The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperColl‌insPublishers 2018

Copyright © Ingrid Alexandra 2018

Cover design © Alison Groom 2018

Cover photography © Shutterstock

Ingrid Alexandra asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008293819

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008293802

Version: 2018-06-19

Dedication

For Vidar, for everything.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

20th August 2016

4.17 a.m.

The smell of blood lingers. It’s on my clothes, though they have been washed clean. On my skin, though I’ve scrubbed it raw.

Light is shining through a crack in the door. The yolk-orange glow steals across the bedroom like an intruder, illuminating the white, pinstriped shirt that hangs from the clothes horse. The empty sleeves dangle, twitching now and then in the breeze from the window.

I tune my ears to the sounds in the next room. He’s pacing, thinking. ‘Mary,’ he mutters. ‘Mary, Mary.’

As I curl against the cold wall, my skin tingles with adrenalin. He always said I couldn’t be trusted. Now, he’s right. In the closet, under a pile of dirty laundry, there’s an overnight bag. It’s an old one of my mother’s with white daisies embroidered on dark green canvas. A toothbrush, some make-up and a few items of clothing are all it contains. They’ve been waiting there, waiting for the right moment.

Footsteps sound in the hall and stop outside the door. I hold my breath. The tide is rising, and I can hear the waves as they swell and crash on the nearby shore.

The door opens and he stands, silhouetted by the hall light.

‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,’ he slurs, the hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

Chapter One

Three months later

I heave over the basin, but there’s nothing left to come up. I spit, turn on the tap and splash my face. It’s bad this time, worse than usual. But I know it won’t stop me. I’ll only do it again.

Gulping a mouthful of stale water from the mug on the sink, I take a deep breath and tiptoe out of the bathroom. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead to the balcony, making me squint. The sky glares sapphire blue, the overzealous shrieks of children and families drift up from the shore below. People out and about, doing whatever it is regular people do on a Sunday afternoon.

Cat is in the open-plan kitchen by the counter, bent forward and shaking out her shower-wet hair. Her fingers comb the long, raven-black strands and fat beads of water drip onto the kitchen floor.

‘I’m still freaking out about that accident,’ she says through her hair. ‘You could have been killed.’

I watch her upside-down face, forcing down my irritation. I could slip in the puddle she’s making and crack my skull on the tiles. Then I might really be killed. ‘It’s nothing, just a dent.’

‘It’s not the car I’m worried about.’ Cat tilts her head, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched. I wonder if she knows I lied about how much I’d had before getting behind the wheel.

I sip the coffee she’s made me but it tastes too bitter. ‘The car barely hit me. Nothing a little buffing can’t get rid of.’

‘Which I’ll sort out,’ Ben interjects, winking at me over his shoulder as he nudges past Cat to get to the kitchen sink. He pours himself a glass of water and swallows it back in three large gulps. ‘Once the hangover wears off.’

‘Ugh. I guarantee mine’s worse than yours,’ Cat moans, flipping herself back upright and pushing her wet hair over her shoulder as she leans against the kitchen counter. She looks fine to me. I’m positive I’m the most hung-over. ‘Whose idea was it to crack open the vodka?’

Ben and I exchange a look, but before I can be found guilty, Cat’s phone rings and she jumps, knocking over the empty cocktail pitcher. It clatters loudly into the sink and my head pounds in response. ‘Shit. I’ll get that in a sec. This could be about the room.’

Retrieving the pitcher, I make a half-hearted attempt at clearing some of the house-warming collateral while Cat takes the call.

Ben steps over a squashed lime wedge and right into the puddle on the floor. He slips and yelps, arms shooting out, hands finding my shoulders and clamping on. His fingers dig into my flesh.

I gasp, my chest contracting. Ben’s laughing, his feet skidding on the floor. Suddenly the ground slips out from under me and my spine connects with something hard. Spots of light dance before my eyes.

‘What are you two doing?’ Cat shakes her head, one hand on her hip, the other holding her phone in the air. ‘You both look retarded.’ She looks at me and her brow furrows. ‘Mary?’

I shake my head, ducking to hide the tears. When I look up, Ben’s there, his face close. His irises are a strange colour – not quite brown, not quite green.

‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’ he asks.

I can’t answer; my throat is too tight.

