I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks. Adele Parks
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club,’ I muttered sulkily.
Dad hung his head in his hands. Rubbing his eye sockets with the heels of his palms, he aged in front of me. Suddenly, his head snapped up, fortified by a new idea. ‘But he’s studying at your university. We could get in touch with the chancellor, or what have you, and demand they look at their records. We could track down all the Ians that are registered.’ He seemed momentarily hopeful. It was sad, in the true sense of the word, not the way Imogen uses it now.
‘What and do an identity parade?’ I snarled, sarcastically.
‘Do something!’ Dad yelled. Dad is not a shouter, so this upset me, but I couldn’t let him pursue this warped version of Cinderella, chasing across the kingdom of Birmingham University to see if the shoe fit. I did the only thing I could think of that would put an end to the business.
‘He doesn’t go to my uni. He said he was visiting a friend. Freshers’ week, you know. It’s packed. People float through. He came from down south somewhere. I don’t think he ever said exactly where.’ It was safe telling my father that the man responsible for my downfall was a southerner. An intelligent man and reasonable in most ways, largely devoid of prejudices, my dad was and is irrationally unsettled by the south: its size, its smugness, its slickness. It suited him to believe all forms of trouble came from down south. Why would this trouble be any different? Still, he pursued the matter.
‘What friend? Did he at least give you the name of the friend?’
‘No. He didn’t.’
Dad sighed – it was like all his breath was coming out of him. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been much talking,’ he commented sadly.
‘No, not talking,’ said Mum, eyeing my tightly-rounded belly with poignancy. I couldn’t drag my gaze to meet hers. In fact, I spent months looking at people’s shoes.
Abigail also thought we ought to pursue my partner in crime. She insisted on returning to the club I’d said we met at, in the hope he’d be there or, at least, I’d recognise his friend. It was mortifying.
It was loud, thumping, strobe lights sweeping the room, making me feel dizzy. It was packed, heaving with noisy, sweaty gangs of people looking for a good time. Dancing, kissing, drinking, laughing. They seemed alien to me. I held my hands in front of my belly, protecting my bump from the raucousness.
‘Where do we start?’ yelled Abi, above the throb of music that was banging and thrashing through the club. Even she looked slightly defeated. I couldn’t believe she’d ever held any hope. She must have been expecting crowds this large and dense. We’d come here together often enough.
I sighed, looked up and gave a cursory look around. ‘Nope, he’s not here – we might as well go.’
‘Not so fast. You can’t just give up like that. This place is huge. We need to have a good scour about. You do want to find him, right? That’s what you said.’
I nodded. Yes, that’s what I’d said. That’s what everyone had expected me to say. But I knew I would not find him there. I was one hundred per cent sure of it. ‘It’s been months. He was visiting a friend.’
‘Yes, you’ve said.’ Abi’s stare was penetrating. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?’
‘Can we just go home? My back is aching.’
This was all a long time ago. I do not associate Liam with that mess, that anger and disappointment of those early months. Not anymore. He’s nothing but a joy. A funny, good looking, bright kid. He’s turned out just fine.
So why have I invited this reminder of that time into my home? Someone who knew me from before? Abigail Curtiz in particular.
Why am I pressing the bruise?
Friday 23rd February
Abi was pleased that Melanie had taken the day off work. It wasn’t popular with her boss, apparently, as Friday was a busy day at the dress store. Abigail said she really didn’t have to inconvenience herself but Mel insisted, as Abi knew she would. Being with Melanie reminded Abi of how things had been when she was at the peak of her career, when she was twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and people liked doing things for her. Then, they sent her invitations to their parties, and cars to ensure she got to the said parties in comfort, then they’d send flowers the day after, a thank you for her attendance. The attention had been dwindling for some time, but Abigail hadn’t realised how much she missed it until Mel started to make a fuss of her. Although Mel’s motivations were quite different from those who used to fawn around Abi back in the day. Mel didn’t want a job, or an introduction to Rob or even the chance to be snapped at her side by the paparazzi.
What did she want? Abigail believed everyone wanted something.
They caught the train to Stratford-Upon-Avon. It was a chilly but dry day, which was as much as you could hope for the last week in February in England. They wandered about, visiting the notable houses of Shakespeare’s womenfolk, his wife and daughter. They dipped into tiny boutique shops and bought small treats: handmade chocolates, a lime green scarf, a bottle of organic grapefruit tonic. They then went for a cream tea at a smart hotel. Abi noticed that Mel was bright with excitement. She was easy to seduce.
‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ commented Abi, glancing around the dining room, which was tastefully decorated in light greys and awash with a sense of gentry: white linen tablecloths, the clink of a spoon against bone china, delicate cakes stacked on tiered plates. ‘I adore your family. But just the two of us having this time together is such a treat.’
Mel agreed with more enthusiasm than was seemly for a woman who loved her husband and kids to distraction. She admitted, ‘I can’t remember when I last did anything so intrinsically indulgent.’
Abigail insisted that Mel eat the last salmon sandwich, and have both the little chocolate cakes; when Mel demurred – making embarrassed, reluctant comments about her weight – Abi tutted, swept them away and insisted that Mel was beautiful. Blushing, Mel tucked in. ‘I’d forgotten quite what it’s like to have a bestie girl friend,’ she giggled.
Obviously Mel meant she’d forgotten what it was like to be picked out as Abi’s friend. Abi had a talent of bathing those she singled out in a unique sense of importance. She knew the power of her intense interest. She knew it was flattering and motivating. Look what her attention had done for Rob. Without her, he probably would never have gone as far as he had. In Abigail’s company, Mel unfurled, as she always had. She became more vivid, stronger and wittier than usual. More daring. More entitled.
‘Oh, come on, you must have loads of friends,’ Abigail insisted. Although she wasn’t sure. If Mel did have friends, would they have let her become so dowdy? Real friends would surely have encouraged her to visit one of those women who told you which colour suited you most. Beige was not Mel’s colour.
‘I’m friendly enough with the people I work with, but mostly they’re young.’
‘We’re young.’
Mel laughed. ‘You, maybe. You look about twenty-seven. I’m wearing all my thirty-seven years; these girls I work with are just out of college. You know, eighteen. They work for a couple of years at the shop and then move on. Mostly, I feel motherly towards them, as they’re closer to Liam’s age than mine.’
‘Don’t mums make friends at playgroups and such? I always thought that’s why we lost touch, because your life was so full of new people. New mums.’
Mel’s colour intensified. ‘I did join a couple of mother and baby groups when I had Liam, but people kept assuming I was the au pair. As such, they thought I couldn’t relate to them, share their conversations and experiences, so largely they ignored me. When they did discover