Czytaj książkę: «The Lie»
C.L. TAYLOR
The Lie
Copyright
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2015
C.L. Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007544271
Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780007544264
Version: 2020-03-16
Praise for The Lie
“Black Narcissus for the Facebook generation; a clever exploration of how petty jealousies and misunderstandings can unravel even the tightest of friendships. Claustrophobic and tense, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.”
Elizabeth Haynes
“The Lie is absolutely brilliant – The Beach, only darker, more thrilling and more tense. Compelling, addictive and wonderfully written.”
Louise Douglas
“Creepy, horrifying and twisty. C.L. Taylor is extremely good at writing stories in which you have no idea which characters you can trust, and the result is intriguing, scary and extremely gripping.”
Julie Cohen, 2014 Richard and Judy Summer Book Club Pick
“A gripping and disturbing psychological thriller: every bit as good as The Accident.”
Clare Mackintosh
“C.L. Taylor delivers another compelling read that’ll keep you turning pages way too late into the night. Warning: may cause drowsiness the following day.”
Tamar Cohen
“My heart was racing after I finished The Lie. Dark, creepy and full of twists. I loved it.”
Rowan Coleman
Dedication
To Laura B, Georgie D and Minal S
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for The Lie
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Acknowledgements
Read on for an extract of Strangers
Book club questions for The Lie by C.L. Taylor
A Conversation with C.L. Taylor
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by C.L. Taylor
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Present Day
I know he’s trouble before he even sets foot in the building. I can tell by the way he slams the door of his 4×4 and storms across the car park without waiting to see if his short, bespectacled wife is following him. When he reaches the glass double doors to reception, I avert my gaze back to my computer screen. It’s best to avoid direct eye contact with an aggressor. When you spend twelve hours a day with dangerous animals, you learn a lot about confrontation, fear and hostility – and not just in relation to dogs.
The bell above the doors rings as the man enters the reception area, but I continue to enter the details of a seven-day evaluation into the computer database. An Alsatian-cross called Tyson was brought in by an inspector a week ago. We’ve been evaluating him ever since, and I’ve identified behavioural issues with other dogs, cats and humans – unsurprising in a former drug-den guard dog. Some people believe that a dog like Tyson should be put down for his own good, but I know we can rehabilitate him. Your past doesn’t have to define your future.
“Where’s my fucking dog?” The man rests his elbows on the reception counter and juts out his chin, contempt etched onto his thin, sunken face. His shoulders are narrow beneath an oversized leather jacket and his jeans hang loosely from his hips. He can’t be much older than late forties, early fifties tops, but he looks worn down by life. I suspect he’s the sort to own a dangerous breed. Small man, big car. Big dog, too. No wonder he wants him back. He’s missing his canine penis extension.
“Can I help you?” I swivel round to face him, and smile.
“I want my dog. One of my neighbours saw the inspector turn up when we was out. They took him out the back garden. I want him back.”
“He’s called Jack, he’s a Staffordshire bull terrier and he’s five years old.” His bespectacled wife puffs into the reception area, her black leggings sagging at the knees, her pink lipstick neatly applied and her grey-streaked hair scraped back into a tight ponytail.
“And your name is?” I look back at her husband.
“Gary. Gary Fullerton,” the man replies, ignoring his wife.
I know the dog they are talking about. Jack was brought in four days ago. His right eye was so swollen it was sealed shut, his lip was torn and bloody and his left ear was so mangled the vet had to remove half of it. He’d been in a fight but it clearly wasn’t a one-off. You could tell that by the scars on his body and the wounds on his face. This owner’s obviously fresh from the police station. On bail pending a hearing, probably.
My smile fades. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I know he’s here,” the man says. “You can’t keep him. We haven’t done anything wrong. He got into a fight in the park, that’s all. We’ve got seven days to claim him. That’s what my mate said.”
I angle myself away from him so my shoulders are square on to the computer and we’re no longer facing each other. “I’m sorry but I can’t discuss special cases.”
“Oi!” He leans over the counter and reaches for the monitor, yanking it towards him. “I’m talking to you.”
“Gary …” His wife touches his arm. He glares at her but lets go of the monitor. “Please.” She peers at my name badge. “Please, Jane, we just want to see Jack, that’s all, just to check he’s okay. We don’t want any trouble; we just want to see our boy.”
Her eyes mist with tears behind her glasses, but I don’t feel sorry for her. She must know Gary enters Jack into fights. She’s probably objected from time to time, maybe tried her best to clean Jack up with a wet flannel afterwards, but, ultimately, she’s done nothing to stop that dog getting torn to bits.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I really can’t discuss individual cases.”
