In Spite: A terrifying psychological thriller with a shocking twist you won't see coming Read online

  IN SPITE

  A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  BY

  COLLETTE HEATHER

  COPYRIGHT

  COLLETTE HEATHER 2021

  IN SPITE

  A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  BY

  COLLETTE HEATHER

  COPYRIGHT COLLETTE HEATHER 2021

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  IN SPITE

  Thirty-four-year-old Tess Elliot could’ve put up with the fact she’s just been through her third round of failed IVF treatment if she hadn’t just found out that Shane, her rich, handsome husband of seven years, has been having an affair.

  As much as she wants to turn a blind eye because she has so much to lose, the pain is simply too great.

  On a Christmas shopping expedition with her sister-in-law, she is approached by a stranger who introduces herself as Alice. This beautiful woman claims to have slept with her husband.

  Alice is only trying to help; she believes that Tess has a right to know what a lying, cheating scumbag her husband is.

  But Alice isn’t quite who she claims to be, and her motives for befriending Tess are shady at best. Tess, Shane and Alice are a melting pot of simmering resentment; they will be ripped apart by their respective secrets, lies, and the need for vengeance.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Tess will have her revenge, at any cost.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TESS

  “… and I never know what to buy for Shane,” Kirsty, my sister-in-law is saying. “I mean, what the hell are you supposed to get for the man who has everything, right? And you’re not even listening to a single word that I’m saying, are you?”

  “What?” I ask distractedly. “Yes, yes, of course I am.”

  Kirsty suddenly grinds to a halt and I jerk to a standstill next to her, feeling very much like her pack donkey, laden down with what is mostly her Christmas shopping.

  “Oh God,” she says, “I forgot to pick up something from the perfume shop. I got Jack his Fahrenheit, but I didn’t get… Actually, it doesn’t matter what I didn’t get, but I just have to pop in and get it, okay? Why don’t you sit down?” She steers me over towards a nearby, cast-iron bench in the packed, indoor shopping mall, and plonks me down in the middle of it, surrounded by all the bags. “Two seconds, I promise.”

  The bags crowd around me, like eager children leaning in for a cuddle – children that I will probably never have. My eyes burn hot and prickly, and rapidly, I blink.

  No. Don’t think about the IVF.

  I watch Kirsty’s slightly overweight frame disappear into the nearby perfume shop, refusing to give in to the sadness that threatens to swamp me. I’m not just sad that Shane and I have just completed our third round of failed IVF treatment, I am sad because I suspect that my husband of seven years is cheating on me.

  A coldness seeps through me, carried on a tide of sick dizziness, despite the many layers I am swaddled in, and the fact it is the standard, indoor shopping mall regulation temperature of seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

  Different strains of tinny, inane Christmas pop music assaults me from all angles, and I can feel the way my top lip curls in distaste as it drifts into my eardrums. Feed The World mingles with the distant, opening bars of Jingle Bells, and I am overwhelmed by a fresh surge of light headedness and nausea. People stream around me, as if water around a rock, buoyed by Christmas spirit and shopping desperation, united in their single-minded determination to complete their various missions, to get what they came here for.

  I catch a waft of hot canteen food – nothing specific, just a general aroma of frying meat and onions, and my stomach clenches. It is coming from the glossily-presented food hall around the corner, where substandard meals, supposedly from all four corners of the globe, compete.

  I close my eyes for a second, so sure that I am going to throw up, horribly aware of the chilly sweat that has broken out down my back. It has only been three weeks since I miscarried, two months into this most recent pregnancy. Foolishly, I had really believed that the third time would be the charm, but alas, there was to be no beautiful baby for me.

  I sense someone sitting down next to me on the curved iron seat, and my eyes snap open. When I cast a surreptitious glance at the person who has joined me, the stranger is unabashedly staring right at me, a big grin cracking open her beautiful face.

  “Hi there,” she says, oozing confidence and the kind of arrogant, I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude that I’ve always personally lacked, and been unashamedly jealous of if I encounter it in anyone else.

  There is little point in pretending that I am oblivious to her presence – that would be stupid, considering that she has just spoken to me, so I bravely allow my face to swivel in her direction.

  “Hi,” I say uncertainly, taking her in.

  There is no question about it – she is beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. She is the polar opposite of me, from her dress sense to her physicality. I take in her endless, slim legs in the short, floral skirt, beneath which she wears woollen tights and funky, flat red boots. She wears a cropped, leather jacket in the same shade of red as her boots, zipped up to her chest, with a hot pink, silk scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked into the opened top of the jacket. Her hair is a shiny, bluish black, worn in a sleek bob, her complexion as pale as a goth’s, except her skin appears natural and flawless, with no help from any lightening foundations. I would guess her age to be anywhere from mid-twenties to my own age of thirty-four.

  She is everything that I am not, but wish that I was. The only thing we have in common is our height – she is quite tall for a woman, as am I, clocking in at just shy of five feet nine inches tall. She angles her body towards me, resting her elbow on the curved, metal back of our shared, long armless seat, her slender, elegantly draped forearm hanging casually down. And, to my complete incredulity, a cigarette dangles from her long fingers.

