THE PERFECT

GIRLFRIEND

Juliette loves Nate.

She will follow him anywhere. She's even
become a flight attendant for his airline,
so she can keep a closer eye on him.

They are meant to be.

The fact that Nate broke up with her six
months ago means nothing. Because Juliette
has a plan to win him back.

She is the perfect girlfriend.

And she'll make sure no one stops her from
getting exactly what she wants.
 4

I
disembark from the coach at Heathrow. The automatic
doors to the Report Centre part. Flashes of green and
blue – our corporate colours – rush by. In the canteen,
I spot a vacant corner table as I order a double espresso. Above,
monitors constantly update the tantalizing list of destinations.
Rome. Nairobi. Athens. My eyes rest on Los Angeles: my first
destination as an operating crew member. I want distance from
Sweet Pea Cottage, Dorset and the past.Thoughts are swamping
my mind.
LAX crew report to room nine flashes up on the screens.
I stand up, gather my belongings and head for the pre-flight
briefing room. I am allocated a working position at the back
of the plane.

The flight itself would be a lot easier if there weren’t so

many passengers. Entering the economy cabin isn’t dissimilar
to my idea of walking on to a stage because hundreds of
eyes watch me and I sense their silent anticipation. I release
the brake on the trolley and push it in front of me. Bottles
rattle. When I stop at my allocated aisle – row thirty-six – I
can almost hear passengers mentally recalculating the order

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 Karen Hamilton

in which they will be served, and it injects me with a surge

of power.
I smile. ‘Lasagne or chicken curry? Red or white wine?’
A well-known chef is in first class and is apparently sharing
cooking tips with the galley crew and other passengers. I am
half-tempted to go and join them; perhaps he can pass on
something new which will impress Nate. However, I get caught
up preparing for the afternoon tea service. And before I get
a chance, we are commencing our descent.
After landing, people make plans on the crew bus.
‘Anyone fancy a tour of the stars’ houses?’ asks someone.
I can’t think of anything worse than paying to catch
glimpses of unattainable lifestyles. I choose to join a group
of five who suggest brunch somewhere by the coast
tomorrow. We are eight hours behind the UK, so even I
will want more than a coffee by then. I didn’t mention that
it was my very first flight, just that I was fairly new and
that I’d never been to LA before. I’d heard rumours about
‘pranks’ – I detest the very word and the images it conjures
up – such as informing a new recruit that it was their
responsibility to carry a bag of ice off the aircraft for a
room party or that they had to carry the captain’s suitcase
to his room.

Venice Beach.
Now I’m here, in a place so familiar that I feel as though
I’ve walked on to a film set, I want to pinch myself. I can’t
believe that I am here, living Nate’s lifestyle. To think . . . all
those times I was at our home, waiting for him, whilst he was
cavorting around the world, having a ball. What a mug I was.
I gaze at the vast beach. Beneath the tall, skinny palm trees

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 The Perfect Girlfriend

people unselfconsciously work out at the outdoor gyms. A

lifeguard hut catches my eye. I’d watched Baywatch a couple
of times at Babs’ house and I’d been enthralled.
I stroll along the Boardwalk with my temporary new best
friends – my colleagues – browsing the market stalls crammed
with sunglasses, T-shirts, crystals, souvenirs, whilst dodging
beautiful, thin people jogging, roller-blading and skateboarding.
An artist wants to draw my portrait, but I refuse with a smile.
I feel almost relaxed.
We decide on a restaurant with outside seating for brunch.
I order an egg-white omelette and a sparkling water.
‘Don’t fancy a Buck’s Fizz, then?’ asks Alan, the cabin service
manager. ‘You can drink, as long as you stop at least twelve
hours before duty.’
‘I don’t drink much,’ I say. ‘I’m not really that fussed.’
Everyone bursts out laughing.
‘What?’ I say. ‘It’s true.’ I look round the table of sage faces.
‘You won’t be saying you don’t drink a lot for much longer,’
says Alan, taking two gulps from his flute glass. ‘I give you six
months. Tops.’
They can laugh and make assumptions all they like. I zone
out.

As I walk 35,000 feet above the Atlantic operating the flight

home, the only thing that keeps me going through the endless
demands is the knowledge that this is all a means to an end.
I have an uncomfortable moment when I am summoned by
Alan via interphone to speak to a French passenger in first
class who has some queries.
‘Can’t he speak English?’ I say.
‘She. Not very well. That’s why we need you.’

