The Pool House Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Tasmina Perry

  The right of Tasmina Perry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This Ebook edition first published in 2017

  by HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  Cover photos © Lorenzo Romoli/EyeEm/Getty Images (deckchairs) and Maica/Getty Images (woman)

  Author photo © Paul Rider

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 0853 8

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Tasmina Perry

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  This summer

  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

  Last summer

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  This summer

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Last summer

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  This summer

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Last summer

  Chapter 42

  This summer

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Discover more novels from Tasmina Perry

  About the Author

  TASMINA PERRY is the Sunday Times Top Ten bestselling author of twelve novels. She left a career in law to enter the world of women’s magazine publishing, and went on to become an award-winning writer and contributor to titles such as Elle, Glamour and Marie Claire. In 2004 she launched her own travel and fashion magazine, Jaunt, and was editing InStyle magazine when she left the industry to write books full time. Her novels have been published in seventeen countries. Tasmina lives with her husband and son in London, where she is at work on her next novel.

  For more about Tasmina Perry, visit her website at www.tasminaperry.com, find her on Facebook at /officialtasminaperry or on Twitter @tasminaperry.

  By Tasmina Perry

  Daddy’s Girls

  Gold Diggers

  Guilty Pleasures

  Original Sin

  Kiss Heaven Goodbye

  Private Lives

  Perfect Strangers

  Deep Blue Sea

  The Proposal

  The Last Kiss Goodbye

  The House on Sunset Lake

  The Pool House

  About the Book

  A SUMMER TO DIE FOR

  To Jem Chapman, it’s the chance of a lifetime. An invitation to join an exclusive Hamptons house-share, who could say no? But when she discovers what happened last summer, Jem can’t help but feel a chill.

  A young woman was found drowned in the house’s pool. The housemates said Alice was troubled. She’d been drinking. She couldn’t swim.

  A SECRET WORTH KILLING FOR

  As Jem gets to know her glamorous new housemates, she realises each has something to hide. What really happened last summer? And who would go to any lengths to keep a person quiet?

  For Steph, who liked to read

  Prologue

  The sand under her feet was still warm, but Alice didn’t feel it as she ran. She swiped at the tears as she crossed the beach, leaving the lights of the party behind, glad of the darkness as it swallowed her. When she felt sure she was out of sight, she sank to her knees and sobbed, hugging herself, listening to the drips as they hit the sand.

  Crying in the Hamptons, she thought. This is all I ever wanted. Shouldn’t I be happy?

  But then why had she ever thought she could find happiness here, of all places? The Hamptons. Ever since she was a little girl, that name had resonated with her, a byword for wealth, privilege and a charmed life. In her mind, the big houses on Long Island would be an adult Disneyland where movie stars danced with billionaires and where a little girl from Indiana might meet a handsome prince who would change her life.

  She’d been half right, she thought, wiping her face and brushing herself down. She had paid a small fortune for this dress; she hated the idea of getting sand all over it.

  Heels in one hand, she walked slowly along the beach towards the house. Even though Midsummer’s Eve had passed, the sun had fallen completely beneath the horizon and the sky overhead was speckled with stars. She caught the sweet-harsh whiff of woodsmoke; some kids were dancing and laughing around a bonfire down by the water’s edge, its flames glinting on the ink-blue water. Oh to be that young and carefree, she thought. Instead here she was, standing in the dark, her fifty-dollar mascara running down her face. She stifled a moan, leaning against the rail of the weather-beaten boardwalk leading to the house. Their house.

  Alice knew that she had got married too early. The truth was, she probably shouldn’t have married at all. She had no reason to believe in happy-ever-after, not after her upbringing. Her mom . . . Christ, was it any real surprise that Alice kept screwing up after having her as a role model? The endless procession of men, the revolving-door stepdads, the days and days when Momma was too hung-over or too badly beaten to get out of bed. ‘I can’t help loving all the wrong men,’ her mom had once said. And Alice, still believing in Disneyland, had told her that she would find the one. But Alice had been wrong. Momma never did find a prince. Who ever did?

  Steadying herself, she unlatched the gate and walked through the bushes into the garden. There was no denying that the house looked magical, strings of lights swaying over the deck and two glowing upstairs windows making the weathered clapboard building look like a particularly benevolent pumpkin.

  How could anything in such a fairy-tale castle be wrong? she thought for a split second, before the nausea collecting at the base of her throat remi
nded her how very wrong things were.

