Just Like the Other Girls
Claire Douglas
About the Author
Claire Douglas has worked as a journalist for fifteen years writing features for women’s magazines and national newspapers, but she’s dreamed of being a novelist since the age of seven. She finally got her wish after winning the Marie Claire Debut Novel Award, with her first novel, The Sisters, which was followed by Local Girl Missing, Last Seen Alive and Do Not Disturb, all Sunday Times bestsellers. She lives in Bath with her husband and two children.
By the same author
The Sisters
Local Girl Missing
Last Seen Alive
Do Not Disturb
Then She Vanishes
To Juliet
The rising fog mingles with the dark night, turning everything opaque. I can barely see, yet I know someone else is on the suspension bridge with me.
I can hear them breathing.
How foolish I’ve been.
Nobody will come to my rescue. It’s too late at night – even vehicles have stopped driving across due to the weather. I clutch the railings tightly with gloved hands to anchor myself.
Someone calls my name. I turn, but I’m disoriented and I can’t tell which direction the voice is coming from. I just know I’ve been lured here. I need to find a way off this bridge. I let go of the railings, stumbling in panic, my breath quickening.
Don’t lose it. I must stay calm. I need to get out of this situation alive.
Suicide. That’s what they’ll say it was. Just like the other girls.
I hear a laugh. It sounds manic. Taunting.
And then a figure steps out of the fog, clamping a hand across my mouth before I’ve had the chance to scream.
BRISTOL DAILY NEWS
Carer/companion wanted for elderly lady * young female preferred * must live in * Clifton location * competitive salary * room and board included * Telephone Mrs Elspeth McKenzie …
October 2018
It’s even more stunning, more perfect than I remember. I stand and stare for a while at the place I will soon call home.
The scene before me is like a photograph in a glossy magazine, or the opening shot of a romantic film. I can almost hear the swell of background music as I take in the row of Georgian townhouses painted in different pastel shades, with their mint-humbug-striped canopies, delicate wrought-iron balconies and rooftops that reach up towards a cloudless blue sky. Trees, their leaves turning red, brown and orange, line the pavement, and a stretch of grass divides the street from the suspension bridge. A handful of people sit chatting and laughing, basking in this rare mid-October sunshine. Beside me, an older couple are huddled on a wooden bench overlooking the bridge and the Avon Gorge, sharing a drink from a Thermos flask. Beyond them, a young father helps his son with an oversized kite.
There is an electric charge in the air that makes me think anything is possible. I smile to myself as I bend over to pick up my small suitcase with its broken wheel. Ignoring the fluttering of nerves in my stomach, my fingers find the torn-off newspaper advert still in the pocket of my denim jacket. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. It’s my talisman.
This is it. My new job. My new life.
I’ve waited a long time for this.
I twiddle the ring on my little finger, like I always do when I’m nervous or apprehensive: this is so different from anything I’ve ever done before. I’m going to be living with strangers for the first time in my life. I’ll be out of my comfort zone.
I take a deep breath, swallowing my anxieties, as I stride towards the McKenzie house. This job is going to solve all of my problems. What could go wrong?
Part One
* * *
1
Three months later, January 2019, Una
Ice crunches underfoot and I have to tread carefully in my boots, made for fashion and not for Arctic conditions. Even so, I slip and save myself from falling on my arse by grabbing on to the iron railings for dear life, my legs splaying as I try to regain my footing. Two teenage lads stroll past and one lets out a bark of laughter. I resist flicking the finger at them just in case my would-be employer witnesses me and decides I’m too uncouth for the job. Instead I try to get my legs under control and gingerly continue down the pavement, stooped like an old lady, until I reach the McKenzie house. I stop, my hands still clutching the railings, ice seeping through my woollen gloves, and stare up at it in awe.
It’s the colour of strawberry milkshake, curve-fronted, with four floors and Georgian sash windows that overlook the suspension bridge. There is a balcony on the first floor and a black-and-white-striped canopy that has been pulled back. For a brief moment I consider turning and legging it – which would actually be impossible in this snow and ice. Why did I ever think I’d get a job like this? I’ll be working at the care home with Randy Roger and Surly Cynthia until my dying days.
I dust snowflakes from the front of my best – my only – coat. It’s maroon with a black velvet collar. It makes me look younger than my twenty-two years, but it was my mum’s favourite. She bought it for my eighteenth birthday from a vintage shop in Camden Town. We used to love our trips to the market there. We made it an annual event, travelling back late at night in Mum’s clapped-out Alfa because it was cheaper than getting the train. This coat had cost her nearly a whole week’s wages. I still remember how her silver eyes lit up as she watched me unwrap it.