The Girl You Gave Away: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 3

  Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep that night. I woke with a raging headache, which couldn’t be explained away as a hangover. After breakfast, we put the house back into some kind of order, collecting up the last of the glasses, returning chairs to their usual places, hoovering up buffet crumbs. The hire company wasn’t collecting the marquee until the following day. In the grey morning light it looked rather tatty and sorry for itself. The balloons had started to shrivel; a few had come away from their moorings and were drifting across the sticky blue carpet like wayward clouds. There was that post-party feeling of desolation, the sense that the good times had come and gone and might never return. Or maybe that was just me.

  Tom seemed in a pretty cheerful mood, still submerged in the warm bath of yesterday’s celebrations. He kept recalling the highlights: how lovely it was to see so many friends, how good the catering had been, how Oli had talked to people despite being painfully shy, how Chloe had put aside her teenage dignity and joined in the dancing.

  ‘She stopped as soon as she saw me filming her,’ he said, ‘but now I have proof! She was actually having fun.’

  ‘It was brilliant; thank you so much for organising it,’ I said, wondering if he could hear how hollow my words sounded.

  Later that morning, Tom took the empty bottles to the recycling centre. The house was quiet, neither of the kids having surfaced yet. I went into our bedroom and took out the birthday card again.

  Why hadn’t she given any contact details – an address, phone number or email? She hadn’t even told me her name. If she wanted us to meet, surely she’d have left a way for me to get in touch. Maybe the card wasn’t from my daughter at all, I thought suddenly. Maybe it was from somebody who wanted to wreck my marriage. But that was silly. Who would do such a spiteful thing?

  My mind conjured up a few absurd possibilities. A woman after my husband? Tom was still an attractive man, but the idea was laughable. A disgruntled employee? I couldn’t think of any candidates – generally they were a contented bunch. No, it had to be from my daughter, there was no other explanation.

  But how had she known where to find me? Presumably she’d sent off for her adoption records, but they would only have shown my home address back then. That cold, loveless house in Camford where I grew up as the youngest of four, my older brothers having fled the nest, leaving me on my own. Perhaps she had written to the old address and it had been forwarded to my parents’ new home in Cornwall. Of course, that had to be how she’d found me. My daughter had been helped by her grandmother.

  Chapter Four

  Jade

  January 2020

  Jade is in the back of the charity shop, sorting clothes into sizes. She prefers to be on her own, away from the customers and the sharp gaze of Mike, the new manager. It’s cooler and calmer here, the windowless room lit by a single bulb. Those spotlights and overhead strips out front give her a headache.

  She sits cross-legged, randomly picking items out of the nest she’s made for herself on the floor, and sniffs for traces of the people who once wore them. Sweat in the armpits, perfume at the collar. Why did they give them away? There must be a reason. Perhaps they didn’t like the colour. Or the garment no longer fitted. Or maybe they just got bored of it and wanted something new. She wonders about her birth mum’s motives in a similar way.

  With eyes closed, she plunges her hand into the pile, pulling out a piece of fabric as if it’s a prize in a lucky dip. It’s the only way to make the job interesting, not that it is a job, not really – she’s a part-time volunteer. She opens her eyes. What has she won? A lady’s top, size sixteen, made out of what Amy calls crêpe – a sort of posh bandage material – cream with frilly bits around the neck and the bottom of the sleeves. Does it count as vintage? she asks herself. So hard to know. Some things she assumes are modern – that long flowery dress that came in last week, for example – turn out to be ancient, from the seventies. And other pieces she’s convinced are proper vintage are quickly denounced as fakes.

  Amy can always tell in an instant; she’s so smart. She’s trying to teach Jade to spot the genuine article, showing her images online, pointing out collar shapes and dress lengths, pattern designs and colour palettes. Jade completely sees it in the moment – she’s not stupid – but when she tries to retrieve the information later, when she needs it, it’s nowhere to be found. Her teachers used to moan about their lessons going in one ear and straight out the other, as if she deliberately waved the facts through like curious bystanders. Move on, nothing to see here, this brain has nothing to do with you. Nobody has ever understood that she can’t help it.