  Shifting her shoes to one hand, she let herself in through the French windows. The doors were unlocked, as they often left them, lazy days at the beach blurring their sense of caution, but still, there was the possibility that someone was home.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, listening, her voice echoing around the room. No, nothing but the soft hum of the air con. There was no one here. David would still be at the party; they all would, drinking champagne, laughing at each other’s jokes, smiling politely at boasts about schools and business deals, gasping at the latest gossip.

  She went to the fridge and took out a bottle of vodka. Alice was in the mood for spirits, not the weak fizz they had served at the party. Champagne made her giddy, giggly, but right now she wanted to lose herself completely.

  She dropped ice into a glass and poured a large measure, hissing through her teeth as it burnt down her throat. Maybe she had been too harsh on David. He was a good husband; not perfect and not what she needed, but a decent man. He’d never hit her or lied to her or even asked very much of her as a wife. As for herself, Alice had responded in kind, giving him as little of the real her as she could manage.

  She picked up the tumbler, pressed it against her forehead, taking comfort from the cold, trying to still the noise in her head.

  What had people seen back at the party? she wondered. What had they heard? Was she the one they were all talking about back there, the whispers going from one person to the next, the shame spreading outward like ripples.

  Yeah? Well let them talk.

  She stepped outside; it was too hot in the house, despite the climate-controlled fans, and far too claustrophobic. She wanted to feel the breeze on her skin and look out over the endless sea. She still had that, at least. Maybe she could just jump in a boat and sail away.

  Like you’d ever get in a boat. She could barely stand to be around the pool, never even dangled her feet into the water, not even on the hottest days.

  The noise from the beach was getting louder and a crowd had gathered on the sand beyond the perimeter of the grounds.

  Alice shook her head. She didn’t need that, not tonight; the sights and sounds of young people having fun. Instead she walked to the right-hand side of the house, taking slow, steady sips of her vodka as she went.

  She didn’t come to this part of the property much; it made her shiver. She had successfully avoided the pool all summer, made her excuses when everyone else went swimming, and no one had ever asked why.

  It was enclosed in a walled garden, with tall hedges that shielded it from the rest of the property. She pushed the white picket gate and went inside, shuddering as she stared at the sheet of turquoise water shimmering in front of her. She forced herself to look at it; she wasn’t sure she could feel any more pain tonight, even if the sight of the pool dislodged unwelcome memories. She carefully skirted around the edge of the water, sipping the vodka as she went. It would be so easy just to end it right now, she thought, her eyes focusing on the intense blue. Just one step and a non-swimmer who’d had too much to drink would be gone. That would teach him, she thought bitterly.

  The hedges had muffled the sounds from the beach but she could still pick out the rhythmic beat of drums from the bonfire party, the tempo steadily quickening to a frantic climax that reminded Alice of that day, that crazy afternoon in the rain, the wet cotton sticking to her skin, his hands on her . . . She tipped back the rest of her vodka, closed her eyes and let her hips sway.

  If only all days could be like that, if only she could have the life she had imagined. If only . . .

  Her eyes snapped open when she heard the scrape of the latch, the creak as the gate swung open behind her. Her heart jumped as she turned to face the figure, dark against the inky sky.

  ‘Hello, Alice. I knew I’d find you here. I think it’s time we had a talk.’

  This summer

  Chapter 1

  ‘Skinny macchiato for Jim!’ shouted the barista, holding a white cup aloft.

  Jem Chapman pushed her way through a sea of skinny gym-kit girls and claimed her coffee. They always got her name wrong, even though she came here every day.

  Balancing the drink and a paper sack of groceries, she struggled back towards the door. Although the Blackberry Café was about to close, it was still packed and the only seats were on the sidewalk outside. Brooklyn was buzzing, even this late in the day.

  She put her grocery bag on the last empty table and sat down, glad to finally take the weight off her feet. She’d been yomping around New York all day: a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, then window-shopping on Fifth Avenue before another cancelled lunch date with her husband Nat. Sorry, babe, work thing x was all the explanation she’d got. So she’d meandered back to Brooklyn via Trader Joe’s, swinging by Blackberry on Park Slope’s 6th Avenue in what was coming to be a late-afternoon ritual.

  She watched a puff of steam rise from the top of her cup. The March air had a cold crispness and it was beginning to get dark. When she and Nat had moved to Brooklyn three months ago, she’d been staggered at the vast array of cafés, juice bars and gourmet kitchens catering to the most fashionable tastes of the day. She had decided to try every single one of them. So why did she keep coming back here?

  She turned at a sharp cry. A young mum with a pixie haircut was at the next table, struggling to get her toddler into a stroller without spilling her coffee.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ asked Jem, reaching out to steady the stroller, which was threatening to overbalance.