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 Karen Hamilton

I walk up the aisle as slowly as possible, willing someone

to faint and slump over the aisle or ask me lots of complicated
questions. The problem is that I exaggerated my ability in
French on the application form. I’m barely GCSE standard.
However, I took a gamble and only scraped through the
mercifully short oral by cramming with a Teach Yourself audio­
book a few weeks beforehand and by pretending I had a bad
cold on the day. It was such a relief to walk out of the exam
room that I forgot to think long-term. I saw it as another
hurdle cleared, not as a potential future problem.
I smile as I’m introduced to Madame Chauvin, an elderly
lady, who smiles up at me from her seat expectantly and
launches into a long speech.
‘I can handle this,’ I say to Alan, who is hovering obsequi-
ously nearby.
He shrugs and disappears through into the galley.
I learned one sentence off by heart in French, which I
repeat. ‘Je ne parle pas très bien . . . I don’t speak French very
well. Could you speak more slowly, please?’
She frowns, then smiles again and slows down her speech.
I crouch down near her seat, so that hopefully no one else
can hear. I catch the words bagages and Paris. I think.
Still grinning, I say, ‘Pas de problème,’ in a voice barely above
a whisper and offer her a café au lait.
She opens her mouth, but I pat her on the arm and say,
‘You’re welcome,’ in French, stand up and leave. Before I
escape back to economy, I ask the galley crew to make her a
coffee with three biscuits, preferably chocolate.
Alan, who is leaning against a counter, tapping his iPad,
stops and peers through his glasses at me.
‘What did Madame Chauvin want?’

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 The Perfect Girlfriend

‘She was concerned about her baggage making a connecting

flight to Paris.’
‘Oh. Is that all?’
‘Well, she also misses her grandchildren and is looking
forward to seeing them. She’s been away for a long time
visiting other relatives. I’d better get back, I haven’t completed
my bar paperwork yet.’
I walk swiftly through business class, then premium class
until I reach the safety of the rear cabin. The sea of economy
faces is a welcome relief, but I don’t properly relax until we
land. Every time the interphone rings, my heart leaps in case
‘The French Speaker’ is summoned again.

After landing, I return home briefly to dump my bags, shower

and change before I catch the train to Dorchester. I send Babs
a message, asking her to collect me, then close my eyes for a
little doze on the train. She is waiting for me at the station
in her red Mini.
‘I think I’m going to sell the cottage,’ I say to her as we
drive past it. ‘I’ll have to hope that someone loves the whole
Hansel and Gretel, fairies, flowers and toadstools in the merry
forest-style theme, though.’
‘I agree, my love.’
I’d expected a list of objections, all stacked up like planes
awaiting air traffic control. My mother had been given the
house by my grandparents, both of whom had died before
I’d reached my first birthday. Barbara was married to Ernie at
the time and they were happy in a modern, detached house
where ‘everything worked’.
‘I’d been on at her for years to sell, but she vehemently refused.
The cottage was for a family, and as for the grounds . . .’

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 Karen Hamilton

‘. . . a jungle, from what I’ve seen through the window.’

Amelia liked to buy mixed packets of flower seeds, tip them
all together in a huge bowl, then stand in the middle of the
garden and throw handfuls into the sky and watch in joyful
anticipation as they rained down haphazardly. Of course, some
grew; bursts of colour among the random weeds and grass,
until they were strangled or gave up the fight after long periods
of warm weather with no water.
‘She was never going to heal here, alone, surrounded by
memories,’ Babs says softly, almost to herself.
‘She had me,’ I say.
I don’t mention the succession of unsuitable men after Dad
left.
‘I did keep an eye on you,’ says Babs quickly. ‘I made you
soup and apple crumble. And you knew that my home was
an open house when it came to you.’
Occasionally words fail me. Soup and bloody apple crumble.
Birthday cards from Father. My family are like the Waltons.
Amelia resigned from maternal responsibility when I was
awarded a drama scholarship at a boarding school, an institu-
tion that prided itself on its values. The Latin for light and
truth – lux et veritas – was carved into a wooden panel in the
dining area. When not in school uniform, my unfashionable
clothes and childish Disney pyjamas ensured I was even further
set apart from the queen bee and her friends, with their
matching silk pyjama sets and designer sweaters, trousers and
shoes.
We reach Barbara’s house. She parks outside her garage,
which she hasn’t used since Ernie’s sudden death from a heart
attack seven years ago. He loved hiding away in there, listening
to Radio Four and carving wooden chests that he liked to