  The cream top is a maybe, so she stuffs it in what she privately refers to as ‘Amy’s bag’, a tatty plastic carrier that looks like it’s just come in and is waiting to be sorted. Amy is an online dealer. Her company is called New Love Vintage and she has a business card and everything. They met in the shop several months ago and now they’re best friends.

  Whenever Jade is doing one of her days, she texts Amy, who comes in and rifles through the rails for a while, pretending to look for something. The changing room is out the back, next to the sorting area and the little kitchen. When Amy gives her the nod, Jade puts the bag in the cubicle. Amy picks out a skirt or a top, whatever, and goes to try it on. Once inside the cubicle, she goes through the bag and takes out what she wants. Sometimes she puts the things in the bottom of her shopper, hidden beneath packets and cans. Other times, she puts them on under her own clothes. Jade is amazed at how easy it is to nick stuff – there are none of those electronic labels that bleep when you walk out of the door.

  Amy always plays it really casual. She never leaves straight away, but hangs around for a few minutes, chatting to the manager, and about once a week, she actually buys something for real. Jade stays out back, sweating with anxiety, desperate for her to go. That girl has such nerve, she thinks, you have to admire her.

  She knows that what they’re doing is wrong. It’s shoplifting, basically, although Amy says it’s a crime with no victim, because the clothes have been donated, not bought as stock like in a normal shop. ‘You can’t lose what you never had in the first place,’ she says.

  Amy sells the clothes at markets or online. She can’t do a proper job because she looks after her mum. Mia has cancer. Jade can never remember exactly what kind of cancer it is and doesn’t like to keep asking. They rent a one-bedroom flat on the eleventh floor of an ex-council block. Amy sleeps on the sofa. Nobody could accuse them of living it large. Stealing clothes for Amy could be seen as charity work, Jade thinks; she’s just cutting out the middleman.

  She has total respect for her friend – the way she does everything for her mum and never moans about it. The two of them are incredibly close, but they’re always pleased to see Jade. They think it’s appalling that she lives in a hostel, although Jade secretly quite likes it. She feels much safer there than on the streets.

  When she told Amy about her past and how her birth mum had given her up as a tiny baby, tears welled in her friend’s eyes and she kept saying, ‘OMG, that’s so sad … I can’t bear it.’

  Jade showed her the adoption file, which gives her birth mum’s name and home address and details of the family circumstances. There are several reports written by social workers that make it clear she wasn’t wanted. But Amy doesn’t believe it, pointing out that her birth mum was very young at the time and probably didn’t have any say in the matter.

  ‘I bet you anything she loves you and thinks about you all the time,’ she said. ‘She’ll be desperate to meet you. You’ve got to contact her. Do it now, Jade, before it’s too late.’ It didn’t need saying that she was thinking of her own mother.

  Jade would never have sent the birthday card if it hadn’t been for Amy’s encouragement. Just remembering how scared she was walking up to her birth mum’s front door makes her feel all fluttery inside. Two pink balloons were tied to the knocker, gently bobbing on the end of their strings. They made Jade think of the b
reasts she almost certainly never sucked on. Maybe it was some kind of rude joke. It was a jarring thought, anyway, and she nearly turned and ran away without posting the envelope through the letter box. Was she seen? She thought she saw a man staring out of the window, but nobody opened the door. There was loud music playing; they were obviously having a party.

  She wonders when her birth mum opened the envelope – straight away, or afterwards, when the guests had gone home? How did she feel when she saw who it was from? Did she burst out crying like people do on that programme about finding long-lost families? Tears of joy, she hopes, rather than sadness. She does a lot of wondering about everything. Her life is all question marks, and the few answers she receives are soon forgotten.

  Mike pokes his head around the door. ‘Jade? We’re closing up now.’ He frowns at her cosy nest. ‘What are you doing down there? Tidy that mess up before you go; it’s a fire hazard.’ He tuts loudly and goes back to the till.

