The Leaving Party: An absolutely gripping and addictive psychological thriller Read online

  The Leaving Party

  An absolutely gripping and addictive psychological thriller

  Lesley Sanderson

  Books by Lesley Sanderson

  What We Hide

  The Leaving Party

  The Woman at 46 Heath Street

  The Orchid Girls

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  The Orchid Girls

  Hear more from Lesley

  Books by Lesley Sanderson

  A Letter from Lesley

  The Woman at 46 Heath Street

  What We Hide

  Acknowledgements

  *

  To Dad, William Stanley Sanderson, this book is inspired by you and your piano. Never stop playing!

  Each time I send her one, I send one to myself, lest we forget.

  Prologue

  I’m too late. It happens right in front of my eyes. Tyres screech, followed by a bang, a gasp. ‘Oh no, she’s dead!’ a woman says, and a deathly quiet descends. My heart thuds in my ears. Figures stand like lamp posts around us, and all eyes are on the road. Music pumps out from the house, lights blazing behind the shutters, but nobody is dancing any more. The front door is open, a gaping hole from which horror has spilled into the early hours of the morning.

  The woman is right. She’s dead. Her broken body lies in the road, her face frozen with shock, her lifeless eyes staring towards the car that hit her. A streak of blood is laced across the bonnet, the driver staring ahead, hands still gripping the steering wheel. Someone screams, and suddenly I unfreeze.

  She gets to her first, and I’m close behind, so close the sticky pool of blood on the tarmac is right in front of my face, the smell of petrol making me gag. She feels for a pulse, but after an interminable wait she shakes her head.

  The driver leaps out of the car and stares at the lifeless body of my best friend. Then suddenly she laughs, and claps her hands in slow motion, the sound echoing around the street. It’s only then that I realise I’m still holding the knife, and the blade is smeared dark red.

  One

  Ava

  A buzzing noise wakes me, insistent, a mosquito in my ear. I slap at it, but it doesn’t make it stop. The sheet is twisted around my body and I’m cold. There’s no sticky summer heat making me sweat throughout the night. Mosquitoes like heat, don’t they?

  I open my eyes. No view of a beach from the window, no sun high in the sky. I sit up, let my head drop back when I realise the buzzing noise is my phone and it’s the day of the party. My party. Exhilaration ripples through me as I visualise the evening ahead and what it means – the beginning of my new life.

  I reach down for the phone, a list of things I need to do today running through my head. The text is from a number I don’t recognise.

  I’ve left something for you – check downstairs.

  Is this a joke, a surprise?

  I don’t like surprises.

  A familiar chill of dread creeps into my bones. It’s always there, lurking in the background. What if?

  I check the time. It’s only 8 a.m., far too early now that I don’t have to go to work. A surge of exhilaration rises inside me as I remember that I’ve given up the job I’ve been doing for the past five years. No more getting up at six before a fast walk to catch the 7.30 train to Paddington. No more flat whites at the station, sipping my coffee as I watch other commuters racing around. My schedule was crafted as carefully as the leaf pattern on top of my coffee; I always arrived at the café half an hour early, settling myself and planning the day ahead before the bustle began. Who knows what my American routine will be like? Bagels and coffee in a diner in Times Square, perhaps, watching the famous billboards flashing?

  My dressing gown hangs in the wardrobe next to my party dress, a floor-length Victoria Beckham piece in electric blue with silver flecks. It’s hard to describe how beautiful it is, even harder to believe that Ben personally picked it out for me and had it shipped over from New York. Excitement made me tingle as I undid the red ribbon with eager fingers, the tissue paper whispering as I pulled out the garment. The dress slid over my slight frame like liquid silver and the fit was faultless. He couldn’t have chosen a more perfect dress. Ben. Not long to go now …

  Sounds of traffic echo in the bare room. Now that the pale grey walls have been stripped of mirrors, the space looks bigger. Behind the white wardrobe doors the rails are full of empty hangers, the metal frames rattling against one another like hollow bones. Dad picked up my clothes along with the rest of my stuff last night and took it all back to theirs. Everything I need for one last night in this house is packed in my overnight case, which stands beneath the window. The surface of my dressing table is empty. My paperback is face down on the floor, next to a glass of water. It’s one of Mum’s favourite novels, The Best of Everything, and I’m racing through the story of four young women starting out in New York in the fifties, sharing their hopes and dreams. Soon it will be my turn. I can’t wait. After tonight’s party, I have one final evening tomorrow with my parents in an attempt to assuage my guilt at how much they are going to miss me, and then I’m off.

