The Girl Before is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by JP Delaney

  Title-page photograph © iStockPhoto/Evgeny Sergeev

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  NAMES: Delaney, JP, author.

  TITLE: The girl before: a novel / JP Delaney.

  DESCRIPTION: First edition. | New York: Ballantine Books, 2017.

  IDENTIFIERS: LCCN 2016029751 (print) | LCCN 2016037826 (ebook) | ISBN 9780425285046 (hardback) | ISBN 9780425285053 (ebook)

  SUBJECTS: LCSH: Architects—Fiction. | Single women—Fiction. | Dwellings—Fiction. | Control (Psychology)—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Thrillers. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction)

  CLASSIFICATION: LCC PS3569.T717 G57 2017 (print) | LCC PS3569.T717 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2016029751

  Ebook ISBN 9780425285053

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Carole Lowenstein, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Carlos Beltrán

  Cover photograph: © GG Archard/Gallery

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Then: Emma

  Now: Jane

  Then: Emma

  Now: Jane

  Then: Emma

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  Then: Emma

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  Then: Emma

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  Then: Emma

  Now: Jane

  Now: Jane

  Now: Astrid

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Mr. Darkwood, once so interested in romantic love and whatever anyone had to say about it, was now thoroughly sick of the topic. Why did these lovers always repeat themselves? Didn’t they ever get tired of hearing themselves talk?

  —EVE OTTENBERG, The Widow’s Opera

  Like all addicts, signature killers work from a script, engaging in repetitive behavior to the point of obsessiveness.

  —ROBERT D. KEPPEL and WILLIAM J. BIRNES, Signature Killers

  We may say that the patient does not remember anything of what he has forgotten and repressed, but acts it out. He reproduces it not as a memory but as an action; he repeats it, without, of course, knowing that he is repeating it.

  —SIGMUND FREUD, “Remembering, Repeating and Working-Through”

  My fascination with letting images repeat and repeat—or in film’s case “run on”—manifests my belief that we spend much of our lives seeing without observing.

  —ANDY WARHOL

  1. Please make a list of every possession you consider essential to your life.

  THEN: EMMA

  It’s a lovely little flat, the agent says with what could almost pass for genuine enthusiasm. Close to the amenities. And there’s that private bit of roof. That could become a sun terrace, subject of course to the landlord’s consent.

  Nice, Simon agrees, trying not to catch my eye. I’d known the flat was no good as soon as I walked in and saw that six-foot stretch of roof below one of the windows. Si knows it too but he doesn’t want to tell the agent, or at least not so soon it’ll seem rude. He might even hope that if I listen to the man’s stupid patter long enough I’ll waver. The agent’s Simon’s kind of guy: sharp, brash, eager. He probably reads the magazine Simon works for. They were exchanging sports chat before we even got up the stairs.

  And here you have a decent-sized bedroom, the agent’s saying. With ample—

  It’s no good, I interrupt, cutting short the charade. It’s not right for us.

  The agent raises his eyebrows. You can’t be too choosy in this market, he says. This’ll be gone by tonight. Five viewings today, and it’s not even on our website yet.

  It’s not secure enough, I say flatly. Shall we go?

  There are locks on all the windows, he points out, plus a Chubb on the door. Of course, you could install a burglar alarm, if security’s a particular concern. I don’t think the landlord would have any objection.

  He’s talking across me now, to Simon. Particular concern. He might as well have said, Oh, is the girlfriend a bit of a drama queen?

  I’ll wait outside, I say, turning to leave.

  Realizing he’s blundered, the agent adds, If it’s the area that’s the problem, perhaps you should have a look farther west.

  We already have, Simon says. It’s all out of our budget. Apart from the ones the size of a tea bag.

  He’s trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, but the fact that he needs to riles me even more.

  There’s a one-bedroom in Queen’s Park, the agent says. A bit grotty, but…

  We looked at it, Simon says. In the end we felt it was just a bit too close to that estate. His tone makes it clear that we means “she.”

  Or there’s a third-floor just come on in Kilburn—

  That too. There was a drainpipe next to one of the windows.

  The agent looks puzzled.