‘Sorry …’ Ben says again, but his kindness is too much. I turn away. Ben lets me go, clears his throat. ‘You know,’ he says, addressing Cat, ‘it’s actually your fault we’re in this … situation.’ He points to the tiles, which are now more grubby and smeared than wet.

Cat ignores him. ‘Good news! I think we might have a candidate for our new roomie!’

‘Seriously?’ I say. The last few applicants have been less than desirable, particularly the creepy middle-aged guy who wouldn’t stop staring at Cat’s cleavage.

‘Yup. She’s our age, I think, doing some kind of arts degree at uni. She works part-time and she’s available right away.’

‘Another girl?’ Ben moans, then pauses. ‘Did she sound hot?’

Cat narrows her eyes. ‘You have a girlfriend. And I only spoke to her on the phone. How the hell should I know if she’s hot?’

Ben shakes his head sagely. ‘You can tell. And Gia isn’t my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.’

‘Does she know that?’ Rolling her eyes, Cat turns to me. ‘What do you think? Are you okay to meet her later?’

‘Sure,’ I say with a shrug, but anxiety whispers across my chest at the thought of meeting someone new. I try to ignore it.

‘Great!’ Cat squeals. ‘I’ll just text her to see when she’s available, okay?’

‘No worries.’ I step out of the kitchen and take a moment to breathe.

Eagle-eyed Cat pauses in her texting and slings an arm around my shoulder. ‘You okay there?’

I manage a smile, though I’m still edgy.

‘It’s better here, isn’t it?’ Cat gestures to the high-security intercom system with its intricate array of buttons. ‘I’m glad we’re here. I feel safer, don’t you?’ She smiles in that goofy, affectionate way that only an old friend can and wraps me in her arms.

As I inhale the smell of coconut shampoo and childhood, the waves of the past whoosh and roar in my ears.

Chapter Two

22nd November 2016

Dear Journal,

I guess that’s how you’re supposed to start a journal entry, isn’t it? I’ve never written a journal before. Or I might have, as a kid at school or something, but I can’t remember that far back.

I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Mary. Hello. It’s a while since I’ve written anything, actually. I used to write a lot, I found it cathartic. Anyway, here I am, making a start. I might not be doing everything Doctor Sarah advised in our last session, but at least I’m doing this. Mark used to say I never followed through with anything. ‘Slacker,’ he’d call me, as though he was one to talk. Doctor Sarah said keeping a journal will help to record my thoughts and feelings, so I can catalogue my moods and ‘compartmentalise my issues’, or whatever it is she calls it. She wants me to keep track of any changes. It helps to put things in words sometimes; it makes things seem smaller when you can fit them into a little box. At least, that’s what Doctor Sarah tells me.

There’s a quote I’ve got stuck in my head. I can’t remember where I heard it, but it goes: ‘The only constant is change.’ A profound truth summed up in a paradox. It’s pretty fitting to my current situation. Nothing is permanent, so you’d better not get too attached to anything, right? I mean, why waste your energy? But we do. It’s human nature. People, possessions, ideas – we latch on like molluscs, suctioning for what we crave, whatever we think is going to get us through. The good news? Whatever terrible situation you may find yourself in, it will pass. The bad news? The things you depend on – really depend on – pass too. Often when you least expect it. Often before you realise you’re dependent to begin with.

But I digress. So, changes. Where to begin? The biggest one.

I’ve left.

I got tingles just writing that. Though not good tingles – yet. I’m hoping that will come in time. Yes, there was that initial euphoria – freedom! The world had opened up and suddenly I was able to be a part of it. I wasn’t hiding anymore.

But then something happened, I don’t know what. It shrank back, I guess. Into a claustrophobic bubble I can’t escape. It’s as if reality is elastic sometimes; it can expand and contract, or change shape depending solely on how you view it.

My old fears have crept back in, as though they’d been waiting until there was room for them. And now, there is. They say the world gets smaller the more you see of it … perhaps that’s what’s happened to me. I’m exploring more of the world now, so it’s more accessible, less immense. I say that now, as if I’m the confident, brave person I’m supposed to be, but the truth is I struggle to leave the house most days. The world in here feels so much safer, like I have reign over it, while the world out there reigns over me.

