The Birthday Girl: The gripping new psychological thriller full of shocking twists and lies

‘No. I had someone view it the day before yesterday and they seemed keen. They were at the point of putting in an offer, but when they found out what happened, they changed their minds. It’s the third time that’s happened. No one wants to live in a house where the previous owner killed themselves.’

‘What about reducing the price?’

‘I think I’m going to have to, but that will mean I can’t afford somewhere quite so nice to move to. Look, please don’t say anything to the others. I don’t like talking about it, especially to Joanne.’

‘I won’t. But have you thought about asking Joanne to encourage Alfie and Ruby to spend time at your house for a change?’

‘That’s the thing. Ruby doesn’t want to come over because of Darren killing himself and Joanne is quite happy for Alfie to be there.’ I can feel the little blaze of irritation flare inside me. ‘I did actually speak to Joanne once about it and she told me that Alfie needed a safe place.’

‘A safe place? What the hell does that mean?’

‘According to Joanne, he needs somewhere he can go where he can relax and subconsciously know that nothing bad is going to happen. She said I should be grateful that he was there and not roaming the streets, getting into trouble.’

Andrea gives an indignant huff on my behalf. ‘She’s got a bloody cheek at times.’

The sound of Joanne calling from the bottom of the stairs punctuates the conversation. ‘Lunch is nearly ready!’ comes her sing-song voice.

‘Maybe things will be better after the weekend,’ says Andrea. ‘Like you said, this might be Joanne’s way of saying sorry.’

‘Yeah, I might be totally wrong about that,’ I say with a wry smile.

We spend a few minutes unpacking our things. ‘I’m all done,’ declares Andrea, pushing her rucksack under the bed. ‘You ready for lunch?’

‘You go ahead. I’ll be down soon,’ I say. ‘I want to freshen up first.’

After Andrea has gone downstairs, I sit on the bed and let out a long slow breath, as a sense of claustrophobia settles lightly around me. It’s not the house. It’s not the company. It’s the atmosphere. Joanne definitely seems spiky. Was I naïve to think this was a weekend of reconciliation? If I had my phone, I’d call Seb. To hear his reassuring voice and comforting words, in the way he can be both pragmatic and sympathetic at the same time, is what I really want right now.

I’m annoyed with myself for giving my phone over in the first place. It was a stupid idea and one I had gone along with too readily, hoping to appease Joanne. I decide to tackle her about it after lunch. It’s unreasonable of her to expect everyone to be out of contact.

Before I head down for lunch though, I take the little box of tablets from my rucksack and pop a white pill from the foil wrapper. I swallow it down, not needing any water. I feel better even before it has absorbed into my bloodstream. Just knowing I’ve taken it helps.

In the kitchen, I find Zoe stirring a big pot of soup and the sweet earthy smell of carrots and coriander wafts in the air.

‘I’ll set the table,’ I say, opening several cupboard doors before I find the bowls.

‘I was about to do that,’ says Andrea, entering the kitchen. ‘Joanne’s lighting a fire. Apparently, we’re in for some colder weather. Joy.’ She pulls a glum face.

‘Typical,’ I say, handing the bowls to Andrea and rummaging around in the cutlery drawer for spoons.

‘You OK?’ asks Andrea quietly, as Zoe nips through the dining room with a box of matches for Joanne.

‘Yeah. I could do with my phone though. I wouldn’t mind checking in with Alfie.’

‘Only Alfie?’ Andrea raises one eyebrow.

‘Maybe Seb as well,’ I confess.

Andrea gives a laugh as she goes into the kitchen. ‘Maybe?’ she questions. ‘Oh, I think, definitely.’

I look out of the dining-room window and gaze across the driveway to the riverbank beyond. The yellow gorse bushes sway hypnotically from side to side as they are caught and then released by the breeze. It’s a beautiful spot and I imagine on a summer’s day when the sun is shining it would be a heavenly place to come and escape from the world. However, by contrast, the grumpy skies and agitated weather are only adding to the undercurrent of disquiet.

Andrea comes in with some glasses, which she places at each setting. ‘Don’t be worrying about Alfie. He’ll be fine with Bradley and Colin.’

‘I know. Ignore me. I’m fine,’ I say, turning from the window and smiling.

‘That’s the fire lit,’ says Joanne, coming into the room. ‘Right, I’ll bring the soup in. Sit down, everyone.’

‘It smells delicious,’ says Zoe, sitting at the table. ‘I managed to resist the urge to have a little taster earlier when no one was looking.’

