I am so happy to be featuring Lauren North's thriller, The Perfect Betrayal. Today. I have an extract for you so that you can sample the story and decide for yourself!
'I thought she was our friend. I thought she was trying to
help us.’
After the sudden death of her husband, Tess is drowning in grief. All
she has left is her son, Jamie, and she’ll do anything to protect him - but
she’s struggling to cope. When grief counsellor Shelley knocks on their door,
everything changes. Shelley is beautiful, confident and takes control when Tess
can’t bear to face the outside world. She is the perfect friend to Tess and
Jamie, but when Jamie’s behaviour starts to change, and Tess starts to forget
things, she begins to suspect that Shelley might not be the answer to their
problems afterall. When questions arise over her husband’s death and strange
things start to happen, Tess begins to suspect that Shelley may have an ulterior
motive. Tess knows she must do everything she can to keep Jamie safe - but who
can she trust? The Perfect Betrayal is a dark, emotionally engaging novel that
asks: Who can you trust in your darkest moment?
Extract Chapter 3
Monday, 12 February
– 55 days to Jamie’s birthday
On the day you died I lit a bonfire in the garden. Yes,
really. Your born and
bred city wife finally adapting to village life. It was that pile of
bloody sticks smack bang in the middle of the lawn that made me do it. How long
ago had you trimmed the hedges along the road and left the debris in a
forgotten pile (another job half finished)?
It was before Christmas, I know
that much.
Of course, I didn’t know you were dead. Maybe if I’d stayed in the
kitchen, scrubbing the grime from the insides of the cupboards, and chatting
along to Ken Bruce on Radio 2, then I’d have known before the police knocked on
the door. But I didn’t because in that moment, on that morning, the sticks
annoyed me more than the grime, and the day was dry –
the sky a crystal clear
blue – so I marched outside in my
slippers with the matches and lighter fuel and the Sunday paper, and whoosh, up
it went.
There was a moment of raw thrill. A moment when the crackling of
branches and the smell unlocked memories of hot dogs and wobbly
headed Guy Fawkes dummies. A moment where I wished I’d waited for Jamie so he could see
it. I had half a mind to dance around it, I was so blinking chuffed with
myself.
Then the flames started licking the top of the stack, and grey smoke
billowed out in dragon like puffs. All of a sudden the smell was no
longer nostalgic but scratching the back of my throat, and I was standing in
soggy slippers in a snowstorm of ash. I dashed back into the house, shaking the
ash out of my curls, laughing at myself and the stupidity of my devil
may care moment, scanning the
worktops for my phone so I could send you a photo.
I never did get round to
texting you. Not that you’d have seen it. You were dead.
I try to remember what
it felt like to laugh like I did that day, but I can’t. The memory is of
someone else now. Four Mondays is all it’s been. Four weeks is a lifetime, it
turns out. I wonder if you’d recognize me if we passed on the street. The life
of its own mass of
strawberry blonde curls is now
limp and hangs scraggily down my back. I finally lost the extra baby weight
too. It only took seven years and your death to do it.
Four Mondays. Four weeks
without you.
A stream of sunlight finds its way through the lattice pattern of
the window, illuminating diamond shapes on the kitchen table and the small box
in front of me. I watch the diamonds hit the dark wood of the cupboard doors
that hang wonky on their hinges.
I hate this kitchen.
How can a house this big
have a kitchen so minuscule and gloomy? I miss the old kitchen. It’s not the
same tearing longing I feel when I think about our life, but it’s there all
the same – a quick tug, a flash of the gleaming white
cupboards, smooth floors and space.
My eyes fall to the box on the table, sitting beside a bowl
of two soggy Weetabix I couldn’t eat. The box is small and duck
egg blue. ‘Fluoxetine’ is printed in clear black letters above the
rectangular label with my name on it: Mrs Teresa Clarke. 1 x 20mg tablet per
day. The doctor made it seem so simple. ‘It’s not uncommon for grief to lead to
depression, Mrs Clarke. From the symptoms you’ve described, I would recommend a
course of antidepressants. We’ll start with three months’ worth and then I’d
like you to come back and see me. I would also like you to see a bereavement
counsellor.’
I only went to see him last week for something to help me sleep, a
drug that could pull me into nothingness without the nightmares, but he said I
was depressed. I don’t feel depressed. There are a lot of times when all I feel
is cold.
You don’t need them, Tessie.
Hearing your voice softens the ache in my
chest, but like the playdough Jamie used to love, the ache is putty and
stretches across my body. I know you’re dead. I know the voice inside my head
isn’t real. It’s just me saying what I know you’d say to me if you were here,
but it helps.
You don’t need them.
You said that last time when I could barely
get out of bed in the morning to take Jamie to
pre school. You told me I could
power through it, mind over matter – push the sadness and the emptiness away.
It
worked, didn’t it? You did get better.
Eventually.
The space behind my eyes throbs with the threat of tears. My
thoughts are running away with me. I focus on the sounds of the house, on what
is real. There are plenty of sounds to hear. The hotwater pipes creak and
bang, the wind in the fireplaces howls
ghost like into the rooms, the window panes rattle in the rotting wood. But
these sounds are drowned out now by the noises of our son. Thud thud thud –
his footsteps heavy with sleep make their way to the bathroom.
I imagine
Jamie brushing his teeth, skipping over the gap in the middle where his bottom
baby teeth used to be. Pushing his tongue against the tooth at the top, testing
its wobbliness, and wondering if today is the day it will fall out. I’m sure he’s
grown too since you died. Me, I’ve shrunk. I feel so lost, so small, without
your arm around me, but nothing can stop our boy from growing up.
Quieter steps
now as Jamie moves back to his bedroom to finish getting dressed.
A minute or
two tick by before Jamie appears in the kitchen.
A rush hits me. Our baby boy
is here. The relief laps in tiny waves over the pain squeezing my heart. Jamie
is here. You are gone and my world has stopped, but Jamie is here. I still have
a world.
My Thoughts
In this psychological thriller you are certainly led on a wild goose chase as to who can be trusted and who is unreliable! It made for an engaging read which kept my interest right up to the last page. You certainly feel for Tess and can identify with the huge pool of grief in which she is wallowing.
There are not that many characters in the story but that does not make it any less predictable. I honestly did not know who could be trusted right up to the last page. There are several red herrings on the story but these seem reasonable given the emotional prism that we view everyone through. The climax of the story does not disappoint and there is a great twist that you will not see coming! Well worth a read!
In short: Unreliable characters all add up to an unpredictable ending.
About the Author
Lauren North writes psychological suspense novels that delve
into the darker side of relationships and families. She has a lifelong passion
for writing, reading, and all things books. Lauren’s love of psychological
suspense has grown since childhood and her dark imagination of always wondering
what’s the worst thing that could happen in every situation.
Thanks to Lauren North and Anne Cater of Random Things Tours for a copy of the book and a place on the tour.
Check out the rest of the tour!
Huge thanks for this fabulous blog tour support Pam x
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