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 The Perfect Girlfriend

sell at car boot sales. Babs turns the key in the lock of her
white PVC front door and I follow her in, taking my bags
up to the spare room.
‘Will you help me clear the cottage out?’ I say when I
return downstairs. ‘I want to get some estate agents round.
Maybe once it’s sold, it will start to feel possible to lay some
of the past to rest.’
‘Yes, of course, Lily love.’
‘I call myself Juliette now.’
There’s no harm in her knowing.
‘Oh. OK. That’s fine, as long as you don’t expect me to
remember all the time.’
‘Let’s have a coffee, then walk over,’ I say. ‘I want to get it
over with.’

The chill of winter is weakening now that the end of March

is imminent. Cherry blossom coats the branches of the village
trees and clusters of crocuses push their way through patches
of grass. Amelia’s favourite time of year. Not for me, though,
because it is a blatant reminder that time is moving on.Without
Nate. We got together in July last year and it is my intention
to get us back on track before that anniversary. I quicken my
step, mustering up a fresh sense of determination, and shove
open the gate to Sweet Pea Cottage.
The first thing I do is go upstairs to my mother’s room
and retrieve the photo I dropped the other night; the picture
of her precious Will, myself and my then best friend, Kim,
who used to live next door. I force myself to stare at it for a
few seconds, then rip it into tiny shreds. It was one of the
last ever photos taken of him – I can tell, because the cuddly
blue elephant he is clutching was only given to him by Babs

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 Karen Hamilton

the week before he died, which is why Amelia must’ve hidden

it from sight. I don’t want reminders. Kim’s family whisked
her away shortly after the Incident, leaving me behind with
the rest of the local children at our small school, who either
didn’t know what to say to me or simply treated me as though
I was tainted.
I stand still.
Silence.
I close my eyes.
I can almost feel the sun on my skin, just like that day.
There was barely any breeze. I rarely do this. I rarely go there,
and there is no need to now, but an overwhelming desire to
mentally self-mutilate dares me to push myself. Just one more
time. My breathing quickens at the memory of feeling a
resentful carelessness. And laziness. Until I had jolted and sat
up. Feeling sick, I’d felt a barely perceptible dribble at the side
of my mouth. I’d wiped it away as silence cut through the
incessant noise of the bees.
Either it ended or began then; I’m never sure which.
I shiver now, open my eyes, then run downstairs and
rummage around in the kitchen. I rip several bin bags off a
roll and hand some to Babs.
‘Here. If you want anything, keep it. Otherwise it’ll go to
charity or get binned.’

It takes two days. I end up having to stay at Barbara’s, but the

job is done.
Before I leave Dorchester, I have some spare keys cut. I
drop them off with several estate agents before catching a
train back to the shoebox.
My life is slowly coming back together. Once the house

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 The Perfect Girlfriend

sale goes through, I will have money. Things may have been
more tortoise than hare lately, but everyone knows who wins
in the end.
For the first time since I moved in, I sleep the entire night.

On my penultimate day off from work, I get up early and go

over to Nate’s. He’s at home, unfortunately, but I need my
fix. I walk past the theatre and a bank, then I cross the road.
I stare at his building, which also houses five other flats. It is
set back from the main area of the Green, down a small lane.
Well-maintained communal gardens, both front and back,
surround the property. I walk past several times, completing
circuitous laps of the wide open space. I hang out until Nate
goes for his usual jog around nine, before rewarding himself
with a coffee from his favourite café. The weather is on my
side again. Although the dark clouds look fit to burst, a drop
has yet to fall, but it means I can justifiably keep my raincoat
hood up.
From my viewpoint, near the café entrance, I can see through
the glass that Nate has ordered a croissant. Unusual. A surge
of hope; comfort eating can be a sign of loneliness. I take out
my phone and stare at the screen. Nate takes his time over
his coffee drinking and takes full advantage of the free papers.
As I glance up from my phone, fear floods through me. Nate
is walking straight towards the exit. Head lowered, I walk
away, then step into the nearest shop doorway, holding my
breath. He walks past. My heartbeat is violent. Deep breaths.
I walk in the opposite direction, towards the river, and call
Amy. I need a distraction.
‘Do you fancy meeting up for some tapas in Richmond
tonight?’ I say. ‘I know a good place that’s cheap and cheerful.’