  I haven’t smoked in years – for a start it plays havoc with one’s chances of conceiving – but the sight of that fag reignites a long-buried urge to light up.

  “You can’t smoke in here, there’s a five-hundred pound fine.”

  “Do I look like the type of person who gives a rat’s arse, Tess?” she says with a grin that is too broad, too wide.

  She is dazzlingly beautiful, in the way of a supermodel or film star, but there is something distinctly reptilian in her face – something about her which I find oddly repellent. Maybe it’s the cruel glint in her widely spaced, powder-blue eyes, or the constant smirk to her full mouth, but for whatever reason, she seriously gives me the creeps. Yet, in the same breath, neither can I tear my gaze away from her, for I find her utterly mesmerising, completely enthralling.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “but have we met?”

  Because I do find her familiar. But maybe she is only familiar to me in the way that beautiful people – especially women – tend to feel familiar to me, probably because I’ve seen faces just like hers countless times in Instagram feeds and in the movies.

  Even so, what I really wanted to say was, how in the hell do you know my name? Sadly, I have an inbuilt defence mechanism when it comes to be being rude, so I don’t ask that. I am so repressed; I wish I could be more out
going – one of those people who always manages to say what’s on their mind. The type of person who has an endless supply of witty retorts up their sleeve to nasty comments. Someone who isn’t afraid to snap back, and to hell with the consequences. No, I’m the type of person who lies awake all night, stewing in certain mental agony, thinking about all the things I should have said, but didn’t.

  “Yes,” the beautiful stranger replies with a positively wicked grin. “I certainly know your husband.”

  I inhale sharply, the blood turning to ice water in my veins, the vast shopping mall tilting and swaying around me. Deep down, I know what is coming next, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier. It wasn’t going to stop the bottom from dropping out of my world.

  “What do you mean?” I ask in a small voice that sounds weak and pathetic to my own ears.

  The stranger laughs – a deep, throaty chuckle so unlike my own restrained, gentle laugh.

  “Oh, come now, Tess, I know that you know exactly what I mean. Shane and I used to fuck, but we don’t anymore. Trust me when I say, I’ve moved on. I just thought you had a right to know, that’s all. Your husband is a lying scumbag; you could do so much better. You need to wake up and see Shane for who – and what – he really is. Check his phone, his laptop. Everything you need to know will be on there.”

  I don’t know what to say, what to do, what to think. Frantically, I wrack my brains for a suitable combination of words.

  “Who are you?” I manage to ask.

  “I’m Alice. Alice in Wonderland, baby.”

  With those parting words, she gets to her feet and casually strolls into the crowd, where she is swallowed whole.

  I sit there on my bench, thoroughly dazed, white blobs and twinkling lights like the crackle of electricity dancing before my eyes. This isn’t good – I have the beginnings of a migraine. There is no pain in my head yet, but it will follow. It always does.

  *

  Kirsty joins me a few minutes later, a little paper bag from the perfume shop swinging from her hand, containing what must be her husband Jack’s Fahrenheit.

  “They really jack up the prices in the Christmas run up,” she is moaning as she draws level with me. “Why do they do that? Greedy bastards, is what I say.” She stops before me on the bench, frowning at me. “You okay? You’re as white as chalk.”

  I can barely hear her over the ringing in my ears and I make a conscious effort to get myself under control. Oh God, I hope I’m not going to have a full-blown panic attack; I haven’t had one of those in years.

  “I’m always white as chalk,” I mumble through parched lips.

  I am thirsty, I realise. And I am still shaking from that encounter with the mystery woman who claimed to have slept with my husband. I start rummaging through the assortment of bags, searching for my small bottle of water. I locate it and unscrew the lid.

  “You look terrible,” she says.

  “I think I have a migraine coming on.”

  I decide there and then that I will not tell her about Alice. That would open up a whole can of worms that I simply don’t want to get into with my sister-in-law.

  “Oh. That’s not good. I was going to suggest lunch in the India section. The receptionist at the surgery was raving about it.”

  “Sorry. I need to pop into Boots, get some Paracetamols.”

  “It’s okay, I think I have some in my bag.” She unzips her slouchy, brown leather shoulder bag, and proceeds to rummage. “Yes, here we are. Take two,” she says, stating the obvious; I guess she can’t help herself, being a doctor.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry.”

  “Please, stop apologising. It’s probably for the best. Not your migraine, I mean,” she adds hastily, “just, I’m on a bit of a tight schedule anyway. I have to get back, drive Jemima to her friend’s house for her sleepover as Jack’s working late, and then hit the road so I’m at Mum’s by teatime.”

  Kirsty’s mother – and my husband’s mother, obviously – is sick. She has terminal cancer, and Kirsty spends nearly every other weekend with her, driving the seventy miles to Essex on Friday and coming home again on Sunday in time for work on Monday. Kirsty says that hers – and Shane’s – father is struggling, and he is glad of the help.