  My mind returns to the text. I’ve left something for you. What does it mean? Is it Lena? But it’s not from her number. As if organising this surprise party for me wasn’t enough; I don’t need a surprise gift too. Could it be from Ben? Excitement rises in me, along with the secret hope that he’ll turn up at the party. But I’m scared to ask Lena in case those hopes are dashed. It’s bound to be a going-away present, I tell myself; of course it’s nothing sinister. I slip into my silk dressing gown and pull the belt tight as I try to convince myself not to worry.

  Careful not to wake Lena, I push my bedroom door open gently. Hers is ajar, and I tread quietly on the wooden floorboards. She has spent weeks organising this party, and as soon as she wakes she’ll be in a state of uncontrollable excitement. As will I once I sort out this niggle. I don’t like niggles.

  From the top of the stairs, I see something on the doormat. It’s far too early for the postman, and anyway, it’s the wrong shape for a letter. I step forward and then stop, gripping the banister. From here I can see it’s a cardboard box, long and thin. I squeeze the banister with both hands, so hard it hurts, but it doesn’t stop the way
my pulse is racing. It can’t be.

  I pull the belt of my dressing gown even tighter in an effort to stop myself shaking. It doesn’t work. I know what’s in the box because I’ve been receiving them for the past thirteen years – ever since the day I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try. One thing’s for sure: moving to New York is definitely the right decision. It’s the only way to escape.

  I wish that right at this moment I was high up in the sky, seated safely in the aeroplane, England disappearing below me into a patchwork of green fields and toy houses, my eyes fixed firmly ahead, seat belt securely fastened. Far away from boxes slipped through my letter box, reminding me of my past. Whoever is doing this won’t follow me all the way across the Atlantic, surely? Plus, Ben will be around to protect me. Though I’m hoping he’ll never need to know what I’ve left behind. My stomach churns at the thought of telling him, and I take a deep breath. He doesn’t need to know. Ever.

  Heading down the stairs, it’s like I’m walking towards the hangman’s noose. I pick up the familiar package, knowing only too well what will be inside: the petals dyed an unnatural black, the thorns waiting to dig into my skin and make me bleed. I open it with fumbling fingers, hoping against hope that it’s not what I think. A possibility as slight as the sliver of deep purple ribbon that holds the box together.

  My hope fizzles as quickly as it was sparked. Black rose number thirteen. Dark petals conjuring up an image of death. I drop it on the floor and rush into the downstairs bathroom just in time.

  The floor tiles are cold against my clammy skin and I give in to an uncontrollable shaking. This time it’s worse, far worse. Because all the other roses arrived on the day of the anniversary. But that date has already passed. That date happened seven months and two days ago. In all these years, this is the only flower out of sequence.

  And I don’t know what that means.

  Two

  2005

  Lena arrived with two oversized carrier bags and hovered nervously on the doorstep. She’d been friends with Ava for four years now, but had never been inside her house. Ava had been to hers more times than she could count. If Lena wasn’t ashamed of the dilapidated council block she lived in, then what was Ava trying to hide from her?

  She puzzled over this question as she stepped back onto the long drive and looked up at the vast expanse of house in front of her. Five bedrooms, Ava had told her, yet there was only Ava and her sister. What did they need all those rooms for? Jamie had to share a room with Dad when he was at home, but he’d been put away for two years this time. Lena would be almost an adult by the time he got out. She prodded the doorbell hard, in the way she’d like to prod some sense into her older brother.

  ‘About time,’ she said when Ava opened the door and moved aside to let her past. ‘Butler off duty, is he?’

  ‘Very funny,’ Ava replied, but she grinned, and Lena smiled back.

  ‘Are you sure your parents are out?’

  ‘Of course. I told you. They’ve gone to spend a day in Durham with my sister. It’s miles away, near Scotland. It’s where she’s going to university in September. My parents do love a day out. They’ll get back really late and I told them I was staying at yours. I’m so excited.’

  Lena had never seen such a large kitchen, with so many sparkling surfaces, apart from in the showroom where her Uncle Pat worked. And that was just a mock-up. She glanced through into the living room and spotted an upright piano in the corner, the mahogany wood gleaming.

  ‘Don’t tell me Martha plays the piano.’

  Ava’s cheeks burned. ‘It’s me who plays, actually.’ She didn’t think Lena would understand her intense desire to be a concert pianist. ‘Have you got the stuff?’

  Lena lifted the carrier bags onto the weird island thing in the middle of the room. ‘My cousin got it all for me. I had to give him some money, though.’

  ‘I’ll pay for that,’ Ava said, and took a ten-pound note out of a wallet beside the kettle. ‘And my share of the drink.’

