Remember Me: The gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist. Read online

  Remember Me

  Lynda Renham

  About the Author

  Lynda Renham’s novels are popular, fast paced and with a strong theme. She lives in Oxford UK and when not writing Lynda can usually be found wasting her time on Facebook.

  Lynda is author of the best-selling romantic comedy novels including Croissants and Jam, Coconuts and Wonderbras, Phoebe Smith’s Private Blog, Pink Wellies and Flat Caps, It Had To be You, Rory’s Proposal, Fudge Berries and Frogs Knickers, Fifty Shades of Roxie Brown, Perfect Weddings and The Dog’s Bollocks.

  The right of Lynda Renham to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN 978-0-9934026-9-2

  first edition

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Printed for Raucous Publishing in Great Britain by

  4edge Limited

  Copyright © Raucous Publishing 2017

  www.raucouspublishing.co.uk

  Chapter One

  She stands on the doorstep. She’s shivering. She isn’t wearing a coat and I can see the outline of her breasts through her thin blouse. She sees me looking and pulls her cardigan around her.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘It’s freezing isn’t it?’

  Her lips quiver with the cold. She looks shy and apologetic. Some hair has escaped her loose ponytail and she brushes it back. She looks at me through rain-splattered glasses.

  ‘I’m Sharni,’ she says. ‘We’ve just moved in to number 24, next door.’

  She points and my eyes follow her direction to a removal van. The house had been empty for a few months and Chris and I had wondered who might move in.

  ‘I’m Clare,’ I say. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

  She seems nervous and embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry to be a pain, already,’ she smiles. ‘But I’ve been sent some flowers and I can’t seem to find a vase anywhere. There are just so many boxes and …’

  ‘Oh, of course, come in,’ I say opening the door wider.

  She closes it quickly behind her but not before a flurry of autumn leaves has blown in with her. Their rustic brown matches the colour of her hair.

  ‘It’s lovely and warm in here,’ she comments.

  ‘Do you not have heating?’

  ‘Oh yes, but with the door open all the time it’s impossible to stay warm.’

  She looks vaguely familiar and I try to recall where I have seen her before.

  ‘I’ll get you a vase,’ I say, leading her into the lounge. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  She turns away and rubs her glasses on the sleeve of her cardigan.

  ‘I’m steamed up,’ she laughs. ‘A coffee would be great.’

  Small gold hoops dangle from her earlobes and I notice ink smudges on her hands. Newspaper print I imagine. I remember Chris and I were covered in it when we moved in.

  ‘If we ever move again, remind me not to use newspaper,’ he’d complained.

  I search under the sink for a vase. My hand encounters dirty dusters and old bottles of cleaning liquid, but no vase. A mousetrap slams shut on my finger and I fight back a cry. I hear Sharni talking to Ben. Her voice is warm and soft. Ben gurgles happily. I try another cupboard without success and finally reach for the hand-painted vase on the top shelf of the Welsh dresser. Chris had bought it for me on our honeymoon. I hesitate for a second. It’s not like she’ll have it for long. She’ll probably give it back as soon as she’s unpacked.

  The kettle clicks and I make the coffee.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ she says on seeing the vase. She’s on the floor helping Ben colour in his rabbit pictures.

  ‘My husband bought it for me when we were honeymooning in Ireland.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’ she asks. ‘I’ll bring it back tomorrow. It’s just I don’t want the flowers to die.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say, pushing my lesson plans off the coffee table and placing a mug in front of her.

  ‘He’s adorable,’ she says, looking at Ben.

  ‘He is,’ I agree.

  She strokes the top of his head, her hand lingering.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ she says, glancing around.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m keen to get ideas. I want our house to look really nice. You’ve done a great job here.’

  She fingers the art décor lamp on the side table and I smile. Ben begins to get irritable and I bend down to him.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask where you bought this?’

  ‘John Lewis, if I remember. They have lovely things there.’

