Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense by Laura Elliot

proved to be a very successful design for this company.’
    ‘But it’s so old-fashioned. People want modern styles, not something their grannies wear to Mass on Sunday.’
    Della Wallace seemed startled by her blunt reply. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
    ‘Sixteen.’
    ‘Aren’t you rather young to be so opinionated?’
    ‘You asked my opinion so I assumed you wanted the truth.’
    ‘That’s not Mr O’Toole’s opinion and he’s the one who brings in the orders. I haven’t noticed any decline in our customer base – have you?’
    ‘But there’s no growth either. Young people don’t even know the label exists.’
    ‘We’re not in the business of pleasing young people. Perhaps that’s just as well if they’re all as outspoken as you. Are you as honest when my son asks your opinions on his paintings?’
    ‘Yes,’ Beth replied. ‘But Peter only pays attention to his own opinions.’
    She wondered if she would be fired for her outspoken views. If so, she would emigrate to London and live with Marina, who wrote occasionally, boasting about her success on the catwalks and offering Beth a bed if she ever decided to leave the tomb of the living dead. She could do worse, Beth supposed. Like lying down on a bed of nails. She could endure Andy O’Toole and his small-minded meanness. When he finally took the bottle of vodka from the filing cabinet she would be ready to take over his job.

    A t first she had refused to visit Havenstone. The thought of entering her employer’s home intimidated her. It looked so big and grand with its tree-shaded walls and high wrought-iron gates but Stewart had finally persuaded her to come with him.
    ‘You never go anywhere,’ he argued. ‘Come on. Peter’s a big mouth but he won’t bite you. All we ever do is listen to music.’
    To her surprise she had enjoyed the evening, which turned out to be the first of many. Peter led them up a curving wooden staircase into his studio, a large L-shaped room, south-facing and filled with natural light. He was in his third year at art college and planned to study in Italy when he graduated. The studio was filled with what looked like rubbish: pieces of driftwood, broken glass, jagged bits of steel, all marked with ‘Hands Off – Artist at Work’ warnings in case his mother threw anything out. The only nude Beth saw was a self-portrait of Peter hanging from the moon in chains of barbed wire. He looked mortified when he realised it was among the canvases she was examining.
    ‘It’s a protest against the Apollo moon landings,’ he explained, quickly turning the painting to face the wall. He believed that man had desecrated the moon by trespassing on its surface. She did not agree. Neil Armstrong was right: the moon landing had been a giant leap for mankind.
    Stewart joined in the argument, insisting that technology was the new religion. One day the world would be ruled by robots with human brains. This suggestion then triggered another discussion about the integrity of the human psyche. They listened to Michael Jackson and David Bowie, lolling on bean bags as the music pounded around them.
    ‘That was good, wasn’t it?’ Stewart said on the way home. ‘Aren’t you glad you came?’
    ‘Very glad.’ A full moon reflected on the estuary. A melon moon pitted with craters, desert landscapes, a vast empty space – but all she could see was the long slim body of Peter Wallace filling it.
    On Saturday afternoons they drank mugs of coffee and listened to music. Peter talked about artists who had influenced him, Cézanne and Picasso, and his favourite artist, Paul Klee, who had painted a famous golden fish with a flower instead of an eye. He said Beth had incredible eyes. He wanted to paint them. Cats’ eyes. The mirrors of the soul. She was the perfect Muse for his Cat-astrophic Collection.
    ‘Cat-astrophic,’ he would chant. ‘Cat-apult, Cat-aclysmic, Cat-walk, Cat-atonic, Cat-erpillar, Cat-holic, Cat-hedral.’
    She sometimes