It’s funny, the ‘heebie-jeebies’ (Doctor Sarah uses some of the lamest terms) kick in at the strangest times. Right now, for example, I can smell his cologne, as though he’s just been in the apartment. Which I know is impossible – it’s probably a waft of the cheap deodorant Ben douses himself with after a shower – but I still get a jolt. Sometimes I’ll see him in the faces of people walking past, or in the shadows of my room at night. Adrenalin prickles over my skin like an army of ants and I have to get out, have to walk, skip, do something or I’ll go mad.

The fear can be paralysing. Sometimes I don’t have the drive to do any of the above. Sometimes all I can bring myself to do is drink. That’s proving the hardest habit to break, like saying goodbye to a faithful friend right when you need them most.

I’m lucky. That’s what they all keep telling me. Really? Am I? It seems like a pretty ill-fitting word for someone like me. I prefer Doctor Sarah’s way of putting it. She says I’m brave (whether she means it or not). But lucky? That implies a lack of choice or control, as though I had no say in what happened to me or how it turned out.

When I left Melbourne, my best friend was willing to pack up her life and move out here with me in a nanosecond. But I’m not ‘lucky’ to have her – we both put energy into cultivating and sustaining this friendship. It wasn’t luck that drove me to leave, although it played a role in those final moments. And it wasn’t luck that got us this apartment. It was Cat’s tenacity and charm – and the fact that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She wanted me to be somewhere where I could forget the past, she said. Like a change of location has the power to do that. But it’s a nice thought anyway.

It is pretty amazing, this place. Not so much the apartment itself – the rooms are small, and there’s a disproportionate number of bathrooms to bedrooms (1:4), but it’s brand new (still smells of paint), it’s high up on the fifth floor with a spacious communal dining/kitchen area, and it has a massive balcony out the front, overlooking the water.

We live right in the heart of the northern beaches of Sydney where I used to come as a child, and I have to say, being this close to the sea is a godsend when it’s this stinking hot. We can’t really afford to live here, of course, which is why we’re looking for a fourth boarder. Ben is studying to be a high-school teacher and works part-time as a support aide for children with disabilities, so you can imagine there’s fuck-all money in that. It’s noble, though. It suits him, I think. Cat is studying PR and works at the café under our apartment complex.

I don’t work – not yet – but I have enough money to pay my share of the rent. I don’t worry about money so much; it’s the least of my problems. But I know the others do, and it makes me feel guilty.

What I have to focus on, the most important thing, is staying safe. Things could definitely be worse – and they were – but that’s in the past. I’m getting better, and I’m letting go. Of course, it’ll take time. But it won’t take forever. Everything passes, doesn’t it?

Sometimes, at dawn, when I’ve been awake for hours, I get up and tiptoe through the sliding doors that lead from my bedroom to the balcony. There, in the morning mist, amid the salty scent of the ocean and the low roar of the waves, I watch the sun rise over the sea. It’s in those moments I feel a sense of calm mingled with a longing, a sadness I can’t quite place. Am I nostalgic for a life left behind or for one I never had? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Because, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I can almost imagine that everything will be okay.

Chapter Three

The sky is ominous today. Slate-grey clouds hang over the horizon and the sea is the colour of dishwater. Early summer weather is fickle and today it’s only sixteen degrees and sheeting with rain.

I tap my foot on the wooden deck, a lukewarm cup of tea in my hands. My eyes flick back and forth to the clock on my phone but time doesn’t seem to be passing at all. Why did I agree to this? Cat could have swapped shifts with someone, surely, or Ben could have postponed his ‘date’. Isn’t this something we should all be doing together?

My foot taps on restlessly, like it’s disconnected from the rest of me. Tap tap tap tap tap tap. The intercom buzzes and I jump, spilling tea down the front of my T-shirt. ‘Shit.’

Rushing into the kitchen, I drop the mug in the sink and mop at my front with a soggy tea towel, which only serves to spread the moisture. The intrusive buzz sounds again and I jab my finger at the silver button on the intercom.

‘Hello?’ I say. The word sounds hoarse, as if spoken by a heavy smoker. Silence. I clear my throat, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi! Yes. Um, is this Mary?’ It’s a soft, husky female voice, not what I was expecting.

‘Yes.’

‘Hi! It’s Rachel. For the room?’

‘Right, yeah. Of course. Come on up.’

‘Thanks!’