‘I know what you mean,’ says Andrea. ‘My stomach has been rumbling like mad.’

‘Well, the wait is over.’ Joanne brings in the pot and places it on the table, before carefully ladling soup into each of our bowls. ‘I’m so glad you all came,’ she says as we tuck in. ‘I was worried that one of you would drop out if I told you beforehand what I had planned.’

I resist looking up at Andrea, it would be a telltale sign of our guilt.

‘Wouldn’t miss this for the world,’ says Zoe. ‘Would we?’

We offer our reassurances that we are as pleased to be here. I take a spoonful of soup to hide my true feelings.

The conversation moves on to the children and I feel my-self tense in anticipation of Alfie and Ruby being mentioned. Since Darren’s death, the two of them have grown incredibly close. Too close for my liking. As if I haven’t been tormented enough by that girl. I say girl, she is nearly twenty, but I’ve known her since she was six years old and it’s hard for me to see her as a grown woman.

As if anticipating my desire to change the topic of conversation, Joanne addresses me. ‘Ruby wasn’t happy about going to my mum’s. She would much rather have stayed at home with Alfie, but she said you had already arranged for him to go to Andrea’s.’

My throat feels incredibly tight and the words catch in my mouth. Even though I was expecting this, my physical reaction far outweighs my mental reaction. My body has gone into overdrive.

It’s then I feel the burning sensation on my lips and my throat tightens some more. I recognise the symptoms. This isn’t a reaction to the conversation, this is a reaction to something I’ve eaten. I’m going into anaphylactic shock. A symptom of my nut allergy.

I drop the spoon on the table and simultaneously push the chair back as I get to my feet. My EpiPen is upstairs in my bag. I had completely forgotten to bring it down with me, something I do as a matter of course when I eat where someone other than myself has prepared the food.

‘You OK, Carys?’ asks Joanne.

‘Shit,’ comes Andrea’s voice and I assume she’s realised what is happening.

The rest of the conversation is lost as I race upstairs as fast as I can. My legs feel wobbly and my breathing is becoming harder as my airways tighten in response to my allergy. From my handbag, I grab my EpiPen and flip off the blue cap, before plunging the pen into my thigh. As I wheeze I count to ten before removing the pen from my leg. I flop down on to the bed and, closing my eyes, I make a conscious effort to keep calm, to focus on my breathing as almost immediately the epinephrine takes effect. I massage my thigh at the same time to encourage the muscle to absorb the medication.

‘Carys, are you OK?’ It’s Andrea’s voice and I feel the mattress dip beside me as she sits down. She pushes a strand of hair from my face and holds my hand.

I squeeze her hand in response to reassure her as I gradually feel the reaction subside. The numbing sensation in my lips fades first; it’s not dissimilar to the feeling of numbness wearing off after a trip to the dentist. My breathing becomes easier as my airways dilate and I take longer, fuller breaths.

‘Do you want some water?’ This time it’s Joanne’s voice. She’s at the other side of the bed.

I open my eyes and Zoe is standing at the foot of the bed looking concerned, with Joanne and Andrea either side of me. I sit myself up and look at Joanne.

‘There must have been some sort of nut in that soup,’ I say, taking the water from her. My hand is a little shaky as I lift the glass to my lips.

‘There wasn’t. I promise,’ she says. ‘I’m not that stupid. We all know about your allergy.’

‘Did you check the ingredients?’ asks Andrea.

‘Of course I bloody did,’ snaps Joanne. ‘You can look at the box if you don’t believe me. No nuts. Not even a trace of nuts.’

‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ says Andrea. ‘Damage has been done.’

‘There’s no damage now,’ I say, not wanting this to turn into an argument. ‘I’ll be OK. I just need to rest here for a little while.’

‘But there must have been something in that soup,’ insists Andrea. ‘It’s hardly likely to have been cross-contaminated. Maybe you added something?’ She looks at Joanne, who scowls back at her.

‘I’m telling you, I never put anything in that soup. Why would I?’ Joanne stands with her hands on her hips, glaring across the bed at Andrea. ‘If there was something else added, who’s to say I did it?’

‘This is ridiculous,’ says Zoe. ‘Are you saying one of us put something in the soup?’

‘Someone did and it wasn’t me,’ says Joanne. ‘I left you in the kitchen on your own, stirring the soup.’

‘Seriously?’ says Zoe, shaking her head.

