C.J. Skuse - Sweetpea - The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017

CJ SKUSEis the author of the YA novels The Deviants , Monster , Pretty Bad Things , Rockoholic and Dead Romantic . She was born in 1980 in Weston-super-Mare, England. She has First Class degrees in Creative Writing and Writing for Children and, aside from writing novels, lectures in Writing for Children at Bath Spa University, where she is planning to do her PhD. Sweetpea is her first novel for adults.

For my cousin, Emily Metcalf.

For the years I spent at your mansion while mine was being decorated.

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About the Author CJ SKUSE is the author of the YA novels The Deviants , Monster , Pretty Bad Things , Rockoholic and Dead Romantic . She was born in 1980 in Weston-super-Mare, England. She has First Class degrees in Creative Writing and Writing for Children and, aside from writing novels, lectures in Writing for Children at Bath Spa University, where she is planning to do her PhD. Sweetpea is her first novel for adults.

Title Page

Dedication For my cousin, Emily Metcalf. For the years I spent at your mansion while mine was being decorated.

Sunday, 31 December

Monday, 1 January

Wednesday, 3 January

Friday, 5 January

Sunday, 7 January

Thursday, 11 January

Friday, 12 January

Tuesday, 16 January

Sunday, 21 January

Friday, 26 January

Wednesday, 31 January

Thursday, 1 February

Friday, 2 February

Saturday, 3 February

Sunday, 4 February

Monday, 5 February

Tuesday, 6 February

Wednesday, 7 February

Monday, 12 February

Tuesday, 13 February

Wednesday, 14 February

Thursday, 15 February

Friday, 16 February

Monday, 19 February

Thursday, 22 February

Tuesday, 27 February

Friday, 1 March

Saturday, 2 March

Sunday, 3 March

Tuesday, 5 March

Thursday, 7 March

Friday, 8 March

Saturday, 9 March

Sunday, 10 March

Monday, 11 March

Thursday, 14 March

Friday, 15 March

Sunday, 17 March

Tuesday, 19 March

Thursday, 21 March

Saturday, 23 March

Monday, 25 March

Wednesday, 27 March

Friday, 29 March

Sunday, 31 March

Wednesday, 3 April

Friday, 5 April

Saturday, 6 April

Monday, 8 April

Wednesday, 10 April

Thursday, 11 April

Friday, 12 April

Saturday, 13 April

Sunday, 14 April

Monday, 15 April

Maundy Thursday, 18 April

Saturday, 20 April

Easter Sunday, 21 April

Thursday, 25 April

Friday, 26 April

Saturday, 27 April

Sunday, 28 April

Monday, 29 April

Wednesday, 1 May

Saturday, 4 May

Sunday, 5 May

Monday, 6 May

Tuesday, 7 May

Friday, 10 May

Sunday, 12 May

Monday, 13 May

Wednesday, 15 May

Thursday, 16 May

Friday, 17 May

Saturday, 18 May

Sunday, 19 May

Monday, 20 May

Thursday, 23 May

Friday, 24 May

Saturday, 25 May

Monday, 27 May

Tuesday, 28 May

Wednesday, 29 May

Thursday, 30 May

Saturday, 1 June

Monday, 3 June

Wednesday, 5 June

Thursday, 6 June

Friday, 14 June

Sunday, 16 June

Monday, 17 June

Tuesday, 18 June

Wednesday, 19 June

Friday, 21 June

Saturday, 22 June

Sunday, 23 June

Copyright

1. Mrs Whittaker – neighbour, elderly, kleptomaniac

2. ‘Dillon’ on the checkout in Lidl – acne, wallet chain, who bangs my apples and is NEVER happy to help

3. The suited man in the blue Qashqai who roars out of Sowerberry Road every morning – grey suit, aviator shades, Donald Trump tan

4. Everyone I work with at the Gazette apart from Jeff

5. Craig

Well, my New Year has certainly gone off with a bang, I don’t know about yours. I was in a foul mood to begin with, partly due to the usual Christmas-Is-Over-Shit-It’s-Almost-Back-To-Work-Soon malaise and partly due to the discovery of a text on Craig’s phone while he was in the shower that morning. The text said:

Hope you’re thinking of me when ur soaping your cock – L.

Kiss. Kiss. Smiley face tongue emoji.

Oh, I thought. It’s a fact then. He really is shagging her.

L. was Lana Rowntree – a kittenish 24-year-old sales rep in my office who wore tight skirts and chunky platforms and swished her hair like she was in a 24-hour L’Oréal advert. He’d met her at my works Christmas piss-up on 19 December – twelve days ago. The text confirmed the suspicions I’d had when I’d seen them together at the buffet: chatting, laughing, her fingering the serviette stack, him spooning out stuffing balls onto their plates, a hair swish here, a stubble scratch there. She was looking at him all night and he was just bathing in it.

Then came the increase in ‘little jobs’ he had to do in town: a paint job here, a hardwood floor there, a partition wall that ‘proved trickier’ than he’d estimated. Who has any of that done the week before Christmas? Then there were the out-of-character extended trips to the bathroom and two Christmas shopping trips (without me) that were just so damn productive he spent all afternoon maxing out his credit card. I’ve seen his statement – all my presents were purchased online.

So I’d been stewing about that all day and the last thing I needed that New Year’s night was enforced fun with a bunch of gussied-up pissheads. Unfortunately, that’s what I got.

My ‘friends’ or, more accurately, the‘PICSOs’ – People I Can’t Shake Off – had arranged to meet at the Cote de Sirène restaurant on the harbour-side, dressed in Next Sale finery. Our New Years’ meal-slash-club-crawl had been planned for months – initially to include husbands and partners, but, one by one, they had all mysteriously dropped out as it became a New Years’ meal-slash- baby-shower -slash-club crawl for Anni. Despite its snooty atmosphere, the restaurant is in the centre of town, so there’s always yellow streaks up the outside walls and a sick puddle on the doormat come Sunday morning. The theme inside is black and silver with an added soupçon of French – strings of garlic, frescos of Parisian walkways and waiters who glare at you like you’ve murdered their mothers.

The problem is, I need them. I need friends. I don’t want them; it’s not like they’re the Wilson to my skinny, toothless, homeward-bound Tom Hanks. But to keep up my façade of normality, they’re just necessary. To function properly in society, you have to have people around you. It’s annoying, like periods, but there is a point to it. Without friends, people start labelling you a ‘Loner’. They check your Internet history or start smelling bomb-making chemicals in your garage.

But the PICSOs and I have little in common, this is true. I’m an editorial assistant at a local snooze paper, Imelda’s an estate agent, Anaïs is a nurse (currently on maternity leave), Lucille works in a bank, her sister Cleo is a university-PE-teachercum-personal-trainer and Pidge is a secondary-school teacher. We don’t even have the same interests. Well, me and Anni will message each other about the most recent episode of Peaky Blinders but I’d hardly call us bezzies.

And it may look like I’m the quiet cuckoo in a nest of rowdy crows but I do perform some function within the group. Originally, when I first met them all in Sixth Form, I was a bit of a commodity. I’d been a bit famous as a child so I’d done the whole celebrity thing: met Richard and Judy; Jeremy Kyle gave me a Wendy house; been interviewed on one of those Countdown to Murder programmes. Nowadays, I’m just the Thoughtful Friend or the Designated Driver. Lately, I’m Chief Listener – I know all their secrets. People will tell you anything if you listen to them for long enough and pretend you’re interested.