  ‘No,’ snapped the woman, pulling the buggy out of Jem’s reach. ‘I got this.’

  ‘Sure, okay,’ said Jem, sitting back. What, did the woman think she was going to snatch her baby? Maybe she did; this was New York after all. London had its share of weirdos, but over here they seemed to make a profession of it.

  The woman turned her back, but her little girl peered around her mother and grinned at Jem, who gave a careful wave. For a moment she wondered why she felt so upset by the woman’s reaction, and then it came to her: this was why she kept coming here. Deep down, she was hoping to make friends. Nat worked in the city and the nature of his job as associate editor on Form, the men’s fashion magazine based in Manhattan, meant he had to stay late at parties and events. The truth was, Jem was straight-up lonely.

  The irony was that it was babies just like this one that had persuaded her to come to New York.

  ‘Just think of it, Jem,’ Nat had said. ‘Two years in Manhattan while everyone else is changing nappies in Kensal Rise.’

  And it was true: over the past eighteen months, their friends had all started having children, and those boozy girls’ nights out she’d so loved had been replaced by NCT meetings and antenatal reunions to which Jem was not invited. So why not move to glamorous New York? A Sex and the City whirlwind of cocktails, chic apartments and yellow cabs, where turning every corner would be like stepping onto the set of all her favourite movies: Annie Hall, Desperately Seeking Susan, An Affair to Remember. It was exactly what she and Nat needed. Or at least that was what she had told herself.

  A buzzing in her pocket pulled her from her thoughts. She pulled out her phone: an incoming email.

  We are sorry to inform you that your application for the job as sous-chef at Buckley-Clinton School has been unsuccessful on this occasion. We will keep your résumé on file and contact you if anything suitable arises in future.

  Best wishes,

  Julia Cowen, Catering Manager

  She looked down at the phone, her stomach churning. Damn. The little girl on the next table dropped her brownie on the floor and started crying.

  I know exactly how you feel, thought Jem, shoving the phone back into her pocket and picking up her groceries.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ asked one of the skinny yoga girls hopefully, placing her coffee cup on the table to stake her
claim.

  ‘Sadly not,’ said Jem.

  Rain began to fall from the blanket of heavy clouds above. She gripped the paper sack tighter and strode briskly towards their apartment, a five-minute walk from the café. Somewhere a siren pierced the background roar of traffic, and a yellow flash of taxi reminded her that this city moved so fast, it certainly put a spring in your step.

  She ran up the five flights of stairs to the top floor, glad to be out of the cold. Their apartment was four hundred square feet under the eaves of an elegant brownstone. It was a beautiful building – straight off a Brooklyn movie set – but Jem had preferred the flat they had seen in the less fashionable area of Crown Heights, close to the Botanic Gardens. Yet Nat had pushed for fashionable Park Slope, arguing that New Yorkers didn’t spend much time in their apartments. Easy for him to say, when he spent all day in a huge shiny office and most evenings at glittering parties.

  She dumped the groceries on the tiny kitchen work surface and yanked open the door to the solitary storage cupboard, already overflowing with things she had brought with them from England: Marmite, marmalade, Oxo cubes. She stopped as the sight of a box of PG Tips made her feel almost dizzy with homesickness.

  Here she was in the greatest city in the world, with her smart and handsome husband, and yet she felt as if she was floating in space without a tether. ‘Who’d have thought it?’ she whispered, closing the cupboard door and leaning her head against the cool surface.

  In Cornwall, where she’d grown up, people spoke of ‘that London’ with suspicion, dismissing the capital as too fast, too impersonal, too selfish. But Jem had loved it from the first. She loved the wide-open spaces of the parks, the grandeur of the stuccoed buildings, the red phone boxes, the black cabs, and the blue plaques reminding her how many great people had once lived there.

  Most of all, she loved their home, a two-bedroom terrace in Kensal Rise with a glass extension that made it feel light and airy. Cornwall would always be home, but that cottage was their home, a place crammed with things that made up their history: skis, hiking boots, books, photo albums, furniture they’d bought together from flea markets on the Portobello Road. And then there was all the stuff. Their friends always laughed that Nat was an arch-blagger, an expert at using his charm and status as a style columnist to acquire free clothes, shoes and products. The juicer and the coffee machine jostling for space in the kitchen were freebies, and the spare bedroom was an Aladdin’s cave of things he had brought home like a hunter back from the kill. Jem knew that he was proud of the designer names printed on the boxes and bags; she knew he wanted to show her how far they had come. But she was beginning to think it had been a step too far.