The Girlfriend Read online

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  Copyright © 2017, 2018 by Sarah J. Naughton

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover image © Sybille Sterk/Arcangel Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published as Tattletale in 2017 in the United Kingdom by Orion Books, an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd, a Hachette UK company.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Naughton, Sarah J., author.

  Title: The girlfriend : a novel / Sarah J. Naughton.

  Other titles: Tattletale

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017014949 | (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Brothers and sisters--Fiction. | Revenge--Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6114.A95 T38 2018 | DDC 823/.92--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017014949

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Before

  After

  Tuesday, November 8

  1. Jody

  2. Mags

  3. Jody

  Wednesday, November 9

  4. Mags

  5. Jody

  Thursday, November 10

  6. Mags

  7. Mira

  8. Jody

  9. Mags

  10. Jody

  11. Mags

  Friday, November 11

  12. Mags

  13. Jody

  14. Mags

  15. Mira

  16. Mags

  17. Jody

  18. Mags

  19. Jody

  Saturday, November 12

  20. Mags

  21. Jody

  22. Mags

  23. Mira

  24. Mags

  25. Mira

  26. Mags

  27. Mira

  28. Mags

  Sunday, November 13

  29. Mags

  30. Mags

  31. Mira

  32. Mags

  33. Mira

  34. Mags

  Monday, November 14

  35. Mags

  Thursday to Saturday, November 17–19

  36. Jody

  37. Mags

  38. Mags

  December

  39. Mags

  January

  40. Mags

  March

  41. Mags

  42. Rob

  43. Mags

  Abe

  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my husband, Vince.

  Before

  On a clear morning, the sun shines so strongly through the stained glass, it looks as if the concrete floor is awash with blood.

  But it’s past eight in the evening now, and the only light comes from the wall lamps on each floor. Their dim illumination reveals a slowly spreading pool of pitch or tar.

  Blood doesn’t look like blood in the dark.

  Now that the adrenaline that powered her scramble down the stairs has drained away, she feels as if all her bones have been pulled out. She can barely stand, has to grasp the metal newel post for support as she stares and stares.

  The fourth-floor landing light goes out.

  It takes a long time for the brain to process a sudden accident—the zero-to-sixty acceleration from normality to calamity—to ratchet itself up to an appropriate response. She can feel it slowly building in her belly as she takes in the black spatters on the doors and walls of the second-floor flats, the widening creep of the black pool.

  At first, she thought he would be OK. A few bruises. A bumped head. But there is too much blood for that.

  The third-floor landing light goes out.

  In the few frozen moments after it happened, she was dimly aware of a latch snicking shut, heavy footsteps rattling down the stairs, the creak and slam of the front door, but now, everything is silent. The church is holding its breath, waiting to see what she will do.

  She takes a wobbling step toward him.

  There’s a smell, like her purse when it’s full of pennies.

  He looks so uncomfortable. Why doesn’t he move his leg so that his hips aren’t so twisted? Why doesn’t he turn his head as her shadow falls across him? Why doesn’t he call out to her?

  She kneels beside him and takes his hand. It’s pure white against the blackness that is slowly seeping into his hair and clothes. She tries to say his name, but there’s a fist around her throat. Her thoughts sputter. There’s something she should do. Yes. She should call 999.

  The second-floor landing light goes out.

  His lips are moving, and his eyes are open. As she leans close to him to try to make out what he is saying, her hair falls into the pool. Jerking back, the tips of her hair flick against her wrist, drawing scarlet lines on her white skin. Now she can see where the blood is coming from. A small noise escapes her lips. Horror and shock are hurtling toward her like an articulated truck.

  She must do something for him. Now, here, in this moment, she is all he has. She must take her phone from her pocket, unlock it, and tap in the numbers. But she cannot let go of his hand; she cannot leave him adrift in all this darkness.

  Her heart is racing, like the wheeling legs of a cartoon character just before it realizes it’s run off the cliff edge. Before it falls.

  The first-floor light goes out.

  It is the sudden darkness, as much as anything else, that makes her scream. And once she’s started, she cannot stop.

  After

  The linoleum’s slippery with spilled drinks. As he crosses the dance floor, a fat girl blunders into his path, and he grabs her by the flesh of her waist, making her squirm and shriek. Someone slaps him on the back, and he grins, though he didn’t hear what was said. The music is so loud, the floor vibrates, and the disco lights have turned carefully made-up faces lurid colors. All the girls are hammered,
some of the scrawnier guys too. Gary and Kieran are draped over one another, bellowing “Auld Lang Syne,” though it’s still two hours until midnight. But it takes more than a few double vodkas to affect him. He glances at himself in the dark window that looks over the field.

