The roommate, p.1
The Roommate, page 1
THE ROOMMATE
GEMMA ROGERS
For Lucy
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
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
More from Gemma Rogers
About the Author
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
LIVVY
The club is loud and sweltering. Condensation drips from the ceiling, mixed with spilt alcohol, leaving an oily film on the dance floor. Bass from the speakers reverberates through my entire body, making my organs throb in rhythm to the beat. My fingers and toes pulse, tiny little shocks quivering as I sway in time with the music. Lifting my arms in the air, I close my eyes, music flooding my system, enjoying the sensation of my hair stroking my shoulders as I move.
Sweat pools in my cleavage, the top I’ve worn is too tight and I long to be free of it. In the distance, across the dance floor, I see my friend and work colleague. Ria has her tongue down Jayden’s throat, but no matter. It’s all good. Lights blind my eyes, as the strobes and lasers bounce off the packed dance floor. There’s a hand at my waist and then it’s gone. Sticky bodies collide together in the small space.
I’ve forgotten about my aching feet, how tired I was before, longing for my bed. It’s already past midnight, yet the party is just getting started. The night is still young and the DJ drops another tune, making the crowd whoop. Their gyrating becomes more energetic, more exaggerated. I love them all. Every, single, one. We are in this together. The people I know and the ones I’ve yet to meet. All part of the euphoria.
My heart is racing, beads of perspiration cling to my forehead, hair matted. Mouth dry, I crave water, but I can’t stop. I have to keep moving, absorbing the atmosphere despite the strange tingling and warmth spreading through my body. Every track the DJ plays glues me to the dance floor until finally I give in, breathless and dazed, leaning against a smooth pillar for support. Its surface sleek against my palms. Every sensation is amplified and I’ve never been so at one with my body.
A dark-haired stranger tries to talk to me, but I can’t understand a word he is saying, despite him leaning in, his hot breath on my neck. The music is too loud and my head fills with a throbbing beat that will not stop despite moving off the dance floor, longing for fresh air.
Struggling to swallow, my mouth full of sand, I begin to shiver. Something isn’t right. My balance is off and white streaks of light invade my vision. Stumbling in the direction of the toilets, I look around for my friends, but they are nowhere to be seen amongst the throng of clubbers. They are too busy celebrating the yearly internal awards after-party.
Typically, there is a queue and a girl grumbles when I knock her arm as she waits, my spatial awareness off.
‘Watch it,’ she snipes, as her friend giggles.
‘She’s off her face!’
I sway, knees weakening with every minute that passes. I long to feel the cool tiles against my skin. The sensation of my insides burning makes me hunch over.
‘Is she gonna be sick?’
‘Let her go first, otherwise she’s going to spew everywhere.’
We reach the front of the queue and the girl shoves me ahead. I skid to my knees amongst high-pitched cackles. Crawling into the empty cubicle and pushing the door shut behind me, not even bothering to lock it. The laughing outside taunting me.
I heave but nothing comes up and I rest my forehead on the bowl, the temperature of the porcelain a relief. I have no idea what is happening, but I know it is bad. I didn’t drink that much, but I need help. I open my mouth to speak, to call out to the girls at the sinks, but my tongue is too large and I can’t form the words.
My eyes roll, breathing shallow. Time is slowing down. Chest in a vice, shooting pains fire up my arm, but I can’t make my legs move at first, despite trying to draw them in. With enormous effort, gripping the seat, I heave myself upright, leaning against the wall for support. My legs are made of sand and I’m dripping with sweat from the exertion. I close my eyes for a second. I have to get help, but I’m not sure I can walk.
Forcing my weight away from the wall, I wobble, knees giving way beneath me. The fall seems to happen in slow motion, yet there isn’t time to engage my brain and get my arms to brace. My knee hits the bowl first in the cramped space and my body crumples forwards, forehead connecting with the porcelain cistern with a thump. Slumped on the floor amongst the discarded cigarette butts and toilet paper, my vision fades and everything goes black.
1
As soon as the wheels touched the tarmac, my lungs constricted. An iron-clad grip squeezed until all I could focus on was my breathing. I was back on English soil, autumn in full swing, but there was no comfort. Everything I’d been running from the past five months – the pain, guilt and grief – came flooding back and in a split second it was like I’d never left. I’d exited one nightmare into another.
‘Come on, Ria, you can do this,’ I muttered as I patiently waited for the seat belt light to go off, my palms beginning to sweat, anxiety rocketing.
‘I’m sorry?’ the woman next to me said, believing I was talking to her, despite neither of us uttering a word since we’d taken off from Nice.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I replied, smiling tightly as passengers around me jumped up, spilling into the aisles like someone had fired a starter gun for a race I didn’t know I’d entered.
