The image of you, p.1
The Image of You, page 1
A stunning story of families, love, secrets and lies.
Can you ever trust anyone you meet online?
Anna and Zoe are twins. Identical in appearance, absolutely opposite in personality, they share a bond so close that nothing—and no one—can tear them apart.
Until Anna meets her perfect man.
Anna thinks Nick is the man of her dreams.
Zoe thinks Nick is a liar.
Zoe wants to protect her twin…at any cost. But will Anna pay the ultimate price?
The Image of You
Adele Parks
Adele Parks worked in advertising until she published her first novel in 2000. Since then, her many Sunday Times bestsellers have been translated into twenty-six different languages. Adele spent her adult life in Italy, Botswana and London until 2005 when she moved to Guildford, where she now lives with her husband and son. Adele believes reading is a basic human right, so she works closely with The Reading Agency as an ambassador for Reading Ahead, a program designed to encourage adult literacy. Meet Adele! Visit her website at www.adeleparks.com for the latest news on her upcoming events, head to Facebook for exclusive extras at Facebook.com/officialadeleparks and chat with Adele on Twitter, @adeleparks.
Contents
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
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Epilogue
Excerpt from I Invited Her In by Adele Parks
Prologue
What do we even call this decade?
The seventies, eighties, nineties, etc. were simply defined, the noughties had a special something, but where are we now? I’ll tell you where. The teenies? A decade that sounds like a close relation to that annoying kids’ programme that used to be popular when I did a lot of babysitting. It’s demeaning. I’m living through the decade where I hope to reach my emotional, professional and sexual prime and its name puts me in mind of life-sized purple, blue, yellow and orange puppets with lisps. Horrible. This decade is a vicious, cruel debacle of a decade. It is. Shall I tell you what’s wrong with it? Besides its name. Yup, I’m going to. I have a list.
Open-plan offices; no one can have any secrets, not even a secret nibble on a chocolate bar.
Communication is 90% text/email/social media messaging; communication is therefore at least 50% misunderstood. That is a conservative estimate.
Facebook. It makes us neurotic and deceitful; I mean, really, is everyone else having so much fun, and so many babies?
The lack of personal responsibility and the rise of the suing/blame culture. For goodness’ sake, own your disastrous life!
People talk in cinema and theatres. They sometimes leave to go to the bathroom or, worse still, they take off their shoes. Yuk! Standards, people, standards!
And that thing people do. Post a profile picture of themselves taking a picture of themselves in a mirror, so the phone is in front of their face. Why?!This list is by no means exhausted, but your patience probably is, because:
People are not as patient as they used to be.
Anyway, you get my point.
On the plus side, this has been the decade when wearing onesies became OK. That’s something, a saving grace maybe, because really there’s never been anything more comfortable, more wonderful, to wear when curling up in front of Netflix than a soft, baggy onesie.
And do you know what the absolute worst thing about this decade is? The one that kills me. No one, and I mean no one, has the expectation that they will meet anyone because their eyes collide across a crowded room. It. Does. Not. Happen. Not anymore. We meet online and I think that’s sad. I’m thirty-one and have been so very, very good all my life; not so much as a flirty text sent to one guy whilst I was with another. I’m faithful first and foremost. I think loyalty is all, it’s the backbone of all relationships—nay, the very oxygen—but that is not the case with men. No, madam. They are faithless, selfish, reckless, heartless bastards, every last one of them. I promise you.
Unless, of course, they’re wet. Just saying.
The hairs on his body stood proud. As though they were trying to desert him. He felt sweaty, clammy yet icy cold. He put his hand out to steady himself. The flat of his palm against the mirror. His hand in her blood. A perfect print. Fuck. He reached for the water glass where not long ago toothpaste and a toothbrush might have sat. This was surreal. This couldn’t be happening. He filled it with water from the tap; it was lukewarm. He swallowed it back but still his throat was dry. Closed. It was like swallowing sand. He sank down on to the bathroom floor; his arse was in her blood. The wetness seeped through his trousers to his skin.
This sort of thing didn’t happen to someone like him. He was a good guy. Or at least a good-enough guy. That’s what he’d always thought.
But he was also the sort of bloke who lied on dating sites to worm his way to a thoughtless shag; he had fast and dirty sex in hotel rooms, in alleyways and toilets.
He didn’t know what sort of bloke he was. Maybe this kind of thing did happen to guys like him. Not-good-enough guys. They did. You read it in the papers. Sleazy, chaotic people ended up in sleazy, chaotic situations.
There was so much blood. His thoughts wouldn’t sharpen or clarify, they squelched around his head. He could smell the iron of her blood. He stared at his hand. Covered with it.
