The Birthday Girl: The gripping new psychological thriller full of shocking twists and lies

I’m conscious that my heart rate has picked up and I can feel sweat gathering under my arms. I concentrate on breathing in slowly through my nose and control the out-breath from my mouth. Techniques I have had to learn since Darren’s death.

I stopped seeing the counsellor about six months ago and this is probably the first time I have felt under duress since then. It’s the small space of the van that is getting to me. I don’t know what it was about finding Darren that caused this claustrophobia, but it’s certainly a symptom. My counsellor suggested it could be something as simple as the closing of the front door behind me that day, the sense of being shut in a house and then dealing with the devastation before me. My mind has somehow connected the two things.

I eye my rucksack on the floor of the van. In the side pocket is my little box of pills. I have recently found another way to deal with the panic attacks. Neither Andrea nor Zoe know about the pills. In fact, no one does. Not even my GP.

‘You OK, Carys?’ Andrea’s concerned voice filters into my thoughts.

I sit myself upright and take another deep breath as I open my eyes. I turn and smile at her. ‘Yeah. Just finding it not quite so fun now.’

Andrea nods. ‘Typical of Joanne to take it one step too far.’ She leans forward and bangs on the partition.

‘What’s up?’ comes the voice through the small cut-out hole.

‘How much longer?’ shouts Andrea over the noise of the engine. ‘This is taking the piss now.’

‘Patience, ladies, patience,’ comes the reply. ‘We’re nearly there.’

The speed drops and the van takes an unexpected turn to the left. The ground noise changes. It sounds like we are on an unmade track. I can hear stones pinging up against the wheel arches every now and then, and the van rolls and lollops more as if navigating potholes and dips in the surface.

I close my eyes again, resigning myself to the fact that shouting and getting stressed isn’t going to get us there any quicker. I make a conscious effort to take my thoughts to a more positive place. It’s easier said than done. I think of Seb and my heart lifts as I bring his face to mind. His fair skin and almost translucent blue eyes. I smile as I remember him telling me why he has his hair cut so short.

‘It’s to stop any of the bad guys being able to get a grip on me, should I get into a tussle,’ he had said, referring to his job as a detective with the Met. Once I had made a suitably impressed response, he’d broken into a broad grin before continuing: ‘I can’t lie. It’s really because, if I let my hair grow, it turns into a mass of curls; looks like pubes.’ We’d both laughed for a long time at this imagery. I think that was the moment I realised how much I enjoyed being with Seb and relished spending my free time with him. I miss him when he isn’t there and want him in my life more. However, my next thought is of Alfie, which should be a positive one. But it’s not.

Before I can visit this further, the van slows down. There’s a change of gear and the engine noise lowers. We grind to a halt; a small jolt indicates the handbrake has been applied and then the engine is cut.

The driver’s voice comes through the gap. ‘Could all passengers disembark. This service will now be terminated.’

‘Finally,’ says Andrea.

The side door opens and we emerge from the bowels of the van, blinking as daylight floods our pupils. The driver jogs over to the croft and opens the front door, places the blue bag containing our phones inside. He closes the door and jogs back to the van.

‘Enjoy your weekend, ladies,’ he calls, jumping into the van. We watch as the vehicle makes a U-turn and then disappears down the track.

I look at Andrea and Zoe, who return the look with equal bewilderment. ‘Well, that was the strangest holiday transfer I’ve ever experienced,’ says Andrea. The fun has worn off and we take a moment to study the building in front of us.

It is a stone cottage made up of a ground floor and a first floor. A solid oak door is centred in the stonework, flanked by windows each side. In the roof, there are two dormer windows and on the side of the building is a single-storey extension which, judging by the lighter colour of mortar between the stonework, was probably added at a later date.

‘So, here we are,’ I say needlessly. ‘I suppose we’d better go in. I assume Joanne is already here.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on anything right now,’ says Andrea. ‘Maybe that’s her surprise.’

‘What?’ says Zoe, frowning.

‘The surprise is, she’s not here,’ says Andrea.

I pick up my rucksack. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’ I give my friend a nudge with my elbow. ‘Come on.’

Before we take a step, the front door swings open and Joanne appears in the doorway. Her brunette bobbed hair, immaculate as ever, frames her petite features. She opens her arms wide. ‘You’re here!’ She trots over and hugs each of us in turn, the blue phone bag in one hand. ‘And all in one piece. I hope you enjoyed your journey. What did you think?’ Joanne looks expectantly at each of us.

