Birthday girl, p.1
Birthday Girl, page 1
Niko Wolf was born in London and her first novel, The Favourite, was published in the UK in 2017 under SV Berlin. Long listed for The Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award 2018, it was also chosen as an ELLE Book of the month.
Most recently, she was a Screenwriter and Story Editor for independent movie A Son of Man, selected as an official entry in the foreign-language category for the 2019 Oscars. Wolf works in artificial intelligence, and lives in Manhattan.
Birthday Girl is her first thriller.
Birthday Girl
Niko Wolf
www.hodder-studio.com
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Hodder Studio
An Imprint of Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Niko Wolf 2022
The right of Niko Wolf to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover Design by Will Speed © Hodder & Stoughton
Cover Images © plainpicture/Anna Matzen © Arcangel (figure)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN 9781529366655
Paperback ISBN 9781529366662
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder-studio.com
For Violet
2005–2019
“Never say you know the last word about any human heart.”
Henry James
Contents
Prologue
Sharpie
Lift
Fireworks
Damaged
Style
Swanky
Nuisance
Escalator
Worry
Drama
Shrink
Sinking
Gossip
Timing
Blindsight
Kiss
Niche
Judged
Slum
Scrabble
Menace
Chill
Flab
Telltale
Sabotage
Glitz
Drunk
Talent
Merch
Nausea
Enemies
Crude
Status
Venom
Chopped
Locked
Trust
Distance
Funk
Bones
Milk
Mask
Magic
Love
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
1996
Afterward, he would wonder how anyone got through life without dying. People got on and off planes. They crossed streets without looking. And, once in a while, someone would disappear, leaving no clue as to where they had gone and no trace of themselves behind.
They have pooled their money and rented a house out east. Not a grand house, it’s true, more like a small cottage in the almost-Hamptons. The first night, they had all been up late doing tequila shots. The next morning, Maddie is up early and announces that she’s going down to the ocean, “for a paddle.” He hears these words through a fog of sleep and alcohol.
“What?” He opens his eyes. “Now?”
The pillow smells unpleasantly of mildew. Does it matter that he’s been breathing this in all night?
“Yes!” she is saying. “Come on, it’ll be brilliant.”
She is standing in the doorway in a green summer dress and the shirt he had planned to wear at dinner tonight. Her blonde hair falls messily around her face. Her eyes have that mischievous glint.
He hauls himself up onto his elbows and peers out of the window. The September skies are gray and unpromising. A spreading circle of damp sits on the ceiling above. Could it be any more obvious they’ve been ripped off?
There is no sign of the others. They will be sleeping off their hangovers in peace. Once he and Maddie set off, the air is fresh and invigorating, and his head begins to clear. They cycle the few miles to the bridge, cross to the long spit of land that forms the ocean road, and park their bikes next to the dunes. The red flags are out along the beach, and the Atlantic rolls in high and cold. It’s early. No surprise that there is not a single other person to be seen. Maddie is running ahead, already halfway through the dunes. She has so much energy.
“Don’t go in!” he calls, out of breath, sure that he just felt a few drops of rain on his face. “Be careful!”
But his wife is not the sort of woman who cares.
“Pussy!” she yells back, sprinting down the sand. He isn’t complaining. His gorgeous wife . . . He loves this about her. How bold she is. How fearless. If this makes her a challenge, occasionally hard to keep up with, he is a lucky man, and she is so worth it.
“Coming!” he shouts back and jogs after her.
A crumbling concrete jetty extends out into the water, the far end sitting just under the waves. As Maddie runs lightly along it, it is as if she’s hovering right above the water, which would hardly surprise him. Is she planning on diving in? The tide is going out, the water too shallow, he realizes, as helplessly he watches her kick off her flip-flops, leap up, and with a joyous “Whoop!” jump in—feet first, thank God—splash!
The jetty is slippery, so he picks his way along it carefully. Not as far as the end, though. He takes off his sneakers and sets them down a safe distance from the edge, then sits with his legs dangling over the side. Cautiously, he dips a toe in, and the waves wash over his feet. The water is even colder than he expected. It’s like stepping into a bucket of ice. How can she stand it? As his feet start to go numb, he sees that even Maddie knows better than to venture in too far. Knee-deep in the surf, she stands with her arms outstretched, as if to welcome the waves. He squints toward the horizon. Large expanses of water have always made him uncomfortable.
“How is it . . .?” he calls weakly.
“Amazing!” she shouts, beckoning to him. “Get over here!” He grins, thinks how good it is to see her looking so happy again.