  Not bad, considering he’ll be thirty this year.

  In the reflection, he sees a woman he doesn’t recognize walking across the room behind him. Catching his eye, she pauses and smiles.

  He smirks. Still got it.

  The bathroom stinks, as usual.

  He pisses like a racehorse, then shakes himself off and does up his fly, checking his reflection in the square of buckled stainless steel that passes for a mirror. The shirt is a size too small and pulls tight across his pecs. He washes his hands and runs damp fingers through his hair. He’s noticed it thinning at the temples over the past few months and has been considering trying a spray from the drugstore.

  The new winger comes in and stands at the urinal. He’s considerably shorter and scrawnier than Rob.

  “Having a good time, mate?” Rob says.

  “Brilliant,” the lad says.

  “Just you wait,” Rob says. “The ladies’ll be so wasted, you’ll be fighting them off with a stick.” He puts ironic emphasis on ladies.

  The boy laughs.

  “See you later.” Rob thumps him so hard on the back, he almost overbalances into the urinal. He’s laughing as he emerges to a line of grumbling females.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting!” he cries, spreading his arms.

  “In your dreams,” says Elaine, Marcus’s ugly wife. “The toilet’s blocked. Clive’s in there trying to fix it.”

  “Use the men’s, then.”

  “The state you lot leave it in? No thanks.”

  “Well, don’t be surprised if I’m booked up for the rest of the evening by the time you come out.”

  “We’ll take that risk.”

  He bows and pushes open the door to the bar.

  The air’s heavy with aftershave and cigarette smoke. It’s illegal to smoke in here, but the lads pay no attention, though Clive keeps threatening to hand the CCTV footage to the police if they don’t stop. Through the haze, he can make out Sophie muttering to her little coven. Probably about him. He stares at them until she glances up, then gives her a cheery wave. She looks guilty. Bitch can get her own drink.

  There’s a girl at the bar, but he’s not in the mood to wait, so he raises his twenty and Derek waddles straight up, a craven grin on his puffy face. Either he’s scared of Rob or he fancies him. Rob pretends to find the latter idea funny when the boys rib him about it, but if Derek ever so much as touches him, apart from to hand him his change, he’ll knock him out.

  “What can I get you, mate?”

  “Vodka, lime, and soda. And you’d better not sweat in it, you fat bastard.”

  Derek laughs.

  Rob feels the gaze of the girl he made wait at the bar, and his head snaps around, ready for an argument. His scowl vanishes. It’s the girl from the reflection. She’s seriously hot.

  “You scored the hat trick, didn’t you?” she says, and her voice is smooth like chocolate.

  “Guilty,” he says, putting up his hand and lowering his head modestly. Then he wonders if he’s used the wrong word. The preparty friendly match had been too much like hard work on last night’s hangover, and the bloke he’d tackled to get the last try was still in the ER. But when he looks up, she’s smiling.

  “Haven’t seen you here before,” he says. “You with the other team?”

  She nods. “My sister’s dating one of the props.”

  Good. She wasn’t attached. Not that it mattered—he was, and it wouldn’t make any difference.

  “You know what? I’m so wasted, I can’t remember his name!” She giggles.

  “They all look the same anyway. Mr. Potato Head!”

  She laughs uproariously.

  He glances over at Sophie, but she’s too busy making an idiot of herself on the dance floor to notice.

  Thankfully, this year, Clive and the rest of the old duffers aren’t in charge of the music, so there’s a lot less Abba and Bee Gees and a lot more hip-hop. Not that he minds a bit of “Dancing Queen.” He and the lads like to dress up for that one, demanding an item of clothing from all the women there. This year, he’d make Sophie give him her revolting support girdle, embarrass the bitch. With a bit of luck, she’ll piss off home.

  But when he looks back, the girl is gone. He swears under his breath, knocks back his vodka, then goes for a dance.

  • • •

  It’s coming up to midnight, and Derek’s so overwhelmed that the lads are just going behind the bar and helping themselves, occasionally pausing to flip the bird at the CCTV camera trained on the till. Boys will be boys.