‘Loved it!’ says Zoe, injecting possibly rather too much enthusiasm into her voice.

‘Yeah, loved it,’ says Andrea, her lack of enthusiasm balancing out Zoe’s excess.

‘Put it this way,’ I say. ‘I’m glad we’re here now. I hope the return journey is rather more orthodox.’

‘Oh, don’t be worrying about the return journey.’ Joanne flaps her hand in the air. ‘You’ll love that too.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ says Andrea. ‘Jesus, let’s get inside. I’m freezing my tits off here.’

‘What do you expect in that flimsy fleece? I hope you’ve brought a warmer jacket with you.’

‘This has to be your best surprise ever,’ says Zoe, hooking her holdall on one shoulder and slipping her free arm through Joanne’s.

‘Maybe not ever. Just to date,’ replies Joanne. ‘You have no idea what other surprises I have in store for you three.’ Joanne leans into Zoe and squeezes her arm. She then looks around at myself and Andrea, and I don’t miss the little glint in her eye. ‘Let me show you to your rooms. I have some lunch ready for you and then we can crack open our first bottle of wine.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say, following on behind. I look over my shoulder at Andrea. ‘Come on, misery. This isn’t an audition for the seven dwarfs, you know.’

‘If it is, then Andrea gets the part, hands down,’ calls Joanne. Her laughter echoes around the porch roof.

Andrea pulls a face, which only makes me laugh too.

Inside the croft, the small entrance hall with an oak staircase and a red quarry-tiled floor greets us. Years of feet travelling the surface have worn the shine from the centre of the tiles but the edges have managed to retain some of their former gloss. I look through the doorway on my left. It’s the living room, with two big comfortable sofas either side of a large brick fireplace. A wooden chest sits between the two pieces of furniture, acting as a coffee table. The floorboards in this room have been sanded and varnished, giving a more modern feel to the room, and a black-and-white hide is spread out in front of the hearth.

‘Cow hide,’ supplies Joanne. ‘All the rage, apparently. Not so keen myself. Not at two or three hundred pounds each, anyway.’

‘I quite like it,’ says Andrea, peering over my shoulder.

‘Now you’re a successful business owner, I expect you can afford these luxuries,’ says Joanne.

I shoot Joanne a look. Was there a hint of tightness in her voice? A topic of conversation that is always sidestepped with a sense of awkwardness. I watch now as Andrea gives Joanne a long look, one that Joanne matches without flinching.

‘What’s beyond the trees there?’ Zoe pipes up, as she gazes out of the window.

I don’t know if the change in conversation was deliberate on Zoe’s part, but it breaks the deadlock.

‘More trees,’ says Joanne, turning towards the rear window where Zoe is standing. ‘That’s the edge of a bloody great forest. It stretches around from behind the croft in a big arch and then all the way along the edge of the track.’

Zoe gives a shiver. ‘Even in daylight, it looks spooky.’

‘After lunch, we’re going exploring,’ says Joanne. She nods towards the trees. ‘There’s a walk through there which eventually leads to a clearing. Legend has it that it was once a site for pagan rituals and human sacrifices.’

‘Sounds delightful,’ mutters Andrea.

Zoe turns away from the window and drops into one of the sofas. ‘I’m glad I’m not here on my own. When did you get here, Joanne?’

‘Last night, actually.’

‘You were here on your own all night?’ Zoe leans back and looks up at Joanne.

‘No big deal. Anyway, you’re on your own at night times, aren’t you? Or are you? No secret lover you haven’t told us about?’ She flicks Zoe’s ponytail with her fingers and winks.

‘No!’ protests Zoe. Her cheeks flush red. She sits upright and looks round at us.

‘Ah, you’re blushing,’ teases Joanne. ‘Look how red Zoe’s gone.’

Zoe has turned a deep crimson colour and I can’t help feeling sorry for her, yet at the same time I wonder if Joanne’s teasing has some substance. For all Zoe’s bouncy childlike enthusiasm and seemingly innocent charm, I’ve always felt this has been to cover up the after-effects of a bad relationship. Although she’s never gone into details about her ex-husband, there clearly are unresolved issues in that department. To ease her embarrassment, I take it upon myself to divert the topic of conversation this time. ‘Joanne, are you going to show us round the rest of the place?’