“What bloody case?” the man roars, but his hands hang loosely at his sides. The fight’s gone out of him. He knows he hasn’t got a leg to stand on and the shouting’s just for show. The worst thing is he probably does love the dog. He was no doubt proud of Jack when he won his first few fights. He probably gave him a big handful of dried dog biscuits and sat next to him on the sofa with his arm around him. But then Jack started to lose and Gary didn’t like that; it knocked his pride, so he kept entering him into competitions, kept waiting for his fighting spirit to return, kept hoping his luck would change.
“Everything okay, Jane?” Sheila, my manager, strolls into reception from the corridor to my right and puts a hand on my shoulder. She smiles at Gary and his wife but there’s a tightness around her lips that suggests she’s heard every word.
“We’re going.” Gary slaps the counter with the palm of his right hand. “But you haven’t heard the last from us.”
He turns and stalks towards the exit. His wife remains where she is, fingers knotting in front of her, silently pleading with me.
“Come on, Carole,” Gary snaps.
She hesitates, just for a second, her eyes still fixed on mine.
“Carole!” he says again, and she’s off, trotting obediently at his side.
The bell rings as they leave reception, and they cross the car park in single file, Gary leading, Carole following behind. If she glances back, I’ll go after her. I’ll make up an excuse to talk to her on her own. That look she just gave me … it wasn’t just about the dog.
Look back, look back, Carole.
Lights flash as Gary points his key fob at the Range Rover, and he opens the door. Carole clambers into the passenger seat. Gary says something as she settles herself, and she takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.
“Jane.” Sheila gently squeezes my shoulder. “I think we should have a nice cup of tea, don’t you?”
I get the subtext: Jack’s your business, Carole’s not.
She heads for the staffroom then stops suddenly. “Oh! I forgot to give you this.” She hands me an envelope. My full name is handwritten on the front: Jane Hughes, Green Fields Animal Sanctuary. “A thank you letter, I imagine.”
I run my thumb under the seal and open the envelope as Sheila waits expectantly in the doorway. There’s a single piece of paper inside, A4, folded into four. I read it quickly then fold it back up.
“Well?” Sheila asks.
“It’s from Maisie’s new owners. She’s settled in well and they’re head over heels in love with her.”
“Great.” She gives an approving nod before continuing into the staffroom.
I wait for the sound of her footsteps to fade away then glance through the glass double doors to the car park beyond. There’s an empty space where Carole and Gary’s 4×4 was parked.
I unfold the piece of paper in my hands and read it again. There’s a single sentence, written in the centre of the page in blue biro:
I know your name’s not really Jane Hughes.
Whoever sent it to me knows the truth. My real name is Emma Woolfe and for the last five years I’ve been pretending to be someone else.
Chapter 2
Five Years Earlier
Daisy doesn’t say a word as I sit down opposite her at the table. Instead she pushes a shot towards me then glances away, distracted by a group of men squeezing their way through the pub to an empty table near the loos. One of the men at the back of the pack, a short, dark-haired guy with a paunch, does a double take. He nudges the man next to him, who pauses, glances back and gives Daisy a nod of approval. She dismisses him with the arch of one eyebrow then looks back at me.
“Drink!” she shouts, and gestures towards the glass. “Talk afterwards.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
I don’t ask what it’s a shot of. I don’t even sniff it. Instead I knock it back then reach for the glass of white wine that Daisy pushes towards me. I can barely taste it for the strong aftertaste of aniseed from the shot.
“You okay, darling?”
I shake my head and take another sip of wine.
“Geoff the Arsehole giving you shit again?”
“Yeah.”
“So quit.”
“If only it were that easy.”
“Of course it’s that bloody easy, Emma.” Daisy runs both hands through her blonde hair then flicks it over her shoulders so it cascades down her back. “You print out a resignation letter, you give it to him and then you leave, middle-finger salute optional.”
A man holding two pints knocks the side of my chair with his hip. Lager slops out of the glasses and soaks my left shoulder.
“Sorry,” I say automatically. The man ignores me and continues onwards, his mates in his sights.
Daisy rolls her eyes.
“Don’t.”
“What?” She gives me an innocent look.
“Don’t give me shit for apologising, and don’t go after him.”
“As if I would.”
“You would.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to stand up for you. Want me to have a word with your boss for you, too? Because I would, you know.”
Her mobile phone, on the table in front of her, bleeps and she jabs it with a bitten-down fingernail. Daisy’s eyeliner is deftly applied, her blonde hair straightened and shiny, but her cuticles are ragged, her red nail varnish chipped and flaking. Her nails are the one chink in her perfectly polished armour. She catches me looking and clenches her fingers into fists, burying them in her lap.