  Rob’s dancing, his shirt soaked in sweat, his thinning hair plastered to his forehead. Occasionally, he’ll go up behind a girl and grind his groin into her. Some of them press back, and he gets a semi. Most of them aren’t attractive enough for the full nine yards. Soph’s the best looking of the lot of them, and she’s blubbering in the corner, surrounded by clucking mates. He’s such a b-bastard, boo hoo. Well, she’s not going to ruin his night. He grabs the nearest girl to him and gives her a proper snog, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Her saliva is bitter with alcohol and cigarettes. She pushes him away with a playful slap, and he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, swaying slightly in the glare of the lights. His eardrums throb in time to the music. His heart is racing. His muscles hum with tension.

  Slim fingers caress his side as someone slips past behind him, and he turns to see it’s the girl from the bar.

  She’s even better looking than Sophie. She’s—he fumbles for the word—elegant. None of the other girls here are elegant. They’ve all got identical long blond hair, skirts up to their arses, fake tan, glitter across their tits. This one looks classy. He doesn’t try to grind his pelvis into her.

  “Hi,” he says. “How are you doing?”

  “Good,” she says. “It’s been fun.”

  “You’re not going?”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to get what I came here for.”

  He frowns. “What’s that?”

  She speaks so softly, he has to lip-read over the music. He blinks rapidly, and his lips part. He might have misunderstood. He leans over.

  “What did you say?”

  As she tilts her head to murmur into his ear, her hair brushes his cheek, sleek and cool as satin. He didn’t misunderstand.

  He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not used to girls coming on so strong and isn’t sure he likes it.

  She pulls away. Her eyes hold his. His insides turn to liquid.

  “M-me,” he stammers. “I will. I can.” He sounds like an idiot. He rolls his shoulders and runs his tongue across his front teeth. “You won’t be disappointed.” He still sounds like an idiot. He regrets the last round of sambucas. “There’s a storage cupboard around by the bathroom.” It stinks of bleach, but Sophie didn’t seem to mind.

  “How about something more…al fresco?”

  This one minds the storage cupboard, then.

  He nods vigorously and glances over at Sophie. She’s stopped crying and is doing shots.

  “I’ll see you outside.”

  As she walks away, he glances around to see if someone’s setting him up and considers for a brief moment whether Sophie’s arranged one of those honey-trap things. What does it matter? They’re probably finished after tonight anyway.

  He crosses the dance floor and passes into the foyer. The air is cold and clean, and he stands in the darkness as the inner door swings shut and the music and screeching laughter become muted. The evil red eye of the ancient CCTV camera watches him from the corner.

  Is he too wasted to get it up? He’s never fail
ed yet, but he’s never had a woman like this before.

  Only one way to find out. Pushing open the main doors, he strides outside into the night.

  He spots her by her white top, gleaming in the shadows of the stands.

  The field is churned and muddy, so he walks around the spectator part, breathing slowly and deeply to calm himself. Stupid, but he feels like he’s on the way to an exam. She’s something special, this one, and he doesn’t even know her name. That makes it more special. That’s how he’ll phrase it when he tells his mates later. The mysterious beauty.

  The effect is spoiled when he reaches her and sees that she’s covered in mud. It’s caked all over her boots, her knees, and even in her hair.

  “Jeez,” he says. “What happened to you?”

  “Fell over.” She giggles.

  It annoys him. She’s spoiled the effect. “You should have walked around the edge.”

  “Who cares?” she says. Then she pulls off her top. She must be wasted, because she lets it drop into the muddy puddles on the concrete, then yanks down her camisole so roughly, one of the straps snaps.

  She isn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts are smooth and tanned, glimmering in the lights from the clubhouse. The music is just a throbbing beat now, like a heart. She leans against the bench behind, arching her back.

  She’s one of those who likes it rough. He puts his hand over her mouth to shut her up, and she bites his fingers. She tears off a couple of shirt buttons trying to get to his pecs, kisses him so hard, his lips are crushed against his teeth. She even takes a chunk out of his hair, which he doesn’t like, considering, and he punishes her for it, thrusting into her so hard, she cries out in pain. Normally, he’s more careful—some girls tear when he does that—but she deserves it. She obviously thinks she’s a bit special. The thought of her hobbling about tomorrow, bruised and torn and unable to sit down because of him, gives him a head rush of arousal. He won’t last much longer.

  The countdown to midnight drifts across the field as he’s coming, and by the time the noises of the party crackers have subsided, he’s done up his trousers and is making his way back to the clubhouse.

  The whole thing was over so quickly, Soph won’t know he’s been away. Not that he’ll be able to explain the lost buttons or the scratch marks. There’s even one down the side of his face. Still, at least he’ll have a laugh about it with the boys before World War III breaks out.