As another wave crashes into her, she staggers a little. Is she going to make him go all the way in? Farther out, the ocean is violently circling and churning. And, though he hates to be a party pooper, could that be a rip current? Just in case, he takes off his glasses, folds and stashes them carefully in his jacket pocket. There is something else in there—the plane tickets. How could he forget? He’s been saving in secret for over a year, his plan being to surprise his wife at her birthday party tonight. Then, on impulse, as they’d left the house just now, he’d decided to bring them with him.
She’s wading back toward him, lithely pulling herself up onto the jetty, dress soaked, hair damp.
“Wow, that woke me up! C’mon, let’s get breakfast.” She jumps up, slips into her flip-flops. Breakfast? As he heaves himself up, it occurs to him that the party is hours away. And the idea of presenting the tickets in front of their friends strikes him as kind of showy and cheesy. Maddie is always telling him to let go; to be less uptight, more spontaneous. Feeling reckless and just a tiny bit insane, he tells her to wait a second.
“Close your eyes . . .” He takes the tickets from his jacket with a “Surprise!” and presents them to her with a flourish.
“Happy Birthday, Mads,” he says, as they stand, crazily (spontaneously!) out in the Atlantic Ocean—or as good as. He is proud of himself. Maddie looks down at the tickets, mystified. She has no idea. And then he sees the recognition dawn in her face, and the tears spring up in her eyes. “Oh!” she says. “Oh, Jon . . . Oh, you shouldn’t have . . .”
Sharpie
2019
The line that a half hour ago snaked all through the bookstore has finally dwindled to zero. A five-Sharpie night—in other words, an excellent turnout. In a little over two hours, Jonathan has signed more than 150 books and spoken to twice as many people. He loves his readers—loves talking to them, loves answering their questions, loves getting their take on his work. “Your first book,” one reader had said, “it was like you wrote it just for me. Like you were speaking just to me.” As he makes sure to say at events like this one, his readers see all kinds of things and make all manner of interesting connections that he, the author, may have missed.
He packs up his things and thinks about dinner. Both his agent and publicist have taken off already, which is fine. It’s good to have a few minutes to himself. Tossing his phone and a handful of the remaining pens into his bag, he makes for the first set of escalators. 8:30 p.m. Is there time for a quick beer at Tavern on Jane before he heads home? After all these years, there is still an adrenaline rush that comes with public speaking, and he feels the need to decompress. But they are having a late supper. And a good bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet waits, picked up during their last trip to Europe.
At the top of the escalator, he sends a quick message.
Hey you . . . might stop by the bar first. Okay?
Within seconds,
her reply flashes back.
Right back atcha. Still working on supper, enjoy your drink. XOX
At the entrance to the subway, groups stand chatting or waiting for friends. A steady stream of students and couples emerge from beneath Union Square, dressed to the nines for a night in the big city. Crossing 14th, he heads down University Place, feeling buoyant and relaxed. He relishes these late-summer evenings, the buzz and honk of Friday-night traffic, the sight of his fellow New Yorkers out for a good time. He makes a right along 11th Street, aware of being at that delicious, addictive stage of writing a new book, when the story seems to simply pour out of him. Like sitting on the floor untangling a huge ball of string, it isn’t everyone’s idea of fun, but for him it is totally absorbing. Resolving the knots, finding the loose ends, the holes getting smaller and smaller as the various threads of the story come together. Laura says it’s easy to tell when he’s “on the scent”—door to his study closed, internet disabled, phone off and locked in a drawer. The sense of compulsion and single-minded purpose is the most incredible high. The heady sense of achievement when he gets his characters’ thoughts out onto the page. Predictably, by the time he reaches the fringes of the West Village, the idea of cozying up to the bar at his local tavern feels kind of contrived. One of those clichéd things male writers are supposed to enjoy, when actually, he’d much rather be home. Besides, one or two plot points came to mind during his talk earlier. After dinner, he’ll need to jot them down and then pin them up on his sticky-note wall, or he’ll be up at some crazy hour unable to go back to sleep. Naturally, he keeps a notebook on the nightstand for exactly this purpose. As he tells his readers, inspiration can strike at all hours—in dreams, in the shower, on the subway—the danger being that, by the time you get back to your desk, you’ll have forgotten them all.
He walks in to find Laura in a close grapple with the salad spinner. Three pans are simmering on the stove. The air is fragrant with the smell of sage, lemon, and butter, while the promised bottle of wine sits ready on the counter.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Laura laughs, and turns to kiss him. “How was your thing?”
“Oh, you know . . .” he says, drawing her into a clinch. “Mobbed.”
Her dark hair is gathered into a neat braid. She feels sturdy and solid in his arms. Adorably, she is wearing one of his old button-ups—a look he loves on her, but which Laura has pronounced “too undone” for outside the house.
“So jaded.” She clicks her tongue and neatly disentangles herself to go check on supper. “I’m sure you can handle it.”