‘I don’t know why people have to rush,’ the woman tutted, taking off her glasses to clean the lenses on her jumper.
I gave a noncommittal shrug, staying in my seat and ignoring the urge to join the throng. If I was getting back to my life, facing my demons head-on, I might as well get on with it.
Five months ago, I’d boarded a plane to Seville with the intention of travelling around Europe, although I didn’t get further than across the border to France. I winced as I gazed out of the window at the murky sky, drizzle smattering the glass and then down at my Converse plimsolls. They’d be soaked through in a matter of minutes, but it hadn’t occurred to me to dress for a chilly late October evening back in the UK. Around this time, I’d be sitting down to devour a cassoulet and a glass of red wine, followed by a walk along the beach, bathed in the warmth of the setting sun. The woman in the next seat in her bright orange jumper clearly had thought ahead.
My stomach gurgled and I wrapped my flimsy cardigan tighter around my middle, standing awkwardly to retrieve my suitcase from the overhead compartment. The decision to return home had been a hasty one, spurred on by an argument with my mother. As I’d thrown my clothes into my tiny suitcase, I hadn’t considered the autumnal weather, leaving for the airport while she slept, as I imagined her berating me about running away from my problems yet again. She wasn’t wrong but I didn’t feel safe there. I never would.
I shuffled off the plane along with everyone else, contemplating the temperature of my flat, wishing I had one of those apps where I could put the heating on remotely. At least I didn’t have far to go. Where I lived in Crawley was only a ten-minute drive from Gatwick Airport, once I’d got through passport control. I hadn’t checked in a bag, so theoretically I could be home by eight o’clock and, if I was lucky, tucked up in bed by nine.
Five months ago, leaving hadn’t been an option but a necessity. I’d sunk into a downward spiral since losing my best friend in an accident and was barely functioning. We’d both been looking forward to the annual awards ceremony organised by Cardinal Media, a top brand advertising company that worked on bespoke projects. Once the formalities were over, the party had moved on from a hotel to a club in Brighton, where drinks had flowed and class A drugs were passed around like sweets.
Livvy and I never touched the stuff, both of us having no interest in gurning the night away like we’d witnessed our colleagues do. Consequently I was shocked and appalled after a toxicology report confirmed she’d had ketamine in her system. She’d fallen in the toilet, hitting her head and causing a massive bleed on the brain. When she was eventually found, she couldn’t be revived. My gorgeous friend, who I’d only known for a year, had died alone inside a cubicle on a dirty toilet floor.
I was beside myself with guilt and grief, but no one wanted to talk about it. Drugs were a dirty subject and her death was brushed under the carpet. Hushed up to stop any bad press associated with Cardinal Media. The others there that night were reluctant to admit to any drug-taking in case they had the finger pointed at them. Neither me nor Livvy’s parents could comprehend her taking anything illegal, especially when, like me, she’d always been against it. We were in complete denial.
I felt responsible. While I’d been dancing, I hadn’t noticed Livvy leave the crowd. If I’d searched for her sooner, instead of creeping off to snog Jayden in a dark corner, I could have saved her life. Livvy was twenty-two when we met, a year younger than me, and we’d clicked as soon as I’d joined the company, both of us starting on the ladder as junior executives. She’d had a great sense of humour and was fun to be around. It was a work-hard, play-hard atmosphere at the company and we poured ourselves into it. Striving to meet each target, grab every bonus available and climb the corporate ladder.
After Livvy’s death, work had become impossible. I was always late, rolling in looking like I’d just got out of bed. Most of the time I had. My budding relationship with Jayden, an account executive, had fizzled out and I became so anxious I barely left my flat. The image of Livvy’s pale, sweaty face, her blue lips and limp body slumped on the floor stayed with me constantly. It drove me slowly mad.
I hadn’t contributed anything to the company in a month. The fountain of creativity had dried up along with my ideas and Chris Lightfoot, who owned the up-and-coming advertising agency, was well within his rights to sack me, but he suggested a sabbatical, some time out to get my head together. He’d assured me I wouldn’t have to worry about the rent whilst I was away and my job would be waiting for me when I got back, so in June, I’d booked a ticket to Seville. I’d planned a hedonistic few months doing some soul-searching and trying to get over my loss. But it hadn’t worked out that way.