  Ben lets out a burp and we both laugh.

  ‘How old is he?’ she asks.

  ‘Almost two,’ I say.

  He struggles from my arms and wobbles towards Sharni like a newborn fawn.

  ‘He’s just discovered his legs,’ I laugh.

  She catches him as he tumbles towards her.

  ‘Do you have children?’ I ask.

  Her face clouds over. It occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have asked. She then smiles and I wonder if I imagined it.

  ‘No,’ she says flatly.

  I struggle to think of something to say.

  ‘Are you in interior design?’ she asks.

  I laugh.

  ‘Me? No, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m a teacher, well, only part-time now that we have Ben.’

  ‘But this room is gorgeous, you have excellent taste. I’ll have to pick your brains when I start decorating ours.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to have neighbours of our own age,’ I say.

  Her eyes shine. She places her mug on the table and leans towards me.

  ‘I’ve got a great idea, why don’t you and your husband come over Saturday evening for house-warming drinks. We can get to know each other better.’

  ‘But you’ll be up to your eyes won’t you?’ I say, surprised at the invite.

  ‘We’ll need a break. Do say you’ll come.’

  ‘I’ll need to check with Chris, my husband, but I’m sure it will be okay.’

  ‘Great,’ she smiles, getting up from the couch. ‘Shall we say about eight? If you can’t get a sitter then bring the toddler with you.’

  I open my mouth to speak and then change my mind. I had hoped we could take Ben with us. I hate leaving him with sitters but I imagine she wants an adult evening.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say hugging Ben close. ‘Enjoy your flowers.’

  ‘Flowers?’ she questions.

  ‘The ones you needed the vase for.’

  ‘Oh yes. My mum sent them. Thanks Clare. See you on Saturday.’

  *

  ‘I see someone’s moving in,’ says Helen, nodding towards the removal van.

  I follow her gaze.

  ‘Yes. I met her this morning. She seems nice.’

  We watch as a white sofa is carried into the house. I shiver as the cold air cuts through me.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ I ask, stepping back into the warm.

  ‘No, I just popped around for the lesson plans. I’ve got a pile of marking to get through.’

  She closes the
door and waits for me to get the plans.

  ‘They’ve invited us for drinks on Saturday,’ I say. I don’t know why I’m telling Helen. Maybe I’m hoping she’ll make me feel better about not wanting to go.

  ‘God, they’d have barely settled in.’

  ‘I know. I’m thinking we should maybe say no.’

  ‘That’s daft. Of course you should go. I’m sure you can get a sitter,’ smiles Helen. ‘You’re always saying how Chris moans because you don’t go out much.’

  I force a smile. It’s very short notice to ask Kathryn to babysit and I really don’t trust anyone else. It’s all right for Helen. Not having children she couldn’t possibly understand. I know she thinks I’m overanxious and maybe she’s right. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to go out for the evening but it’s not much fun if I’m worrying about Ben all the time.

  ‘I’ll speak to Chris,’ I say.

  ‘How’s Ben?’ she asks, peeking around the door to wave at him.

  ‘He’s great. I love the days I’m home.’

  She hugs me and opens the front door.

  ‘We need to do a trip to Ikea,’ she says, her face lighting up.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘We’ll get a date at school tomorrow. Better fly.’

  I watch as a black Audi pulls up outside the house next door. A smartly dressed man emerges from it. He pulls a suitcase from the boot and wheels it to the house. I brush some leaves from the step and close the front door.

  One year earlier

  She sat in her usual chair in the therapist’s room, her hands clasped together, her shoulders hunched.

  ‘Do you want to talk about the birth?’ Leah asked, handing her a mug of coffee.

  No, I don’t want to talk about the birth, she thought. The rain splashed at the windows and her eyesight blurred.

  ‘I don’t really remember much,’ she said. It didn’t sound like her voice. It was too far away. ‘I know it was raining. I remember hailstones hitting the windows. I was excited that it was happening.’