Joanne ignores her. ‘What about you, Andrea? Were you in the kitchen on your own?’

Andrea looks slightly taken aback. She looks at me before speaking. ‘Well, I was, but I only went in to get the glasses. Look, this is a stupid conversation.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Obviously, no one did anything on purpose. It was probably some sort of cross-contamination at source.’ I realise that my anaphylactic shock has probably shaken everyone up. ‘Let’s all forget about it. I’ll come down. I could do with a cup of tea.’

‘Good idea,’ says Zoe. ‘This has got us all a bit flustered.’

‘Too right,’ says Joanne. ‘Goodness, you gave us all a fright there. Come on, I’ll make the tea. We can have a slice of cake I made. And I promise, no nuts whatsoever.’

Andrea insists that I sit in the living room with a cup of tea while they clear away the lunch dishes. I feel a lot better now and am grateful that my allergy is on the milder end of the spectrum. Although it has shaken me up, the reaction wasn’t severe enough to warrant any further medical intervention. Which is just as well, considering where we are. I have no idea how far away we are from a hospital.

Andrea, Joanne and Zoe are all very aware of my allergy and, despite my assurances to them that it could easily have been contaminated at source, I know it’s unlikely, especially these days with health and safety so stringent. This leads me to poke around in the dark corners of my mind where other thoughts are crouching: what exactly was put in the soup and how did it get there … which leads me to question who and why.

I feel restless at the thought and try to distract myself by inspecting the bookcase, idly skimming the spines of the books. There’s a wide range of fiction, although most of the novels look several years old and well-thumbed, as if they have been rescued from a charity shop. There are some larger coffee-table books on the lower shelves. Most of them appear to feature the Scottish landscape and traditions. There’s one about Victorian London, which seems out of place but, again, probably a rescue book. At the end of the shelf is a small stack of DVDs.

A Disney film, Lion King; an old John Wayne western, and a thriller called Rogue Trader. None of them appeal to me. It’s then I realise that I haven’t seen a television in the croft, never mind a DVD player.

‘Aha! Caught you,’ says Joanne, coming into the room.

I jump unnecessarily and spin round. Joanne is carrying a mug of tea. ‘You’re supposed to be resting,’ she says, placing the mug on the coffee table.

‘I was having a look at the books.’

‘Found anything interesting?’

‘Not really. Although there are three DVDs here and yet no TV. Seems odd.’ I hold the boxes up.

Joanne gives them a cursory glance. ‘Maybe there used to be a TV here or perhaps the last visitors left them.’

I return the cases and sit down next to Joanne. ‘This is a lovely croft,’ I say. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for this weekend.’

‘I’d been toying with the idea for a while,’ says Joanne. ‘It was actually Zoe who made up my mind to go ahead with it.’

‘Really?’ I give Joanne a quizzical look. ‘I didn’t think any of us knew anything about it.’

‘Oh, she didn’t know. It was something that was brought up in conversation one day and it spurred me into action.’

‘It’s very generous of you.’

‘The pleasure is all mine. You know I love organising parties. Who better to organise my own than myself? That’s what I told Tris. This way, I get to totally please myself.’

‘You have a point.’

‘Not to mention your birthday too.’ She stands up and calls from the doorway. ‘Come on, you two. We’ve got a game to play!’

Chapter 6

‘Is everyone ready for their next surprise?’ asks Joanne, once Andrea and Zoe have settled themselves in the living room.

‘Ready as we’ll ever be,’ says Andrea, leaning back in her chair.

‘Excellent.’ From the pocket of her jeans, Joanne produces three white envelopes. ‘Here we go. One for you, Carys. One for Zoe and, Andrea, one for you. Now, don’t open them yet. I have to explain the rules.’

‘The rules?’ says Andrea, inspecting her sealed envelope.

‘Listen up. I’ve called this game “What’s My Secret?” Inside each of the envelopes you’ll find a card with a name of a famous person who could be living or dead. That’s your secret identity for the weekend. Underneath is their well-known secret.’ She dabs the air with imaginary quotation marks. ‘You can’t tell each other who you are. It’s up to them to guess and then to try to work out what your secret is. You with me so far?’

‘Is there a prize for guessing right?’ asks Zoe.

‘Oh, yes, there’s a prize, but …’

‘Let me guess,’ I interject. ‘It’s a surprise.’

‘A surprise prize,’ mutters Andrea, seemingly unimpressed with the game.