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 Karen Hamilton

There is no danger of bumping into Nate, as he is off to

Boston.
Amy agrees. ‘Come to mine for a drink first,’ she says.
The tapas restaurant was a favourite of ours. Alejandro, the
gossipy manager, will feed back to Nate how happy I appear
if I mention – once or twice – how much more relaxed I
am with some fabricated new boyfriend. Nate should feel some
sliver of jealousy. It’s human nature to want what you can’t
have, I know that only too well, and I bet Nate checks my
Facebook page from time to time, through curiosity, despite
the impression he likes to give that he no longer cares. It will
do him good to see me out with a new friend. Even if he
doesn’t, maybe someone will see something and mention me
in a positive light. I’ve had to set up two Facebook accounts
– Elizabeth and Juliette – and take great care which pictures
I post on each page, as it would give the game away if I’m
in Melbourne one day, Singapore the next.
I return to the train station, glancing up at its distinctive
square clock – it’s not even midday yet – and go home for
the afternoon. I may as well use my time productively before
I head off to Amy’s, so I take out my laptop and get to work.
After chasing some estate agents, I check on what Bella is up
to. She is supporting yet another charity. An anti-bullying one
this time. Anger sweeps through me. She has no right, none
at all.
In-bloody-hale, ex-bloody-hale. In. Out. In. Out.
Patience is a virtue.
Stick to the plan.
I occupy my mind by searching for a driving instructor,
and I finally book some lessons.
*

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 The Perfect Girlfriend

I catch the bus to Heathrow for a change of scene, then another

one to Brentford, even though it makes my journey longer. It
doesn’t matter, as I still have plenty of time, despite my busy
day. Each trip we do generates between two and five rest days
off, depending on the destination – ‘Time at Base’ days, gener-
ally known as TAB days. The bus stops and starts, snaking
through Hounslow, then back on to the A4, passing rows of
houses set back from the main road. Even above the noise of
the bus engine, I am aware of the constant stream of whining
aircraft on their final descent. Glancing up through the window,
on each approaching plane I can see – despite the daylight –
the flashing lights of the anti-collision beacons, and the landing
gear; thick, black tyres poking beneath the metallic underbellies.
I alight at Brentford High Street, outside the County Court,
and from there it is a forty-minute walk to Amy’s. I pass tall,
shiny glass buildings and the depressing grey pillars supporting
the bridges of the M4 above. The final leg of my journey
takes me up a wide, residential road.
I am sweating by the time I press Amy’s buzzer.
She opens the door in a peach towelling robe. ‘Sorry!
Running a bit late. Help yourself to a drink from the fridge,’
she calls over her shoulder as she disappears into her bedroom.
‘I won’t be long.’
I don’t bother. Instead, I wait on the sofa. She takes ages.
Bored, I pull open a drawer in the coffee table. It’s mainly
full of junk. I can’t help myself tidying it, grouping random
pens and picking out a disintegrating packet of sticky cough
sweets, which need to go in the bin.There is a Homer Simpson
key ring, a burst of sky blue and yellow, holding two keys.
Spare keys? I pick them up and slide them into my bag – you
never know when things will come in useful.

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 Karen Hamilton

‘You remember Jack from my party, don’t you?’ Amy says

when we’re finally en route. She doesn’t wait for a reply before
continuing. ‘I hope you don’t mind? He was at a loose end
tonight, so I said he could join us.’
I smile. ‘How lovely. The more the merrier.’
Of course I fucking mind.

As soon as I enter the restaurant, my mood drops further.