  Lena couldn’t believe that rich people left their money lying around – her dad kept his in a biscuit jar, but it was always empty. She unpacked the bottle of cheap wine and four cans of cider and put them in the enormous fridge. ‘How many did you say were in your family again?’

  Ava laughed.

  ‘We can have a drink while we get ready,’ Lena carried on. ‘I’ll do your make-up, I’ve brought my stuff. I can’t wait to see Danny.’

  Lena had fancied Danny ever since she saw him on the market stall helping his father. It was after school one day, when she was hanging out with Ava in the café opposite. She liked to watch his muscles flex as he unpacked the fruit, arranging colourful displays of oranges, kiwis, bananas and bright red apples. Creative, she liked that. Like her with her make-up. She wanted to be a professional make-up artist one day, painting the faces of beautiful Hollywood actresses.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she’d asked Ava at the time.

  ‘Danny Appleford,’ Ava had replied. ‘He’s in my sister’s Saturday drama class.’

  Ava’s older sister went to the private school up the hill. Ava had persuaded her parents to let her go to the local comprehensive, where all her friends were going. The headteacher had reassured her mother she would do just as well there. She was right – Lena could see that Ava was clever; she would succeed wherever she went.

  ‘Hmm,’ Lena had said, watching Danny. ‘About the right age for us, then. Boys are immature, everyone knows that. So a seventeen-year-old is perfect. Apart from Gareth, that is.’

  Ava pulled a face. She wasn’t sure about Gareth. He’d hung around their group of friends for ages and everyone knew he was mad about her. She liked him well enough, but she didn’t think she fancied him. How would she know for sure? Martha said that if you had to think about whether you fancied someone, then you most probably didn’t. Not that Martha was an expert or anything. All she was interested in was studying and getting the grades so she could go off to university.

  Ava was more interested in hanging around with Lena. Lena made her more adventurous; she was always doing impulsive things, like talking to boys she didn’t know and giving teachers lip, and she was forever on at Ava to stop taking herself so seriously. With Lena, Ava could laugh at herself. Lena didn’t have much of a family but she knew how to enjoy herself, and how to be loyal. She would do anything for Ava, and Ava felt the same. She didn’t want boys to get in the way of all that. And being with Gareth gave her an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. She didn’t really want to go out with him any more, but just thinking about ending it made her squirm inside. How could she possibly tell him?

  Three

  Ava

  Now that Dad has taken most of my stuff over to the family home, the house feels empty, my footsteps loud on the bare wooden floor, my pictures removed from the hallway. WELCOME is written in large letters on the doormat, but the image of the black rose is fixed in my head, making me feel anything but. Whoever has been sending the roses, it feels like they’re getting closer.

  The clip of my heels echoes as I cross the floor. The living room looks larger without my furnishings: the turquoise cushions, my Oriental rug and all the wall hangings. I didn’t realise how much of it was mine. The bookshelves are empty of my books and knick-knacks. All that’s left in the room is a brown leather sofa, an armchair, and some fold-up chairs stacked neatly against the bare walls. And my precious piano. Sitting at the stool, I run my hand over the dark waxed wood, trail my fingers across the ivory keys. Leaving my piano behind pains me, but my parents will look after it for me – after all, they’ve been looking after it for the past few years, when I was unable to face it. I’ve only been playing again for a couple of months, and just thinking about the memories that made me freeze whenever I sat on the stool, fingers poised to play, sends a shudder right through me. I blink hard to clear my mind.

  I’ve spent most of the day on the phone, finalising closure of accounts and last minute business I nee
d to sort out before moving abroad. The day has flown by, the sky gradually darkening, and Lena’s due back from work soon, and I can’t wait; the moment she’s home, we’ll crack open a bottle of bubbly and get ourselves party-ready, painting our faces and twirling in front of the mirror like we’ve done so many times before. But for now, the house feels stark and quiet, and I crave some company. I switch the radio on.

  Lena’s been fiddling with the stations again, and Lady Gaga blares out. I’m not in the mood for music, so I switch to a talk station, hoping to catch something interesting to take my mind off the rose and the ominous text. Remembering that camomile tea is supposed to have a calming effect, I make myself a cup, inhaling the floral smell.

  The early-evening news is on and I listen to the headlines. A stabbing in a London street, the blood of a defenceless kid smeared across the pavement, another tragic loss of life. This takes my thoughts into dangerous territory; it’s easily done – so many triggers for unwanted memories. You’d think I’d be better at it by now, but today, reality has hit me in the gut. I’ve allowed myself to form the thought that has been wriggling in my subconscious: having a party is tempting fate. I’m convinced now that whoever sent the rose will be at the party tonight. And I can’t tell anyone about it.