It wasn’t some sick joke. It was real. He knew. Somehow he just knew. He felt it: she’d gone. He scrambled to his feet, turned to the basin that was smeared with her blood, and threw up. The trendy little basin with its small plughole wasn’t designed for this sort of waste. His vomit settled in the bowl; he could see remnants of the evening’s supper. Spinach. Carrots. How could it be that he was still digesting a meal they’d eaten together but she was gone? He had to push his waste away with his fingers, run the taps. Without thinking about it he started to splash the water around the basin, cleaning away her blood too.
He didn’t have any choice. He was a man who had swiftly fallen from having too much choice, to no choice at all.
One
Anna
Zoe laughed her head off when she read Anna’s online dating profile. Well, she would, wouldn’t she? She was so cynical. Sometimes her cynicism could be frustrating. Hurtful even. ‘You can’t say that. You just can’t,’ she screeched, hysterically. Her voice travelled from far away yet rang loudly in Anna’s head, blocking out everything else.
Sometimes Anna regretted contacting Zoe. If she didn’t get in touch, would Zoe ever get in touch with her? Anna pushed the thought away. She wasn’t up to examining the intricacies of their relationship right now. Everyone knew families were complex, tricky. Anna firmly believed you had to carry on regardless. You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family. You still had to love them. Those were the rules.
Instead, she asked, ‘Why can’t I say that? It’s how I feel.’
‘Feel.’ Zoe repeated the word, throwing a whole host of contempt into it.
Some people are born romantic and manage to stay that way but they’re very few and far between; most have it slowly eroded away through a series of cancelled dates, dreadful dates, white lies, black lies—they turn cold. Zoe was simply born hard. Granite. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that she and Anna came from the same seed, the same womb. In fact, they were monochorionic, monoamniotic twins. The rarest sort, only occurring in one per cent of twin pregnancies. Just a step away from conjoined. Their closeness was a scientific fact: they shared the same amniotic sac, the same placenta. There was only one afterbirth. Anna told herself that they were each other’s yin to yang. They balanced one another, but at this exact moment in time she didn’t feel balanced, she felt swamped.
‘You should say you’re twenty-nine,’ Zoe insisted.
‘But I’m not. I’m thirty-one. I don’t like lying.’
‘Face facts. Men like younger women, Anna Baby.’ Zoe argued with an air of feigned regret.
‘I know, but will two years make a difference?’
‘Yes, when you’re the wrong side of the big Three O. Alarm bells. Panic stations.’
Whilst Zoe was arguing for Anna to hide this fact, age was not something that bothered her personally, not in the slightest. Zoe was not hostage to the sound of the ticking of her biological clock; she couldn’t even hear the chimes. The baby-making business wasn’t something she’d ever shown any interest in. By contrast, Anna thought about it a lot. She’d always been happiest playing with her dolls, whereas Zoe was forever climbing trees or dashing off on her bike at breakneck speed, not even bothering to put on her helmet. Anna wanted to stay at home, make a home; Zoe rushed at escapades and loved to take risks. Yet Zoe was the one who always had men in her life. They fell at her feet whilst Anna seemed to be singularly unsuccessful in affairs of the heart.
It shouldn’t be this hard, all she wanted was to meet a good man—a faithful, kind, perceptive man. If he was handsome and funny that would be a bonus. If he wanted a Kardashian-size family that would be amazing although as long as he wanted at least two, then Anna was happy. Wealth would be awesome, but she wasn’t greedy; if he earned a modest amount yet ticked all the other boxes, she’d still be delighted. Her main concerns were that he was a decent sort; that she’d be able to trust him.
Anna knew exactly what constituted the perfect wedding day. The dress had to be a big romantic, lacy number, in at the waist, with a flowing skirt. Kate Middleton nailed it—what was more ‘princess dress’ than an actual Princess’s dress? You couldn’t go wrong with tight white roses. Six bridesmaids looked amazing, plus two flower girls. She’d have the menu printed on a doily, she was planning on fireworks, doves, a string quartet and a live band. Nina Simone’s ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ would be their first dance. The children would be called Freddie and Maggie.
She could see it all. The proposal, the anniversaries, the births and the first days of school.
She just didn’t know what the groom looked like. Or what he was called. Or where he was. But he had to be somewhere on this planet, didn’t he?
As far as Anna was aware, Zoe had never, ever thought about her wedding day. Well, at least not beyond commenting that marriage was patriarchal enslavement and she’d rather chew off her own left hand than slip a ring on her finger. Safe to say, Zoe was the one who called the shots, broke the hearts.
‘Don’t you ever worry about being lonely?’ Anna probed.
‘No. There’s a big difference between being alone and being lonely. Besides, I’ve got you. Haven’t I?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘We always have each other. Always and for ever.’