  Shane doesn’t visit half as much as he should. He says he’s too busy with work, but I’m not so sure I believe it. He works from home half the time, although he pops into London a few times a week to check his graphic design company which employs eight people is still standing. The truth is, he just can’t cope with seeing his mother dying. I understand, but in the same breath, I think he is being selfish.

  “I can’t believe how much you do,” I say admiringly.

  “It’s mostly a miracle I managed to wangle this Friday and next Monday off. But hey, the Christmas shopping won’t do itself.”

  “Can’t Jack help with any of it?”

  She laughs, but it sounds strained. I look at her properly for the first time; she has dark rings under her eyes, and a flareup of spots around her chin – she is forty-eight, so teenage hormones aren’t exactly the culprit.

  “You know Jack, he isn’t the most reliable. At least he isn’t running his business into the ground, so that’s something to be grateful for.”

  Shane would beg to differ. According to my husband, Jack’s used car lot is barely making ends meet, but I have the good sense not to go there. Shane says Kirsty only puts up with it because on the face of it, Jack is gainfully employed. She must be on at least one-hundred thousand a year, so they can afford to run a business that may or may not just about break even.

  “You do so much. You make me feel so lazy,” I say.

  “You’re far from lazy.”

  “I only work parttime, I don’t do half as much as you do.”

  “Who does?” she says, laughing sadly. “You do your piano lessons from home, and you do all the housework. When was the last time Shane cooked a meal? Not to mention all that ghastly IVF you’ve been going through.”

  Affectionately, she reaches out to squeeze my knee. Shane and I have just finished our third round of it, and I haven’t really talked about it to anyone. I want to talk to Kirsty, especially with her being a doctor, but somehow, I can’t find the words. It’s my own, private failure and I keep it tucked in tight to myself.

  I flinch slightly when the dancing lights in front of my eyes is accompanied by a sudden, sharp stab of pain.

  “Come on, let’s get you home,” Kirsty says.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “How’s that migraine?” Kirsty asks me.

  My head jerks upright on my neck at the sound of her voice. I have been resting my temple against the window of the passenger door, and I had completely zoned out. I do that sometimes – it’s like my superpower. I’m there, but not there. I had been oblivious to the hedgerow of the dual carriageway rolling past my window, but now I see it in all its technicolour glory and the colours hurt my brain.

  “It’s okay,” I mumble, resentful at being so unmercifully yanked back to reality.

  Also, I am categorically not okay, but there’s no point in bleating on about it.

  “Not long now,” Kirsty says in a singsong voice. “We’ll soon have you home.”

  I know that she’s trying to be nice, but it just comes across as patronising. Normally, I wouldn’t mind – it’s just the way she is – but all I want to do is go home, crawl under a duvet in a darkened room and quietly die in peace. I don’t want to be having to make polite conversation.

  We’re home within half an hour. The indoor shopping centre is only twenty miles from Broadgate on the outskirts of Canterbury, and thankfully traffic wasn’t too bad. Kirsty pulls up in mine and Shane’s driveway. Shane’s black BMW is tucked away inside the garage as he is working from home today, and my less important car, a red Ford Fiesta, is parked in front of the garage doors. I don’t mind that my car isn’t as posh as his – I’m not really much of a car person, and, if it weren’t for Shane keeping us afloat,
I probably wouldn’t be able to afford a car at all on my meagre earnings.

  Kirsty parks her white, Volkswagen Passat in front of mine on the driveway, killing the engine.

  “Home, sweet home,” she says, swivelling in her seat to gaze at me.

  She looks so much like Shane in that moment, I do a double take. They have the same, coarse, mid-brown hair with a slight kink to it, which Kirsty wears in an unflattering, mumsy cut that skims her shoulders, the ends of her fringe falling into her glasses. They’re even greying identically at the temples. Kirsty colours hers, but evidently she hasn’t done so for a few weeks as the grey bits are poking through. They also share the same, quick brown eyes beneath heavily arched, thick brows, and they have the same, narrow nose with the elegantly flared nostrils.

  Unfortunately for Kirsty, she also has Shane’s lantern jaw and prominent chin. It looks good on Shane, but on Kirsty, not so much. It makes her look aggressive and severe.

  “Are you coming in?” I ask dazedly, hoping that she’ll say no.

  “Yes, just for a moment. But I really need to get back by three, and take Jemima to her friend’s house as soon as she gets home from school. Although, why she can’t spend tonight with a girlfriend from her own school, I’ll never know.”

  Jemima was still knocking around with a friend she’d met in primary school, who’d long since moved away from Thanet and therefore now went to a different school thirty miles away.

  I shudder at the thought of Jemima; she always looks at me like she wants to kill me, or something. I don’t know what I’ve done to rub her up the wrong way, but I guess that’s fourteen-year-old pubescents for you.

  “You’re always so busy,” I say again. But it never ceases to amaze me; I get tired just listening to the itinerary of Kirsty’s average day.

  Kirsty isn’t listening, however, and has already exited the car. With my head beginning to pound in earnest, I follow her inside my home.