I ran out of money sooner than expected and ended up working at a bar in Malaga throughout August and September, spending my wages on alcohol and hostels. In the end, I decided to put a stop to the cycle and visit Mum and her boyfriend, flying first to Paris to soak up the Parisian life until the money was gone, then reluctantly moving on to my Mum’s in Nice with my tail between my legs. Asking for another handout. I only managed two weeks before we were at each other’s throats. My turning up was an inconvenience to her much older French-Algerian boyfriend, Tarek, he’d made that plainly clear up until the last night at least.
It wasn’t the first time my mother had put Tarek before me. In January, she’d decided to relocate to Nice with him after he’d been lured back with a job offer, and suddenly I was homeless at twenty-three. Yet again, Chris had come to my rescue. In what was supposed to be a temporary measure, he’d put me up in the company-owned flat. A lovely two-bedroom modern place less than five minutes’ walk from the office in the centre of Crawley. I paid rent, of course, but as I was doing well, it allowed me to save for a deposit for a place of my own, but now it was all gone. I was back to square one and needed to return to work and replenish my savings.
Tired and deflated, I made my way through passport control, calling a taxi when I reached the exit to take me home. Shivering and taking shelter from the persistent drizzle, I wished I was back in France. Time had seemed to stop there, it was like a parallel universe, one that no longer existed.
When Commonwealth Drive came into view and the flats with their illuminated windows blinked through the darkness, relief flooded my veins. In a matter of minutes, I could be inside, taking a nice hot shower, washing the stink of travel from my skin and climbing into clean pyjamas.
I lugged my suitcase up the stairs, avoiding the queue for the lift. There was always a queue, so many parents with buggies or people with shopping, and it was only two flights to climb. As I reached number twelve, digging out my keys, my skin prickled and unease slid over me. Something was off. I checked I had the right door number, shaking my head at how stupid I was. Of course, it was the right number.
Pushing the door open, I froze. Sounds of laughter carried from inside the flat. All the lights were on, heat blasting from the hallway radiator and the background noise of a television. My television.
I crept inside, quietly lowering my suitcase by the door which I left open in case I had to dash back out again. Who the hell was in my flat? Did I have squatters?
‘I think that’s the one we should go for, it’s so vibrant.’ A plummy voice floated through from the living room and I edged closer until a pretty platinum blonde came into view. She turned to gape at me, her steely eyes narrowed to slits before she uttered, ‘Who are you?’
2
‘Ria?’ Jayden’s face was a picture, his eyes wide as I took a few more steps inside to see the both of them sat in front of the sofa on the rug. Seemingly going through documents scattered on the coffee table, a glass of wine in hand. Perfectly at home in my flat.
‘This looks cosy,’ I smirked, unable to stop the irritation radiating off me. ‘What are you doing here?’
The blonde’s eyes had changed, no longer were they clouded in confusion. ‘You’re Ria,’ she said, as if she knew all about me.
‘Would someone like to tell me what on earth is going on?’ I snapped. It was like I’d walked into an episode of the twilight zone.
Jayden got up and hastily gathered the papers together, sliding them into his satchel. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were back today,’ he said, his voice overly jolly, avoiding my eye.
‘I’m Amanda,’ blondie said, standing in front of me and holding out her hand to shake as if stating her name explained everything.
My temples thrummed with an incoming headache. ‘Okay, Amanda,’ I said, enunciating every syllable, ignoring her outstretched hand, ‘why are you here?’
‘Oh,’ she giggled and I had to resist the urge to slap the smirk off her face, ‘I’m your new flatmate.’
Her voice was annoyingly trill and I couldn’t work out if it was that making my eye twitch or the fact a minute ago she was cosying up with my ex-boyfriend in my bloody flat.
‘What do you mean you’re my new flatmate? Says who?’ I frowned, forehead creasing, intensifying the thudding in my brain.
‘Amanda is the new junior exec, she’s moved back to Crawley from Broadstairs, so Chris offered the other bedroom in the flat until she finds something else.’ Jayden flung his coat over his arm, keen to leave the awkward confrontation, but I was blocking the exit.
Amanda was Livvy’s replacement at Cardinal Media, the realisation a knife in my side. I glanced at the sideboard, the photo of us celebrating my birthday still in pride of place. It hurt to look at her.
‘I’ll see you at the station at half seven, Amanda,’ Jayden said, clearing his throat in a signal for me to move.
I stayed rooted to the spot.
‘We’re going to see a client in London, nine o’clock meeting,’ he continued, as if he needed to explain their spending time together on a Sunday night over a bottle of wine.
I raised my eyebrows and Jayden’s face flushed.
‘It’s good to see you back,’ he said, squeezing past me and out the door.
‘Bye, Jayden, see you in the morning,’ Amanda called over my shoulder before resting her gaze on me. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a bit of a shock. I’ll get out of your way.’