‘Sure. Follow me.’

Across the tiled hallway is another room, identical in size to the living room. It too has a fireplace on the rear wall and to the right of that, in what was once an alcove, is a doorway. A dining table and six chairs occupy the centre of the room and a wing-backed armchair is on the other side of the fireplace with a view over the garden.

‘Through here is the kitchen,’ says Joanne.

The kitchen looks to have been refurbished recently but it is sympathetic to the age of the property. The units are free-standing and of a farmhouse style with wooden worktops. A Belfast sink is below the window, which overlooks the front of the property. There is an exterior door with glass panels at the top, draped with a net curtain.

I move the curtain to look through. There is a rear porch and beyond that is an outbuilding about the size of a garden shed. ‘What’s in there?’

Joanne joins me at the door. ‘Nothing very exciting, I should imagine. It’s locked, but from what I’ve seen through the window it’s full of old garden tools and a lawn mower. Not that they seem to worry about keeping the grass manicured: it’s more pasture than lawn.’

True, the rear of the property has no fencing to identify the boundaries and blends in with the surrounding open scrubland scenery. A small area immediately outside the back door has been laid with paving stones to create a patio, and a flowerbed has been dug around the edge which is full of shrubs, but that is the extent of the garden.

‘To be fair, we do appear to be in the middle of nowhere. It must be hard to get a gardener up here,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose they want to pay someone to come up here every week.’

‘Exactly,’ says Joanne.

‘How far are we from civilisation?’ asks Zoe, as we walk back through to the entrance hall.

‘Bloody miles,’ says Andrea.

Joanne gives a laugh but ignores the question. ‘Oh, before I forget. I need to take a picture of us all. A selfie. Wait there a moment while I get my camera.’

She disappears into the living room, leaving us waiting in the hall. As with the rest of the house, it’s a mix of old and new. Some pieces of furniture and decoration look like they’ve been here for years, whereas other pieces wouldn’t look out of place in an Ikea catalogue. There’s a dark wood telephone seat with a faded green velvet cushion, which seems odd as there doesn’t appear to be a telephone here. It reminds me of something from the seventies. Above it is a picture of a crying boy, another leftover from a past era. And on the opposite wall is a row of modern pictures in white frames. They have almost a seaside feel to them, depicting stick-men in sailor suits with flags in different positions, each spelling out a word in semaphore. I take a closer look to see if the words are printed underneath, but can’t see anything. On the floor, propped against the wall, is a print, about a metre long, of spring flowers, which I personally think would look nicer on the wall.

Joanne reappears almost straight away. ‘I treated myself to a Polaroid camera. Instant photos,’ she says, holding the retro-looking camera in her hand.

‘How very old-school,’ says Andrea.

‘Exactly. Just like us,’ replies Joanne. ‘Now, I need you all to stand here in the hall. Zoe, you here. That’s it. Andrea here.’ She leaves a space between them and then takes my arm. ‘Carys, you stand in the middle. I’ll set the timer up and then I’ll hop on the end.’

Joanne moves a pot plant from the shelf inside the door and prepares the camera. ‘I tested it earlier. It’s the perfect height,’ she says. ‘OK, you ready? I’m pressing the timer button now.’

‘Quick, before it goes off,’ says Zoe, as Joanne darts back and joins the end of the line. ‘Smile!’

We all stand rigidly, while at the same time trying to pose naturally with big smiles plastered across our faces. Just as I think the timer isn’t going to work, the camera flashes.

‘Now to see the result,’ says Joanne, returning to the camera. ‘I love this, it’s so eighties.’ After a few seconds, a photograph emerges slowly from the bottom of the camera. Joanne waves the photograph in the air to dry the ink. ‘Do any of you miss the old days? When life was simple, before we had to deal with all the grown-up stuff?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Andrea. ‘I actually like my life now, as an adult.’

‘Mmm … I expect you do,’ says Joanne. ‘What about you, Carys? Do you prefer life now?’

I catch Andrea and Joanne exchanging a look, the latter appearing confused for a moment and then in a display of realisation, throws her hand to her mouth, the photograph still grasped between her finger and thumb. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Carys. That was insensitive of me.’

I force my mouth to curve north in a bid to smile. I’m not sure how effective the action is, but the intent is there. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘No one has to tiptoe around me. Honestly.’