I press the button for the front door and hear a short, low brrrrrrpt on the other end.

She’s in.

Swallowing thickly, I pour myself some water, then stop. Shit, I’ve forgotten. Today of all days. Dashing to my room, I yank open the top drawer of my dresser and find the aluminium popper pack. I thrust my thumb into the foil twice and throw back the small, white pills with a slug of water. As I’m wiping my mouth on my sleeve, there’s a knock at the door.

‘Coming!’ That’s better. Normal-sounding, friendly. I make myself walk slowly to the door, breathe, then open it.

At first all I see is an oversized grey raincoat with a hood and a shadow for a face. Then the hood slides back and a face appears: pale, angular, with a high, domed forehead and hazel eyes. Dimpled cheeks bracket a wide, even-toothed smile. Two small hands reach up to disengage a bundle of dishevelled, shoulder-length blonde hair from the hood of the raincoat.

All thoughts of greeting are erased by the sudden feeling of recognition. A face like that would be hard to forget, I think. But I can’t pinpoint where I may have seen her. I almost ask if I know her, but she’s thrusting out her small hand, beaming, and saying in that rough-edged voice, ‘It’s so nice to meet you!’

‘Hi. Yes, you too.’

Rachel grasps my hand with fingers that are ice-cold. She’s surrounded by the scent of something sharp and sweet. I’m about to pull my hand back when our eyes connect. I feel a jolt; there’s something in those wide-set eyes, something that makes me feel exposed.

‘Are you okay?’ Rachel’s peering at me, brow furrowed. I can see the dusting of freckles on her small, upturned nose. She’s pretty. Really pretty. And then I wonder if it’s okay to think she’s pretty when she looks a bit like me. Not a dead ringer, of course, but the basic stats: blonde, slim, around the same age. But I’ve got nothing on this girl. At my best, I was that balance of plain and pretty that made me approachable, not too intimidating.

‘Mary?’

I shake my head to clear it. ‘Yeah, yes. Sorry. I just … Bit of a headache.’

‘You poor thing,’ Rachel puts her hand on my upper arm and squeezes gently. The sleeve of her raincoat rides up and I glimpse a black, Celtic-looking pattern on her wrist. A tattoo? ‘I get headaches a lot, so I totally sympathise. Do you want some ibuprofen or something?’

I force a smile. ‘No, really, I’m fine. Sorry about that. Come in. Would you like a coffee, or a tea maybe?’

‘I’d love a coffee, thanks.’ Rachel kicks off her trainers and walks down the hallway and into the kitchen, placing her handbag on the counter. ‘Oh god, wow,’ she breathes, her gaze settling on the dark, rolling clouds, the grey sea and the misty mountain beyond. The flailing branches of the fir trees by the shore hint at a storm. ‘This place is amazing.’

‘Yeah. The view is pretty great.’ I flick on the kettle and spoon instant coffee into two mugs. ‘Did you walk here?’

‘Yup. I don’t have a car at the moment.’ Rachel shrugs out of her raincoat to reveal a baggy jumper emblazoned with the Sydney University logo and a pair of black leggings. Her long legs remind me of a dancer’s or a model’s, and I wonder if she has that ‘thigh gap’ everyone has become obsessed with in recent years.

‘Sorry, I didn’t dress up for you.’ She grins and I wonder if she saw me looking. ‘I’m more of a “dress for comfort” kind of girl.’

‘You’re in good company,’ I say with a smile, gesturing to my T-shirt and jeans.

‘Oh, I love your shirt! Where did you find it? Astro Boy is so retro!’

‘It was a gift, ages ago. It’s way too big.’ I pull at the hem of the shirt, which hangs mid-thigh.

‘It really suits you.’ Rachel smiles warmly and I feel my cheeks heat up as though a boy I liked just paid attention to me. Rachel is not just gorgeous; she’s cool, confident. Like I used to be.

The kettle squeals as it reaches boiling point and, grateful for the distraction, I turn and pour hot water into the mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Thanks, yes. Milk and two sugars.’

I slop milk into both mugs, some of it splattering onto the counter, and stir in the sugar. ‘So,’ I say as I hastily wipe up with a grubby cloth and hand Rachel her mug, ‘how about you take a look at the room, see what you think?’

Rachel beams. ‘Great.’