  ‘Tosser,’ she whispers under her breath. She doesn’t like Mike; he’s so much fussier than Dinah, her previous boss. Dinah left suddenly due to a family tragedy and Mike has been brought over from the other shop to cover while they wait for somebody new. Jade has only been here six months, but she’s the longest-serving member of the team – weird for someone who’s never been able to hold down a job for more than a couple of weeks.

  But volunteering suits her. It gives her something to do and it’s no big deal if she doesn’t feel like turning up sometimes, as long as she lets them know. She tried that approach with waitressing, but they told her not to bother coming back. Sorting through clothes and sticking on price labels is boring, but it’s not stressful – apart from when she and Amy are doing a handover. She can’t leave now anyway, Amy would be really cross with her if she did. She says Jade is her lifesaver.

  She’s seeing Amy and her mum this evening. Amy wants her to model clothes for her new online shop. Jade has never thought of herself as having model looks, and usually refuses to have her photo taken, but apparently she has the perfect figure for vintage fashion. A neat idea pops into her head. What if she smuggled the cream top out and gave it to Amy as a little present? She goes to the doorway and checks on Mike. He’s busy cashing up the till. It takes only a few seconds for her to pick up the top, screw it into a tiny ball and shove it in the inside zip compartment of her bag.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ she says, heart pounding as she walks towards the front door. Mike’s head is bent over some form; he barely grunts in reply. Within seconds she’s out on the pavement and walking quickly – but not too quickly – towards the estate where Amy lives. ‘Easy-peasy lemon squeezy,’ she sings in her head. Amy will be thrilled.

  * * *

  The block of flats is a ten-minute walk from the shop. Jade keys in the number and waits to be let in. After a few seconds, the door buzzes, and yanking it towards her, she slips through before it slams shut. In the lift, she pinches her nose against the smell of piss, holding her breath all the way to the eleventh floor.

  ‘Hi,’ says Amy, already standing at the door. She’s wearing huge fluffy slippers, black joggers and a matching crop top. Her hair’s down and her face is free of make-up. It makes her look like a teenager, but she’s actually twenty-one. Jade is twenty-four. For some reason, she always picks friends who are younger than her. Somebody – she forgets who; probably a doctor – once said it was because her emotional age was younger than her years. What did that even mean? Jade doesn’t care about ages; she just likes people who are nice to her.

  ‘Come in then!’ Amy turns and goes inside.

  Jade pauses at the threshold, preparing herself to see Mia. They’ve met loads of times, but it’s still hard to look at her without bursting into tears. She’s like a little bird, with stick-thin arms and legs, and beady eyes peeping out of deep hollows. She’s in her forties but could pass for seventy, her wrinkled features unrecognisable compared to the pretty woman in the photos around the flat.

  Amy likes Jade to visit; she says it forces her mum to make an effort. Most of the time Mia wears a dressing gown, but today she’s gone the extra mile and is wearing a skirt and jumper and a scarf wrapped around her head. Jade recognises the skirt from her shop – a smudgy floral in beiges and dusty blues. It looks about six sizes too big and she resolves to steal something that will fit better.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, squinting at Mia. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Mia replies. ‘Heard from your birth mum yet?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I told you, Mum, the silly cow forgot to put her number on the card, so her mum can’t get in touch even if she wants to.’ Amy gives Jade an affectionate nudge. ‘Honest, Jade, what are you like?’

  Mia shakes her head in agreement and Jade fears for a moment that it’ll fall off; her neck is so thin, the muscles all wasted.

  ‘That was a bit daft, wasn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So what now? Send her another one?’

  Jade pulls a face as she thinks about it for a few seconds. ‘That would be weird. I mean, it’s not her birthday any more, is it?’

  ‘Give her a call,’ says Mia. ‘They sent you her phone number, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  Amy chips in. ‘Or send an email. You’ve got her work address as well as her home one.’

