The Role Model: A shocking psychological thriller with several twists Daniel Hurst (moboreader txt) 📖

anything growing up. I’m not even jealous of my friends, who all have two parents. If anything, they are actually the ones who are jealous of me. That’s because their parents don’t take them shopping at the weekend and buy them new clothes. They don’t even get on with their mums and dads. But I’m close to my mum, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.

Now I just need to persuade her that this dress is not as short as she thinks it is.

As I get dressed as quickly as I can, my mind can’t help wandering back to Rupert. I wonder what he will be wearing tonight. He is quite fashionable, at least from what I have seen of him at sixth form. He is definitely trendier than the other guys in my classes, although it’s not hard. They come in wearing football shirts or baggy jeans, and while they are taking full advantage of the informal dress code at our college, they aren’t going to win any awards for good fashion sense. But Rupert is different, and that is why he is the one who got my attention.

Back in my normal clothes, I pull back the curtain and step out of the changing room, smiling politely at the store assistant sitting nearby as I walk past her with my black dress in hand. Rounding the corner, I see my mum standing by the doorway to the shop, looking a little perturbed by the music blasting out of the speakers in here. Even I have to admit it is a little loud, so poor Mum must be going deaf. But she puts a smile on her face when she sees me approaching, and I smile back to let her know that my time in the changing room was a success.

‘I take it that you like that one,’ she says to me, her eyes studying the piece of black material with scepticism.

‘I love it!’ I say so passionately that it is sure to make her think twice about telling me that it’s too short.

‘Let me have a look at it,’ she tells me, and she takes it out of my hand before I have the chance to defend it better.

‘It fits perfect,’ I make sure to add as Mum holds it up against me and frowns.

‘I’m not sure about the length.’

‘It’s fine!’

‘Hmmm.’

‘And did I mention it’s on sale? Because it is!’

Mum thinks about it for a moment while I keep the ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ expression on my face. It must do the trick because she gives in.

‘Okay, come on,’ she says, heading for the tills, and I follow gleefully behind because I’ve got my own way. It doesn’t happen as much as my friends think it does. I’m lucky to have a mum like Heather, but I’m not spoilt. She has brought me up well, instilling good values, and I appreciate things like money and the work that goes into paying for nice dresses like this one.

I’m just not going to say no if she offers to take me shopping, am I?

As I stand beside Mum in the checkout line, I think about all the other things she has taught me. She has shown me how to handle rejection because I have seen her return from a date disappointed. I hope I won’t be feeling the same way tonight. She has shown me what it is like to have a goal and work hard to achieve it, mainly through her tireless efforts to become a fully trained policewoman. That work ethic is why I went into further education after school, and I can’t wait to go to university at the end of this year. And she has also shown me what is right and wrong and how to walk the fine line between doing things you shouldn’t and doing things you can get away with.

Basically, she has done what a good parent should do. She has been a great role model.

I would be thrilled to be more like her as I get older.

I doubt many teenagers would ever say that about their mums.

3

HEATHER

I double-check in the fridge to make sure that I definitely put the white wine bottle in there earlier. To my relief, I see it on the second shelf beside the bag of salad and the packet of sausages that I will cook for tomorrow’s breakfast. But I’m not going to take it out and pour myself a glass yet. I’ll wait until Chloe has left.

She doesn’t need to know that the grand sum of my plans this Saturday evening involves sitting in the house drinking by myself.

She is upstairs in her room, getting ready for the party tonight. I can hear her footsteps on the floorboards creaking above me, as well as the dance music that is coming out of her laptop. Thankfully, it’s not quite as loud as the music in that damn shop today. I had to raid the various pill packets in the bathroom cupboard when we got back to find something to take the edge off that headache. But my head is much clearer now, and I’m looking forward to an evening in front of the TV, when the house will be much quieter with Chloe out of the way, and there won’t be a dance track to be heard, for a little while at least.

Walking into the dining room and tidying up some papers as I go, I’m struck by the sudden and sad realisation that I am getting old now. It happens from time to time, and this particular revelation has occurred because I just told myself how I couldn’t wait to have the house to myself for a quiet Saturday night in.

No young person would ever think like that.

I’m only thirty-nine, so I’m not exactly enquiring about a bus pass or a new hip yet, but there’s no doubt that my best days might be behind me. Unlike my daughter, who has so much to look forward to, I’m