There is no sign of a welcoming Alejandro and I sense his
absence, made more obvious by the lack of a decaying cactus
on a high-up window sill and the missing paper tablecloths,
decorated with badly illustrated sombreros. Instead, the place
looks . . . sleek. I just know that he’s sold out, moved on. I
feel a tiny stab of betrayal. I was a loyal customer.
A waitress shows us to a table set for four. I can see the
back of a man’s head; he swings round and grins.
‘Hi, Jack,’ I say with a big smile. ‘Who’s the empty seat for?’
I casually slip in as I take a seat opposite Amy.
‘My pal, Chris,’ says Jack with a grin.
A tingle of unease seeps through my chest when things are
out of kilter. I don’t want to double-date or hang out with
other men – there’s no point. I have Nate. Clenching my fists
beneath the table, I force myself to pick up the menu and
study it.
Just as I am about to suggest that we don’t bother eating
and head for a bar instead, Chris arrives. He is larger than life
in every way: tall, loud, with a beer belly. Although I grin and
appear welcoming, the next few hours are an endurance. I
feel trapped. I hate the fact that I am here, going through the
motions in the wrong life, with the wrong people. I haven’t
endured the nightmare roller-coaster ride of my early twenties

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 The Perfect Girlfriend

to now experience such a brutal stab of hollowness. My beliefs

entitle me to a cosmic reward like .  .  . contentment or stability.
I belong at home, with Nate. Every moment that we are apart
is a waste of time, because the outcome is obvious – we will
be together. Being with Nate was as though I’d begun a
homeward-bound train journey, only to be booted off halfway
through, on a winter’s night, and instructed to reach my
destination on a series of replacement buses.
I want it all: Nate, his family’s welcoming acceptance, the
comfortable lifestyle and kids who grow up to be a footballer
– Will loved kicking his football – and an actress. I’d look
after my children myself; I wouldn’t trust anyone else to watch
them properly. I want to be the sort of person who other
people might glance at – in a restaurant, say, or even just
taking the kids to the park – who people might aspire to be.
I want them to imagine that I am the sort of person who is
‘together’ and to picture my orderly home, with children’s
pictures stuck to the designer fridge with magnets, whilst my
husband opens a bottle of chilled, expensive wine as I stir a
risotto.
Approaching midnight, they are all pissed and laughing at
things that aren’t funny. If Jack shows me one more YouTube
clip of a man flying off a motorbike into a conveniently
located haystack, I will scream. And I don’t think I will be
able to stop.
We are now trapped in a long queue at the deserted taxi
rank. The smell of kebabs from a nearby takeaway is over-
powering. I can’t bear it a second longer. Childish defiance
takes over.
‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine lives nearby, he’s
away, but he lets me use his place from time to time. He likes

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 Karen Hamilton

me to feed his fish and keep an eye on things. Let’s go there

for a nightcap.’
‘Are you sure?’ says Amy. ‘What about—’
‘Come on! I can’t bear this queue a second longer. We can
have a drink in the warm, and I’ll call a minicab.’
Amy still hesitates.
‘Follow me,’ I say and head off down the alley towards the
Green. ‘You’ll need to be quiet as we walk upstairs, some of
his neighbours work shifts. Once we’re in the flat, it’s fine.’
I feel smug as I let everyone in, like I’m taking even more
control of the reins. My eyes dart around the living area. It
is neat. No work manuals, no post, nothing too personal.
Nate and I are both tidy. I don’t believe that opposites attract;
I’m sure it’s a myth. I pull the blinds down and insist that
everyone has a liqueur coffee. Nate won’t notice if the
amount in the bottle goes down, he hates the stuff. Jack is
sitting close to Amy on the sofa. There is a space next to
Chris who is sitting on the other one, in Nate’s spot. It
serves him right that another man – albeit an unsuitable one
– is in his place.
The fish are doing laps. If fish could talk . . . For the first
time ever, I feed them, sprinkling a layer of vile-smelling
confetti shapes over the surface. Rainbow’s mouth opens and
closes as he glares at me.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say. ‘Just nipping to the bathroom,
then I’ll call us a cab for later.’
They ignore me; roaring at yet another YouTube video on
Jack’s phone.
In Nate’s spare room, I check his desk. Mostly bare, as usual,
apart from a pot containing an assortment of hotel pens. He
tends to take his admin away with him, but I can’t resist

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 The Perfect Girlfriend

checking his drawers. With my phone clamped between my

ear and shoulder I dial a taxi firm.
It rings.
A male voice answers. ‘Hello?’
My eyes fix on an expensive cream envelope. An invitation?
To what? From whom? I carefully slide out a card, even
though it’s already been slashed open with Nate’s paperknife.
‘Hello? Bob’s cars?’ I force myself to speak. ‘Oh, hello, yes
. . . I’d like to book a taxi please . . .’
Hanging up, I sink down on to the bed, reading the words
as they blur in front of me.

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