, not wanting to be late for her tutor. She turned round and gave Juliet the finger.

But for the first time in days, she had a smile on her face.

CHAPTER 3

Manchester: 2007

‘So did you go to the party?’