“You know me.” This idea of himself as the jaded writer is an old joke between them. “Is this ready to go?” he asks, indicating the bottle.
“All yours.”
He takes a couple of glasses down from the cabinet and pulls up a stool to the island. With their respective careers being so busy, they frequently find themselves eating after midnight. There is a childlike appeal to being awake in the darkest hours, like an echo of Christmas Eve. The feeling of cosseted security, he imagines, when a parent who cares about you whips up a snack when you are supposed to be in bed. As an adult, the activity is intimate, companionable. Something they’ve always done together. Laura might get home after a crazy evening at the restaurant, and he’ll wake to the smell of an omelet or fresh waffles. Sitting around the island in his pajamas, watching Laura cook, is just about his favorite thing in the world. Just one of the myriad pleasures of sharing a home with someone.
“So . . .” Jonathan says. “How was your evening? Did you figure out what it’s all costing me yet?”
Laura turns, wooden spoon in hand, and cocks an amused eyebrow.
“Good try, lover. I think you mean, what it’s costing us?”
He’s teasing, and she knows it. In sheer dollars, he is the main breadwinner, though Laura is chef and owner of her own restaurant. “Actually, you’ll be extremely relieved to hear we’re at fifty guests.”
“Seriously?” She dips a spoon into the sauce and brings it over for him to taste. “Yum!” he says.
“Yep.” She grins. “And yep.”
“You’re amazing, you know that?”
“So they tell me.”
Jonathan isn’t the only one impatient for supper. The cat jumps up on the island, nudges at him with her face. He finds her food and dispenses a generous portion into her bowl. Sitting back down he wonders which annoying relative or tiresome associate Laura has managed to cull from the list. Between his book contacts and her network of connections in the restaurant world, they know an awful lot of people. If previous family events are anything to go by, various nieces, nephews, and third cousins will be lining up to corner him about how to publish the novel they haven’t yet started. And that, he reminds himself, is perfectly OK. Because not so long ago he was exactly where they are now. He holds off asking Laura for more details. “Plausible deniability,” as their friend Jay would put it. Their wedding was originally planned for September, but after his son pointed out the issue of the awkward timing, this had been hastily revised. Though he is happily, finally, tying the knot with Laura, planning a wedding is not his idea of a good time. His role is to demonstrate enthusiasm, veto anything outrageous, and, last but not least, show gratitude. He takes his glass and swirls the wine around for a few seconds, enjoying the anticipation of the first sip.
“Hon? I was thinking,” Laura says, chopping a small pile of sage with the alarming speed of a professional, “that for the reception we could take Heather and Saul up on their offer of the orchard upstate. What do you think? I’m seeing Heather for lunch tomorrow. I know she’d be thrilled.”
“You wouldn’t rather just do it at the lake house? Or have something here . . .?” Privately, he’s been hoping she will agree to the latter. There’s plenty of space in their backyard, and it’d be way less hassle to have it in the city than have all their guests trek elsewhere. As for Heather and Saul’s orchard, for reasons that should be obvious to everyone, it is hardly his first choice for a celebration. Even now, he can conjure the scene in his mind—the half-empty rows of chairs, the paltry collection of mourners, the odor of wilting flowers.
“But, Jon, it’s so gorgeous there in the fall.” Laura sighs.
“Yes, but if we have the ceremony and the reception here, we can all get drunk in one place,” he jokes.
As she turns back to the stove, he can’t see her expression. He takes a first sip of the wine. “Wow, this really is amazing. Remember when we found it?” Italy, 2010. After he wound up the last leg of his European tour for A Knack for Killing, which had spent months on multiple bestseller lists. Jay had flown out, and the three of them had celebrated in Rome.
“I picked up your jacket from the tailor,” Laura says.
“Sorry?”
“For the wedding. It’s upstairs if you want to check it fits.”
“Oh, yes. Definitely. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow. And we’re not doing gifts, right?”
Laura lowers the heat on the stove, neatly repositions two of the pans, adds a generous amount of butter to the other. His stomach rumbles in anticipation.
“Gosh, no. It’s not like we actually need anything.” They’re not exactly spring chickens in their twenties or thirties, he thinks to himself, so this is kind of a no-brainer. And, though no one would be tactless enough to say it out loud, this will, after all, be his second marriage.
He gets up and goes to the stove, lifts the lid on the nearest saucepan, dips a finger in the sauce. Linguine with lemon and sage brown butter—another favorite. As Laura laughs and gently slaps his hand away, he gets the strangest sensation—a surreal sense of observing his own life through the eyes of an onlooker. Presumably a lot of writers share this experience, Jonathan thinks, but for a second or two he’d felt like one of those couples. One of those annoying, overly cute rom-com couples that you see in date-night movies. Laura rolls out fresh pasta dough and cuts it into perfect strips.