‘Absolutely,’ says Joanne, beaming at us. ‘There are clues as to the identity and what the secrets are all around the house. Bonus points for each clue you find.’

‘How long have we got to find out the identity and secret?’ I ask. I must admit, it is rather intriguing. If I can say anything about Joanne, it is that she has a fantastic imagination and is excellent at these sorts of things. It reminds me of a murder mystery dinner Joanne held some years ago. It had been a great success and she had gone on to make it a murder mystery weekend the following year for Darren’s thirtieth birthday. We’d had a lot of fun. As with every time I think of Darren, a stab of guilt strikes me. I push it to one side, not wishing to dwell on it. Blocking it out is probably not the best coping method, but right now, it is the only way I can cope.

‘The game finishes Sunday evening,’ says Joanne, passing each of us a pencil. ‘Once you’ve decided who you think the others are, you write it down in these notebooks.’ She passes A6-size books to each of us. ‘You will get one mark for each part you get right. The person with the most points is the winner. If no one guesses you, then you’re also a winner. Two winners, two surprises.’

‘And if you lose?’ asks Andrea.

‘The loser also gets a surprise,’ says Joanne.

‘This is going to be such fun,’ says Zoe. ‘Just one thing, how do we find out who each other are?’

‘You can ask three questions each day, but the person being asked is only allowed to answer yes or no. You must pick your questions carefully. And if you’re being asked, you must answer honestly. No cheating! Everyone clear?’

The three of us nod. ‘I think I can follow that,’ I say. ‘When can we open our envelopes?’

‘Open them now, but take care not to let the others see them.’

‘And what are you going to be doing the whole time?’ asks Andrea. ‘It’s not like you can play, you know the answers already.’

‘Exactly. I’m the Oracle. I am the holder of all knowledge. Once you’ve asked your three questions, if you’re still stuck you can come to me for a clue, but if you do, I will deduct half a point off your final score.’

‘Let’s open the cards,’ I say, not even attempting to follow Joanne’s convoluted marking system. I lean back in my chair and slip my thumb under the edge of the flap, tearing the paper open. Inside is a black card with the same pattern as the original invitation and with the same white font. I read mine.

DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES

1 July 1961 – 31 August 1997

First Wife of HRH Prince Charles

Had an affair

‘Keep your card with you at all times so no one sees it,’ instructs Joanne.

I look up and watch Andrea open her card and then give a small frown before replacing it in the envelope. Zoe is flicking the corner of her card between her finger and thumb.

‘Are these real people?’ she asks.

‘Is that a question for the Oracle?’ replies Joanne.

‘No, I—’

‘Shhh. Don’t say anything. Remember the rules. You can ask three questions only and then you can ask the Oracle for one clue only.’

‘OK. I get it,’ says Zoe. ‘Can I go first?’

‘Fill your boots,’ says Andrea, holding her envelope to her chest.

‘I’ll ask Carys first.’ Zoe turns to me. ‘Are you alive or dead?’

Joanne interrupts before I can answer. ‘Carys can only answer yes or no.’

Zoe pokes her tongue out at Joanne and looks at me. ‘Are you dead?’

I laugh. ‘I don’t think so. No, sorry, that wasn’t the answer. Am I dead? Yes.’

‘My second question,’ says Zoe. ‘Are you female?’

‘Yes.’

‘Last question for today. Were you born in the nineteen-hundreds?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm, that doesn’t help much.’

‘Right, let me ask my questions now,’ says Andrea, entering the spirit of the game. ‘Are you a criminal?’

‘No.’

‘Did you die before your sixtieth birthday?’

‘Yes.’

Andrea drums her fingers on the table. ‘This is hard.’ She looks around the room. ‘And you say there are clues in the house?’

‘That’s right. And don’t forget you can ask the Oracle for one clue each day. Of course, you may want to ask that in secret, or you can share the information with each other.’

Andrea narrows her eyes. ‘I’ll ask the Oracle later. Right, Carys, my last question. Do you have children?’

‘Yes.’

‘That still hasn’t helped much,’ says Zoe. ‘I’m going to have a look for some clues. Unless anyone wants to ask me some questions.’

‘I do,’ I say.

‘And me,’ says Andrea. ‘Then you can ask me some.’

As we ask our questions and get the yes or no replies, we all scribble in our notebooks. ‘So far, I’ve got this about you, Andrea,’ I say at the end of the questions. ‘You are female. You are dead. You lived in the 1800s. You were married more than once. You had children. You were a criminal.’