  She squeezed her hands tightly, the nails sharp and painful in her palms.

  ‘I remember thinking it doesn’t matter about the pain. It would all be worth it, and it was.’

  ‘It’s a good memory?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But I wanted three. I always wanted three. I’d planned that we’d have the second a year later. That way they could grow up together …’

  Her throat seemed to close up and she struggled to breathe.

  ‘Do you need a glass of water?’ Leah asked kindly.

  She shook her head. All she seemed to do here was drink endless amounts of water.

  ‘I still can’t accept it. I do try. I remember the pain, it went on for hours. I would have liked a natural birth but I was relieved when I was taken to the operating theatre. Everyone said I should be grateful to have a baby but I only felt disappointment and anger. It was my mother who told me that I couldn’t have any more’.

  ‘Are you still angry with the doctors for taking away your womb?’

  She shrugged. Her hand trembled and she carefully placed the mug of coffee on to the table next to a solitary box of tissues. She found herself wondering how often Leah replaces the box. Every day? Every few hours?

  ‘You need to get past this if we’re to move on. You have to accept.’

  It’s easy for her to say, she thought angrily.

  ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not about me,’ said Leah

  ‘I have to go,’ she said suddenly, standing up.

  Leah didn’t seem surprised.

  At least she’d stayed longer than last time.

  Chapter Two

  ‘You look incredible,’ says Chris.

  ‘You don’t think it’s too much? I could wear my jeans.’

  ‘You look great. I like you in that dress. Although I don’t know why we’re bothering if they can’t even return our vase.’

  ‘They’ve probably had a lot on their plate,’ I say, excusing Sharni.

  ‘It’s been five days. The flowers will be dead by now, surely.’

  ‘I expect they are busy people and just haven’t got around to returning it. I remember being overwhelmed when we moved in here.’

  ‘Why are you making excuses for them?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  I smile at his reflection in the mirror. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and a pair of underpants. I laugh at the absurdity. He smells of Aqua De Parma.

  ‘You smell nice,’ I say.

  He kisses my neck and his hand slides down to cup my breast. I shiver under his touch.

  ‘I’ve just changed,’ I say.

  ‘You can just un-change then,’ he whispers huskily into my ear.

  ‘Kathryn will be here any minute. Besides, Ben …’

  ‘Is happily playing in his pen.’

  What if Kathryn knocks and we’re both naked or worse still Chris has a tell-tale bulge. What will she think?

  ‘Chris …’ I begin.

  The dress slides from my shoulders and I shudder.

  ‘Christ Clare, you’re so sexy,’ he moans.

  The doorbell chimes, making me jump.

  ‘Shit,’ groans Chris.

  ‘I did warn you,’ I smile. ‘She’s always early.’

  He zips up the dress, kisses me and hurries to the bathroom. The scent of the Aqua De Parma clings to my dress and I find it comforting.

  ‘I’m a bit early,’ says Kathryn, giving me an admiring glance. ‘That’s a gorgeous dress Mrs Ryan.’

  ‘It’s new,’ I say, sounding like a child with a new toy. ‘I’ll get Ben from the bedroom.’

  I can’t help wondering if Kathryn compares our home to the houses of her other clients, not that I know any of her clients. Chris and I have only lived in Kensington for eighteen months. I don’t really know anyone apart from the staff at the school, and I really only know Helen well.

  ‘You know where everything is?’ I say. ‘And how the TV works?’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ she smiles.

  I’m sounding overanxious again.

  ‘I’m going to finish getting ready.’

  I brush past Chris on the stairs.

  ‘We have to go in ten minutes if we want to be fashionably late,’ he says, tapping me on the bum.

  I look at myself in the mirror and begin to doubt what I’ve done with my hair. I thought curls would look good but my hair is too fine and it looks flat. There’s no time to spray some dry shampoo into it, and nowhere near enough time to clip it up. I stroke some lipstick across my lips and dab with a tissue. I’ve put too much blusher on. With shaking hands I dab at my cheeks too.