  ‘Hmm … I’m not very good at writing things down, though. My thoughts get all jumbled up.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  Jade feels herself light up inside. ‘Really?’

  ‘Course! You can think about what you want to say while we’re doing the photos.’

  ‘Okay. Great!’ Jade beams a smile across the room. She’s been thinking about ducking out of the modelling, but she can’t now. It wouldn’t be fair. That’s the thing about having a best friend: you look out for each other, do each other favours. She’s never got as far as that with a friend before, and it gives her a toasty warm feeling inside.

  ‘Hungry?’ says Amy. ‘I’ve got a pizza we can share.’

  ‘You sure? I don’t want to …’

  ‘Mum will only have a little slice, if that.’

  ‘Okay then … I mean, thanks.’

  ‘Weren’t you at the shop today? You never texted.’

  ‘Sorry. Only we got this new manager and he’s really on it, you know? He’s only there for a short time, like a temp, but I didn’t want to risk it.’

  ‘I’ll come in tomorrow, check him out.’

  ‘Oh, and I got you a present.’ Jade reaches into her bag, unzipping the inner compartment and pulling out the cream top with a flourish, like a magician performing a handkerchief trick. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit creased,’ she says, shaking it out.

  Amy screws up her nose. ‘Hmm … Pretty, but not vintage, more like 2015.’ She catches Jade’s crestfallen expression. ‘Good try, though. Thanks … Right. I’ll put the pizza on.’ She pads into the narrow kitchen. It’s only big enough for one person, so Jade doesn’t follow.

  Instead, she collapses onto the sofa and hugs the blouse to her chest like a comfort blanket. Her mind starts to churn as she thinks of what she wants to say in the email. Trouble is, if Amy writes it for her, she won’t be able to tell the truth.

  Chapter Five

  Erin

  January 2020

  I stewed for a couple of days, then rang my parents, making the call from my office, where I knew I wouldn’t be overheard. The weather was cold, but the sky was clearing after some blustery showers. Puffy clouds were chasing each other over the rooftops and everything looked fresh and new. It was the mid-morning break. Tiny children in colourful raincoats and patterned wellies were running around outside my window, screeching with delight as they jumped in the puddles of overnight rain.

  As always, it was my mother who picked up.

  ‘Mum? Hello? It’s me. Erin.’ There was a sharp intake of breath, then silence. If it hadn’t been for the blare of the television in t
he background, I would have assumed she’d put the phone down. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Why are you calling?’ Her tone was accusatory.

  ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Now? We’re about to go out for a walk.’ I heard my father’s voice calling from another room, asking if it was a nuisance call. Knowing her, she probably nodded in reply.

  I decided to come straight to the point, lowering my voice deliberately in the unlikely event that a member of staff was lurking in the corridor.

  ‘Has my daughter been in touch?’

  ‘Chloe?’ She sounded concerned. ‘Why, is something the matter?’

  ‘No, no … not Chloe. I mean my other daughter.’

  My words hung in the air for a few seconds before she replied. ‘No … Why would she? I mean, how would she know where to find us?’

  ‘Don’t you get your mail forwarded?’

  ‘Not any more; we moved two years ago now. What’s happened, Erin? Has the girl finally tracked you down?’ She sounded slightly pleased.

  ‘Yes … I think so. I’m not sure. I mean, somebody sent me a birthday card, but there was no name on it or anything. No contact details.’ I sighed. ‘Maybe it was just some sick joke, designed to ruin my birthday.’

  ‘I see. And you thought your own mother would send you a sick joke.’ Her tone was withering. ‘Well, that’s a fine thing to be accused of. As if I’d do a thing like that.’

  ‘I’m not saying you sent the card, Mum.’ I let out a bitter laugh. ‘I mean, you never remember my birthday, so—’

  ‘We both gave that up years ago,’ she cut in. ‘No point in pretending. Look, we haven’t heard anything from anybody, and we haven’t gone around telling people either.’

  ‘Okay, well, that’s good to know. I was just trying to work out how she’d got my address, that’s all.’