‘I have no idea who she can be,’ says Zoe.

‘Neither do I,’ I admit. I look at the next page in my book. ‘Zoe, you are male. You are alive. You are British. You are famous for a crime but it’s not a violent crime. You are not a celebrity.’

‘You’re all doing really well,’ says Joanne, giving us a round of applause.

‘That’s easy for you to say – you know the answers,’ says Andrea.

‘I do. And by the end of the weekend, you all will know too. I can’t wait to see the look on your faces,’ says Joanne. ‘Anyway, if you’re clever enough, you’ll realise the answer is staring right at you.’ For a moment, her smile drops but she quickly recovers her usual cheery expression. Joanne stands up. ‘Time for a stroll out to the woods before it rains. The weather is so changeable up here.’

She purposefully avoids looking at me as she busies herself with pushing the chair in and hurrying us along. I don’t know why, but that little look I caught on her face has left me feeling unsettled. There was no warmth to it, rather the opposite: cold and hard. I can’t help wondering what she was thinking at that moment.

I hang back while Zoe and Andrea make their way upstairs to get their jackets and walking boots. I look out of the window, surprised to see light mist swirling around in the sunless sky and the grey clouds overhead are giving a gloomy appearance to the landscape.

Hearing the footfall on the floorboards upstairs, I seize my opportunity. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble with this secrets game,’ I say, as Joanne stands in the doorway, fastening her jacket.

‘I like these sorts of things, they’re fun.’

‘Fun for all of us, right?’

‘Probably more fun for me, if I’m honest.’ She looks up from her zip.

‘And this is only a game?’

‘Of course it is,’ she says. ‘Unless you’re worried I might know your secrets.’ She gives a fake laugh, as Andrea and Zoe clomp down the stairs. At which point Zoe chides me for not being ready. As I squeeze by Joanne in the doorway, she gives a smile. ‘Only a game,’ she says, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

Chapter 7

Pulling down my woolly hat and yanking on my gloves, I feel quite well protected against the elements and ready to explore the Scottish countryside. I fall into place alongside Andrea and we follow Joanne and Zoe round the back of the croft and up the hillside towards the trees.

The forest consists of a variety of trees, mostly tall firs but some deciduous varieties, too, whose foliage is a mix of yellows, reds and browns as the autumn is beginning to take over. Underfoot the ground is uneven; small rocks and stones hamper our stride and we take care where we place our feet. Already leaves have begun to fall, and they lie scattered across the ground like woodland confetti.

As we walk deeper into the woods, I can feel the drop in temperature despite my fleece. ‘Is it me, or is it cold in here?’

‘Nope, not you. It’s definitely colder,’ says Andrea. ‘Hey, Joanne! You do know where you’re taking us, don’t you?’

All the trees look the same to me. We are following a track that weaves its way around the trees and climbs the hill.

‘Yes, don’t worry,’ calls Joanne. ‘Anyway, like a good boy scout, I’m always prepared. I have a compass and a map but, yes, I do know where we’re going.’

Twigs crack underfoot and once or twice I think I hear rustling noises in the undergrowth and bushes. ‘This place is giving me the creeps,’ I say, and as I do, another noise catches my attention. ‘Did you hear that? It was a rustling noise. From those bushes.’

We all stop to listen.

‘That’s the river,’ says Joanne. ‘It flows down from the hills and eventually joins up with the main river that you saw outside the croft. There’s a walk, Archer’s Path, that runs alongside the river. We’re going there tomorrow.’

‘Never mind tomorrow,’ says Andrea. ‘What about today? How much further? My legs are killing me.’

‘You should be the fittest of us all,’ says Joanne. ‘You’re the one with the gym.’

‘Yes, but I’m the owner, remember?’ says Andrea. ‘Unfortunately, you’re more likely to find me stuck behind the desk these days, dealing with a mountain of paperwork, than you are to find me heading up an exercise class. Rugby boys excepted.’

Joanne looks blank.

‘She took some sort of spinning glass with the local rugby team,’ I supply.

Joanne gives an exasperated look to the sky. ‘Oh, my heart bleeds for you. Can anyone hear those violins?’ She mimes playing the stringed instrument while humming a sad and mournful tune. Joanne turns and walks backwards. ‘Don’t think you’ll get any sympathy from me, you’re the one who wanted to be the sole owner.’ She spins on her heel and jogs ahead to catch up with Zoe.