  ‘Clare,’ Chris calls. ‘Are you ready? We should go.’

  I step into my heels and take one last look in the mirror. I remember that I have no perfume on and quickly spray some Jo Malone Grapefruit on to my throat. Damn it, now it will be too fresh. I grab Ben and hurry down the stairs.

  Chris fidgets at the front door.

  ‘I don’t know what I’ve done with my handbag,’ I say looking around.

  ‘It’s here Mrs Ryan,’ Kathryn calls.

  I check that the bottle of diazepam is in there and let out a small sigh of relief.

  ‘You won’t need those,’ Chris says softly.

  I pretend not to hear him.

  ‘You have our number,’ I say to Kathryn. ‘Don’t hesitate to phone no matter what. Ben’s beaker is in the kitchen. I’ve left some juice out for him.’

  Chris sighs.

  ‘No worries Mrs Ryan. You both have a good time.’

  ‘Clare,’ Chris says taking my arm.

  I nod and shrug into my coat. I give Ben one last look and follow Chris out of the house.

  Chapter Three

  ‘You’re wearing Grapefruit,’ sniffs Sharni. ‘I love Jo Malone.’

  ‘It’s one of my few luxuries,’ I say and then realise it sounds like I can’t afford it. The truth
is I can’t. My salary as a part-time teacher doesn’t pay that much and although Chris works hard and takes every bit of overtime he can, we don’t have much left over once the mortgage and bills are paid. The Jo Malone perfume was a special treat for my birthday last year and I’m making it last.

  ‘Come in,’ Sharni says warmly, taking our coats.

  Sharni is an excellent hostess. I can’t imagine how she finds the time but I suppose it helps not having children. The table is laid with assorted cheeses, ham, French bread, home-made Melba toast, pates, and small crispbreads topped with smoked salmon and cream cheese. Sharni hands us a mango Bellini while her husband, Tom, offers around a plate of canapés. I tell Sharni I’m not drinking but she’s having none of it and says we’re there to christen the house and what better way to do that than with champagne.

  ‘One won’t hurt,’ Chris whispers.

  I’m not at all used to champagne. I can’t remember the last time Chris and I had some. I only ever drink it at weddings and we haven’t been to one of those in a long time. It’s not something we have in the house. A bottle of wine is a treat for us. The truth is I don’t like to mix alcohol with diazepam. It’s not that I can’t. It’s just I don’t want to be incapable of taking care of Ben. Being a mum means everything to me.

  ‘The house is lovely,’ I say.

  ‘You’d never think you’d just moved in,’ agrees Chris, looking around.

  Tom laughs. He’s good looking. Not the kind of man I would have imagined Sharni to be with. He’s dynamic and stands out whereas Sharni seems insignificant with her mousy brown hair and glasses. Tom has a very upper-crust accent, unlike Sharni who has a West Country lilt to her voice.

  ‘You haven’t seen the upstairs. Everything that hasn’t been unpacked is up there,’ says Tom.

  He tops up my Bellini before I can stop him. Chris and I sit together on the white sofa. It feels hard and resistant beneath me, unlike our old saggy one where my body moulds into its softness. Sharni looks less tired than when I last saw her. Her hair is tidier and tied back into a neat bun. Large black dangly earrings hang from her ears.

  There are ‘Good Luck’ cards on the windowsill. I’ve never been in the house before. An elderly couple lived here previously. I’d heard the work being done before Sharni and Tom moved in. The lounge wall is covered in black and white photos. Several are of Tom in a natural pose. I wonder if he’s a model. He clearly knows how to pose for photographs. Alongside those are colour prints of another couple, older than us and I presume them to be Sharni or Tom’s parents. Others are of country landscapes and the rest are of Sharni and Tom in loving poses. I stand up and study them.