  Someone could have climbed it, Simon explains.

  Right. Well, the rental season’s only just started. Perhaps if you wait a bit.

  The agent has clearly decided we’re time-wasters: He too is sidling toward the door. I go and stand outside, on the landing, so he won’t come near me.

  We’ve already given notice on our old place, I hear Simon say. We’re running out of options. He lowers his voice. Look, mate, we were burgled. Five weeks ago. Two men broke in and threatened Emma with a knife. You can see why she’d be a bit jumpy.

  Oh, the agent says. Shit. If someone did that to my girlfriend I don’t know what I’d do. Look, this might be a long shot, but…His voice trails off.

  Yes? Simon says.

  Has anyone at the office mentioned One Folgate Street to you?

  I don’t think so. Has it just come on?

  Not exactly, no.

  The agent seems unsure whether to pursue this or not.

  But it’s available? Simon persists.

  Technically, yes, the agent says. And it’s a fantastic property. Absolutely fantastic. In a different league from this. But the landlord’s…to say he’s particular would be putting it mildly.

  What area? Simon asks.

  Hampstead, the agent says. Well, more like Hendon. But it’s really quiet.

  Em? Simon calls.

  I go back inside. We might as well take a look, I say. We’re halfway there now.

  The agent nods. I’ll stop by the office, he says, see if I can locate the details. It’s been a while since I showed anyone around, actually. It’s not a place that would suit just anyone. But I think it might be right up your street. Sorry, no pun intended.

  NOW: JANE

  “That’s the last one.” The agent, whose name is Camilla, drums her fingers on the steering wheel of her Smart
car. “So really, it’s time to make up our minds.”

  I sigh. The flat we’ve just viewed, in a run-down mansion block off West End Lane, is the only one in my price range. And I’d just about persuaded myself it was all right—ignoring the peeling wallpaper, the faint smell of someone else’s cooking seeping up from the flat below, the poky bedroom and the mold spattered across the unventilated bathroom—until I’d heard a bell being rung nearby, an old-fashioned hand bell, and the place was suddenly filled with the noise of children. Going to the window, I found myself looking down at a school. I could see into a room being used by a toddler group, the windows hung with cutouts of paper bunnies and geese. Pain tugged at my insides.

  “I think I’ll pass on this one,” I managed to say.

  “Really?” Camilla seemed surprised. “Is it the school? The previous tenants said they rather liked the sound of children playing.”

  “Though not so much they decided to stay.” I turned away. “Shall we go?”

  Now Camilla leaves a long, tactical silence as she drives us back to her office. Eventually she says, “If nothing we saw today took your fancy, we might have to think about upping your budget.”

  “Unfortunately, my budget can’t budge,” I say drily, looking out the window.

  “Then you might have to be a bit less picky,” she says tartly.

  “About that last one. There are…personal reasons why I can’t live next to a school. Not right now.”

  I see her eyes going to my stomach, still a little flabby from my pregnancy, and her eyes widen as she makes the connection. “Oh,” she says. Camilla isn’t quite as dim as she looks, for which I’m grateful. She doesn’t need me to spell it out.

  Instead, she seems to come to a decision.

  “Look, there is one other place. We’re not really meant to show it without the owner’s express permission, but occasionally we do anyway. It freaks some people out, but personally I think it’s amazing.”

  “An amazing property on my budget? We’re not talking about a houseboat, are we?”

  “God, no. Almost the opposite. A modern building in Hendon. A whole house—only one bedroom, but loads of space. The owner is the architect who built it. He’s actually really famous. Do you ever buy clothes at Wanderer?”

  “Wanderer…” In my previous life, when I had money and a proper, well-paid job, I did sometimes go into the Wanderer shop on Bond Street, a terrifyingly minimalist space where a handful of eye-wateringly expensive dresses were laid out on thick stone slabs like sacrificial virgins, and the sales assistants dressed in black kimonos. “Occasionally. Why?”

  “The Monkford Partnership designs all their stores. He’s what they call a techno-minimalist or something. Lots of hidden gadgetry, but otherwise everything’s completely bare.” She shoots me a look. “I should warn you, some people find his style a bit…austere.”