An awkward silence straggles behind my words until Andrea sweeps everything up with her none-too-subtle attempt at changing the subject: ‘Right, let’s see this photograph then.’

We crowd round the image and overly enthuse about it.

‘It’s lovely,’ says Joanne. ‘I love the way the real us shines through.’

I’m not sure any of us quite know what she means, but to restore the light-hearted atmosphere, we all agree and allow Joanne to lean the picture against the clock on the mantelpiece of the living room.

‘What shall we do with our bags?’ asks Andrea, as Joanne takes a moment to admire the photograph from the middle of the room.

Joanne spins round. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll show you to your rooms.’ She leads the way back into the hallway and we climb the narrow oak staircase. ‘Two of you will need to share.’ She looks at myself and Andrea. ‘Are you two OK in the twin room?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ I say and Andrea agrees.

‘Excellent, that’s that sorted.’ Joanne pushes open one of the doors and stands back to allow us in first.

It’s a pleasantly spacious room with dual views from the front and rear of the property. Everything in the room is white, from the walls to the furniture and bedding. The little dormer window at the front looks out on to the track and for the first time I notice a river over the other side of a small brow that must have shielded it from sight when we were dropped off outside. I push my face closer to the glass and away to the left, where the river bends out of sight, I can see a little stone bridge, just wide enough for one vehicle to pass over. It looks picture-postcard.

‘It’s a gorgeous view,’ I say, turning and going over to the window at the back. The view this time isn’t so inviting. The trees behind appear even taller from the first floor. They bunch together, swallowing up the daylight, and become one big mass of darkness as I try to look further into the forest.

‘Which bed do you want?’ asks Andrea.

‘I’ll have the one near the front window.’

‘OK, I’ll be near the door.’ Andrea dumps her rucksack on to the bed.

‘The bathroom is right next to your room,’ says Joanne from the doorway. ‘It’s not exactly en-suite, but it’s as good as.’ She turns to Zoe. ‘Our rooms are across the landing. I’m at the front and you’re at the back. Now I’ll let you all get settled and freshened up. Come down in ten minutes and lunch will be ready.’

‘Any chance we can have our phones?’ I ask. ‘I want to check in with Alfie.’

A shadow darts across Joanne’s face, but it’s so fast I almost question whether I saw it. However, the sympathetic look she gives me seems so false, I know I didn’t imagine it. ‘Sorry. No can do,’ she says, hugging the blue bag to her body. ‘All part of the game. No communication with the outside world this weekend. Besides, you can’t get a signal up here, it’s a not-spot.’

‘How do people get on in an emergency?’ asks Andrea.

‘There’s a wireless radio in the kitchen, but it looks as old as the hills,’ says Joanne. ‘It was probably last used in the Second World War.’

‘I can’t believe there’s no phone coverage at all,’ says Andrea. ‘We really are in the middle of nowhere.’

‘You’d think there would be a landline,’ I agree.

‘What’s up?’ asks Joanne. ‘Is there a problem? Do you need to get in touch with Alfie?’

‘Nothing’s up. Alfie is staying at Andrea’s with Colin and Bradley.’

‘Then he’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about,’ says Joanne. ‘Although you know Tris would have been happy to look after him had he not been on his golfing break. Not that Alfie needs looking after, he is eighteen later this month.’

‘Yeah, I know, but Bradley and Alfie are having a gaming weekend. Thanks anyway, I’ll bear that in mind for the future,’ I say, feeling slightly uncomfortable at my little lie. The truth is, I was relieved when I found out Tris would be away this weekend. Alfie had already said he’d like to stay with Tris and Ruby, but I didn’t like the way he was attaching himself to Tris. It was almost as if Tris was becoming a replacement for Darren. The amount of time he spends over there concerns me. Next thing, he’ll be seeing Joanne as a replacement for me. As usual, this thought provokes a wave of insecurity and jealousy. I turn away from Joanne and start undoing my rucksack to hide the irrational fear that somehow she will be able to read my thoughts.

‘He’s always welcome, you know that,’ says Joanne, clearly not letting me off the hook that easily. ‘We like having him over. He and Ruby get on great. You should be encouraging him, not deterring him.’

‘Who said anything about deterring him?’ I snap, my guilt flaring up in the disguise of anger.

‘Don’t get all defensive,’ says Joanne, folding her arms. ‘I’ve known him so long and he’s at our place so much, we’re like an extended family.’