The thought was somehow comforting and daunting.
‘It’s just seems wrong to lie about my age. What sort of start is that to any relationship?’
Zoe laughed her slightly manic, quite pitiless laugh. ‘What? Lying to a bunch of online losers on a dating site seems wrong? I’d have thought it was de rigueur.’
‘Excuse me? Losers? Do I have to remind you I’m about to add my profile and join their ranks?’
‘I’m sorry, did I say losers? I meant to say strangers. Look, Anna, none of them ever tell the truth. The guy who says he’s six foot one, he’s five foot eight. The guy who says he likes hiking, skiing and mountain-bike riding has never done anything more physical in his life than the missionary position. Actually, scrap that, he wouldn’t even crawl on top.’
‘Stop it, Zoe. Can’t you be a bit supportive?’
‘I am being, by advising you to lie about your age. If you want to be successful at this, then you’d better learn how to play the game. Newsflash: Men prefer younger women.’
A huffy silence ensued for a moment or so. Anna was counting to ten, trying to keep her patience, Zoe was probably just wondering how to word her next criticism.
‘And you cannot begin your profile with the words, my friends say I’m romantic, thoughtful, trustworthy, honest.’
‘But they do say those things.’ Or they had. Her American friends.
The truth was Anna didn’t have that many friends here in the UK. Even with Skype, FaceTime, Facebook and emails it was hard to stay close to those she’d left behind in New York two years ago. Oddly, whilst she was the one that had moved away, her friends in Manhattan seemed to be the ones that had moved on. They were no longer running around the city wearing heels, drinking mojitos. Most of them had married in the past few years. They’d fast-tracked from proposal, to wedding list, to ceremony, to pregnancy and were now participating in nursery interviews. It left her dizzy, the speed with which these women had achieved so much. Dizzy and—well—jealous. She did her best to supress her jealousy. Jealousy wasn’t very ‘nice girl’ and she was a nice girl, she really was. Twice, at great expense, she’d crossed backwards and forwards over the Atlantic to attend wedding ceremonies; she posted seemingly endless gifts for engagement parties, weddings and baby showers that she couldn’t attend; she facetimed her friends and watched them spoon mashed sweet potato into the little pink mouths of their firstborns. She had tried, but it became increasingly difficult to stay interested in the endless, exuberant (exhausting) emails about the colour of bridesmaids’ dresses, the colour of baby poop.
She’d once confessed as much to Zoe, who shrugged and muttered something about ceremony, pregnancy, nursery, alimony. ‘Only when they hit alimony do they become decent friends again.’
Anna scowled. She didn’t want to see any of her friends divorced. She didn’t want to think about that side of things. No matter what the statistics were.
Unfortunately, making new friends here in London hadn’t been as easy as she’d hoped; Londoners, she found, did not welcome their new neighbours with baskets full of cookies and muffins. She remembered when she and Zoe were just nine years old and her family emigrated to Bridgeport, a city one hour’s drive north of New York; they’d been overwhelmed by the generous welcome neighbours, keen to be friends, had laid on. They were inundated with home-baked produce, orthodontist recommendations, tips about drycleaners and hair salons, as well as invitations to barbecues, supper parties, pot lucks and spit roasts. Even then, Zoe had been the sceptical sort. She’d insisted that people were just excited by the novelty of their Mancunian accents, impressed by their parents’ prestigious jobs, or fascinated by identical twins, and that their interest would eventually wane. However, she was wrong. The Turner family made firm friends with the positive, purposeful and gracious American neighbours. For over twenty years now, those friends had shared fat turkeys and thick-crusted pumpkin pies at Thanksgiving suppers; together they’d watched fireworks dazzle and fade into the hot, black nights every July 4th; the twins and the other neighbourhood kids had trailed door to door, scooping up handfuls of sticky treats on Halloween, and dipping into cool outdoor pools throughout the long summer vacations.
These friends had been there throughout the bad times too. The traumatic and horrific times.
By contrast, since Anna had moved to London she’d been living in a third-floor flat on the edges of Tooting Bec. She shared landing space with a similarly aged couple, but they’d yet to make eye contact. She’d hoped for a dinner party invitation but their interaction had been limited to embarrassed shuffles around the recycling bins. The truth of the matter was that making friends took time, energy and commitment. Anna had all three, in spades, but she tended to spend them on her work and her campaign to meet a potential husband. There wasn’t much room left for friendships. Besides, she had Zoe. And whilst Zoe didn’t actually live in England, she took up so much space.
Anna tried to defend her profile. ‘But my friends do say I’m romantic, thoughtful, trustworthy, honest.’
‘Yes, they do. More’s the pity.’
‘Well, I’m not going to say sexy, ambitious, pushy. That would be your profile.’