  “I can cope with that.”

  “And…”

  “Yes?” I prompt, when she doesn’t go on.

  “It’s not a straightforward landlord–tenant agreement,” she says hesitantly.

  “Meaning?”

  “I think,” she says, flicking down her indicator and moving into the left-hand lane, “we should take a look at the property first, see if you fall in love with it. Then I’ll explain the drawbacks.”

  THEN: EMMA

  Okay, so the house is extraordinary. Amazing, breathtaking, incredible. Words can’t do it justice.

  The street outside had given no clue. Two rows of big, nondescript houses, with that familiar Victorian red-brick/sash-window combo you see all over north London, marched up the hill toward Cricklewood like a chain of figures cut from newspaper, each one an exact copy of the next. Only the front doors and the little colored windows above them were different.

  At the end, on the corner, was a fence. Beyond it I could see a low, small construction, a compact cube of pale stone. A few horizontal slits of glass, scattered apparently at random, were the only indication that it really was a house and not some giant paperweight.

  Wow, Simon says doubtfully. Is this really it?

  Certainly is, the agent says cheerfully. One Folgate Street.

  He takes us around the side, where a door is fitted into the wall, perfectly flush. There doesn’t seem to be a bell—in fact, I can’t see a handle or a letter box either; no nameplate, nothing to indicate human occupation at all. The agent pushes the door, which swings open.

  Who lives here now? I ask.

  No one at the moment, he says, standing aside for us to go in.

  So why wasn’t it locked? I say nervously, hanging back.

  The agent smirks. It was, he goes. There’s a digital key on my smartphone. One app controls everything. All I have to do is switch it from Unoccupied to Occupied. After that, it’s all automatic—the house’s sensors pick up the code and let me in. If I wear a digital bracelet, I don’t even need the phone.

  You are kidding me, Simon says, awestruck, staring at the door. I almost laugh out loud at his reaction. For Simon, who loves his gadgets, the idea of a house you can control from your phone is like all his best birthday presents rolled into one.

  I step into a tiny hall, barely larger than a cupboard. It’s too small to stand in comfortably once the agent has followed me, so without waiting to be asked I go on through.

  This time it’s me who says, Wow. It really is spectacular. Huge windows, looking onto a tiny garden and a high stone wall, flood the inside with light. It isn’t big, but it feels spacious. The walls and floors are all made of the same pale stone. Notches running along the base of each wall give the impression they’re floating in the air. And it’s empty. Not unfurnished—I can see a stone table in a room to one side, some designery-looking, very cool dining chairs, a long, low sofa in a heavy cream fabric—but there’s nothing else, nothing for the eye to catch on to. No doors, no cupboards, no pictures, no window frames, no electric sockets that I can see, no light fittings or—I look around, perplexed—even light switches. And, although it doesn’t feel abandoned or unlived in, there’s absolutely no clutter.

  Wow, I say again. My voice has an odd, muffled quality. I realize I can’t hear anything from the street outside. The ever-present London background noise of traffic and scaffolding riggers and car alarms has gone.

  Most people say that, the agent agrees. Sorry to be a pain, but the landlord insists we remove our shoes. Would you…?

  He bends down to unlace his own flashy footwear. We follow suit. And then, as if the stark, bare emptiness of the house has sucked all his patter out of him, he simply pads about in his socks, apparently as dumbstruck as we are, while we look around.

  NOW: JANE

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. Inside, the house is as sleek and perfect as an art gallery. “Just beautiful.”

  “Isn’t it?” Camilla agrees. She cranes her neck to look up at the bare walls, made of some expensive cream-colored stone, that soar into the void of the roof. The upper floor is reached by the most crazily minimalist staircase I’ve ever seen. It’s like something hewn into a cliff face: floating steps of open, unpolished stone, with no handrail or visible means of support. “No matter how often I come here, it always takes my breath away. The last time was with a group of architecture students—that’s one of the conditions, by the way: You have to open it for visits every six months. But they’re always very respectful. It’s not like owning a stately home and having tourists drop chewing gum on your carpets.”