‘Hey, come on you two,’ says Zoe, from the landing. ‘Let’s not fight. This is supposed to be a fun birthday weekend, remember?’

Joanne and I study each other for a few seconds. I don’t want to spoil the weekend. I plaster on a smile. ‘We’re not fighting.’

‘No. We’re not,’ Joanne says, before turning and ushering Zoe across the hallway to her room.

I begin to unpack my clothes, quietly seething inside. I can sense Andrea looking at me and I meet her gaze. She raises her eyebrows and gives me a look that says she’s not fooled for one minute. ‘What?’ I say defensively. ‘We weren’t fighting.’

‘No. Of course you weren’t,’ she says, taking a T-shirt from her bag and lying it flat on the bed. ‘No tension between you two at all.’

I lob a jumper I’ve just taken from my bag at her. ‘None whatsoever. Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

We both laugh as she tosses the jumper back at me, but we also both know that Andrea is one hundred per cent right.

Chapter 5

I hang the last of my clothes in the wardrobe, leaving space on one side for Andrea to use. ‘It’s a nice room,’ I say, as I quickly put on a fresh T-shirt. ‘A bit on the basic side, but functional.’

‘Better than I was expecting,’ says Andrea. ‘How is everything with Alfie?’ She fiddles with her makeup bag in an attempt to seem casual but I suspect my earlier words with Joanne have prompted the enquiry.

‘About the same. Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t know how it’s going. He never talks about Darren.’ I stop myself from continuing. I feel disloyal talking about Alfie even though Andrea is one of my best friends.

‘Do you ever ask him?’

‘Not any more. It’s a prickly subject,’ I admit. I walk over and sit down on my bed, letting out a sigh as I wrestle with my need to talk to someone about Alfie and my desire to project a much rosier picture of my home life. The need wins out. ‘He seems more distant than ever lately. And he still has his moments, you know, when his temper gets the better of him.’

‘Have there been any other … incidents?’ asks Andrea. Her tone is gentle.

I shake my head. ‘No. Not recently.’ I realise I’m rubbing my arm subconsciously. Since Darren’s death, Alfie has found it difficult to express his emotions and has taken to lashing out in his temper. Once or twice, I’ve found myself in the way.

‘What’s that mark on your back, then?’ asks Andrea.

‘On my back?’

‘Yeah, I noticed it just now when you changed your T-shirt. You’ve got a red mark, right between your shoulder blades.’

‘Oh, that. I did that this morning. Banged into the door by accident.’ It’s the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but it is what happened. I feel embarrassed and ashamed to talk about Alfie’s behaviour sometimes.

‘Can’t you speak to his counsellor?’ asks Andrea. She squeezes my hand in a gesture of support.

‘God, no. I suggested that once but Alfie was adamant I wasn’t to get involved. Besides, I’m not sure what the counsellor would say. They’re not supposed to divulge anything from the counselling sessions. Patient confidentiality.’

‘You could speak to him, though. The counsellor, I mean. You could tell him how Alfie has been at home. He might not be aware of that. Alfie might not tell him the truth.’

‘But then I feel I’m going behind Alfie’s back, and if he finds out …’ I leave the sentence unfinished as I gulp down an unexpected lump in my throat.

‘Have you thought about getting advice on how to deal with it all yourself? I don’t mean going to your counsellor, I mean strategies. A bit like they do parenting help for when you have a new baby. There must be some sort of support group for parents of bereaved children.’

‘It’s not my thing,’ I admit. ‘I did mention it once to my GP and she said to follow Alfie’s lead for now.’

‘Which is?’

‘Not to talk about Darren’s death unless Alfie wants to, and try to defuse the situation when he gets angry.’

‘But doesn’t that mean avoiding it so it becomes a taboo topic?’

‘It’s not just that,’ I say, surprising myself at how all my worries are tumbling out. I’m usually very controlled when it comes to Alfie and Darren. ‘Alfie spends so much time over at Joanne’s house, it’s starting to get to me. Like, really annoy me. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to spend time with me. It’s like he’s a visitor at home these days.’

‘Maybe it’s something to do with what happened with Darren.’ Andrea moves over to my bed and sits beside me.

‘Tell me about it! I can’t walk through the hallway without the image of Darren … you know … hanging there. It makes me feel sick. God knows what it’s doing to Alfie.’

‘No luck with the house sale then?’