Losing Juliet: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming. June Taylor
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me all this dredging up of the past, Eloise. You seem to think—’
A text had pinged through on her phone. It was too risky to ignore after what had happened the last time, but Chrissy was staring at her, almost challenging her. Eloise stuck it out, and when she heard her washing up, she seized the moment to take a look:
‘Open the door.’
It wasn’t Juliet’s number. Or anyone else in her Contacts.
Could it be dangerous? Should she tell her mother?
Sliding the chain across, she released it as silently as possible. Using both hands, she attempted to get a firm grip on the handle, and with her body butted up against the door, opened it a little way, preparing to shut it again quickly if necessary.
The walkway was deserted. Only the neighbour’s dog, tied up. It was trying to sniff the huge bouquet of flowers left in front of their doorway. Eloise was surprised that it hadn’t barked. She leapt over the flowers and peered over the side of the railings.
A man was just stepping into a car.
Cars like that stood out.
So her instincts had been right all along. That man really had looked directly at her yesterday when Maria had commented on the car. And quite possibly had followed her home the other night; she hadn’t imagined that either. Was he linked to Juliet? Or someone else who knew her mother? But Chrissy didn’t socialize with anyone except for her.
Leaving flowers was hardly threatening. Despite this, Eloise still couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling. She scooped them up, closing the door with her foot. Their flat immediately burst into colour. An exotic scent drifted into every corner of the room. The cellophane made a crinkling noise, causing Chrissy to come out of the kitchen to see what was happening. She looked puzzled when she saw the flowers, her body rigid.
‘Someone loves you, big style,’ said Eloise, putting them down on the table when she refused to take them.
Chrissy stared at the words printed on the card:
‘Chrissy Plumber xxx’
She began to examine each flower individually. ‘Must have cost a fortune,’ she said.
‘Have you any idea who they’re from though, Mum? They were just left outside the door.’
Eloise could see she was struggling to work it all out.
‘But how could they find us?’ she said, after what seemed a long time.
‘Who? Mum, who?’
She was sinking into her memories again like they were quicksand.
‘Well, maybe someone from Dad’s band told them where we live,’ said Eloise, hoping that might lead to something. ‘I’m just guessing, obviously. But why don’t they know you’re called Chrissy Lundy? Juliet knows you married my dad.’ Then she realized that Juliet hadn’t actually known they had got married, not until Eloise confirmed it for her. ‘Well, I’m assuming she did. She was your best friend.’
‘I’ll see to these,’ said Chrissy, handling the flowers roughly. ‘Let go, Eloise.’
***
She found them in the wheelie bin outside, tossed upside down. By the time she got back upstairs, Chrissy was in her full kit and running shoes.
‘I’m sorry, Eloise’ she said, twisting side to side. ‘I shouldn’t have got angry.’
Eloise held them out to her like a limp corpse. They were still in their cellophane, ruined. ‘These haven’t done anything wrong, Mum.’
Chrissy stared at them, narrowing her eyes. Gradually her face softened. ‘No. No, you’re right. And nor have you. I suppose they’ll brighten the place up a bit, won’t they? Do your best, eh? And I’ll see you in a little while.’
Eloise rummaged in the kitchen drawer for some scissors. She would make sure these flowers would be the first thing her mother saw when she came back from her run, and then she would have to tell her who they were from.
***
‘Juliet sent these. Didn’t she?’
Chrissy wiped the sweat off her face with her sleeve. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, heading into the kitchen.
‘Who else could it be?’
Eloise stayed close.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Yes, you have. Don’t lie to me.’ She felt her cheeks redden at the accusation, squirming under the pile of lies that had spilled out of her own mouth lately.
Chrissy began to pour herself a large glass of wine.
‘Isn’t it a bit early for that, Mum? Look, maybe Juliet wants to make it up to you.’
‘For what?’ said Chrissy, eyeing her with suspicion.
‘Well, maybe for saving her from doing anything stupid on that bridge. And she wouldn’t have changed courses if it wasn’t for you. And look where she is now.’ Eloise gave her a moment before pushing it further. ‘Unless, Mum, there’s something you’re not telling me. You know who sent the flowers, I know you do. Was there someone else besides my dad? You can tell me … Mum.’
There was no response.
‘Would Juliet know then – if I asked her?’
‘Don’t you dare, Eloise.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘No,’ said Chrissy, glowering at her. ‘But I’m asking you – again – not to do that. And I will know if you have.’
‘How? How could you know?’
‘Oh, believe me, Eloise, I will know.’
She stole the glass out of her mother’s hand. ‘Right. You can have this back if you tell me some more. Tell me about France.’
France: summer, 1989
‘Told you it’d be easy,’ Juliet shouted as they jogged towards the truck in the blinding sun, rucksacks bouncing on their backs.
They had trudged out to the recommended spot near Porte d’Orléans station at the end of Ligne 4 on the Paris Métro. Eleven fifteen, and they already had their first lift out of Paris.
Chrissy had been feeling stiff from the long coach journey, queasy from the rough Channel crossing and weary from lack of sleep in a couchette that refused to recline. The cheaper overnight ferry meant arriving in Calais around four in the morning with stinging eyes and grinding stomachs, yet all of this fell away the moment she stepped off the boat.
‘Ça sent bon,’ she said, taking her first breath of France.
‘Must be something wrong with your nose,’ said Juliet. ‘We’re still in the port and ça pue!’
‘Don’t spoil it, Ju. I just want to savour the moment.’
On the five-hour coach journey into Paris, Juliet only wanted to sleep but Chrissy made constant observations about driving on the wrong side of the road and how much she wanted a Citroën 2CV. Once they hit Paris she talked dreamily of strolling by the Seine or meandering through the labyrinth of streets in the Latin Quarter; she wanted to browse the flea markets and eat Proustian madeleines in a salon de thé, drink wine with the ghosts of her literary heroes in Café de Flore or Les Deux Magots.
Sadly, on this occasion, Paris was well beyond their budget and as soon as they got off the coach they were straight onto the Métro. For Chrissy, though, even the smells and sounds of the Paris