“He’s a bully, Emma, pure and simple. He’s been criticising you and making you feel shit since the day you started.”
“I know, but there’s a rumour he’s going to take over the Manchester office.”
“You’ve been saying that for three years.”
“I can’t just leave.”
“Why? Because of your mum? Jesus Christ, Emma, you need to grow a pair. You’re twenty-five years old. You only get one life; do what you want. Fuck your mum.”
“Daisy!”
“What?” She tops up her glass and knocks it back. From the glazed look in her eyes, I suspect that this bottle of wine isn’t her first of the night. “Someone’s got to say it and it might as well be me. You need to stop caring about her opinion and do what you want. It’s getting boring, your obsession with what your bloody family thinks. You’ve been on about it since uni and—”
“Sorry I’ve bored you. I thought we were supposed to be friends.” I reach for my bag and stand up, but Daisy reaches across the table and grabs my wrist.
“Don’t be like that. And stop bloody apologising. Sit down, Emma.”
I perch on the edge of my seat. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry, and I hate crying in public.
Daisy keeps hold of my hand. “I’m not being a bitch. I just want you to be happy, that’s all. You’ve already told me you’ve saved up enough money to stop work for three months.”
“That’s emergency money.”
“And this is an emergency. You’re miserable. Come and work with me in the pub until you get something else. Ian would take you on in a heartbeat; he loves redheads.”
“It’s dyed.”
“For God’s sake, Emma—”
Her phone vibrates on the table and the tinny sound of Rihanna and Eminem’s “Love the Way You Lie” cuts through the chatter and hum in the pub.
Daisy holds up a hand to me then snatches up her phone. “Leanne? You okay?” She puts a finger in one ear and frowns in concentration. “Okay. Yeah, we’ll be there. Give us fifteen minutes to grab a cab. All right? Okay. See you in a bit.”
She tucks her phone into the tiny clutch bag on the table then looks across at me. There’s concern in her blue eyes, but a sliver of excitement, too.
“That was Leanne. She’s in that new gay club, Malice, in Soho with Al. Al’s on the hunt for Simone and her new girlfriend.”
“Shit.” I clutch my bag and reach round for my coat on the back of my chair.
“You okay if we go? I know we were talking about your job but—”
“It’s fine.” I stand up. “Al needs us. Let’s grab a cab.”
We sit in silence as the taxi splashes through puddles and the bright lights of London’s West End speed past us. The streets are unusually empty, the heavy rain forcing locals and tourists into already packed pubs, their windows misty with condensation.
Daisy looks up from her phone. “You know it’s the anniversary of her brother’s death, don’t you?”
“Al’s brother?”
“Yeah. I rang her at lunchtime.”
“How was she?”
“Pissed.”
“Shit, at work?”
“No, skiving; she was in the pub.”
“She’s been doing that a lot recently.”
“Yeah, when she’s not stalking Simone,” Daisy says, and we share a look.
It’s been over a month since Al and Simone split up, but Al’s behaviour is becoming more and more erratic by the day. She’s convinced that Simone left her because she met someone else, and she’s determined to find out who it is. She spends hours on Google, looking for “clues”, and she’s created several false Facebook profiles to try to get access to Simone’s page and the pages of anyone she’s friends with. None of us had seen the split coming, not least Al, who’d been planning on proposing. She’d been saving up for months for a ring and a safari in Kenya so she could propose on an elephant ride – Simone’s favourite animal.
“Here we are, ladies,” the cab driver says over his shoulder as we pull up in front of the neon pink Malice sign.
Daisy pokes a tenner through the glass partition then opens the taxi door. “Let’s go and get Al.”
“Excuse me, darling. Thank you. Excuse me.”
Daisy elbows her way through the throng of bodies clogging up the stairs, and I follow in her wake. We’ve already squeezed our way across the dance floor on the ground level in search of Leanne and Al, but there was no sign of them. No sign of Simone, either.
“Loos!” Daisy twists back and waves her mobile phone at me as she reaches the top of the stairs then takes a left.
I struggle to push my way through the huge crowd of women drinking beer and hanging out outside the women’s loos but finally manage to make my way inside.
“Oi!” A large woman wearing a Superdry T-shirt and oversized jeans shoots out a tattooed arm to bar my way as I attempt to squeeze past her. “There’s a queue.”
“Sorry, I’m just looking for a friend.”
“Emma, in here!” A cubicle door swings open and Daisy waves at me through the gap. She pulls an apologetic face at the woman in the queue. “Sorry, we’re dealing with a crisis in here.”
“Bloody lesbians,” the woman says, “always a melodrama.”
There’s no room for me to squeeze inside the cubicle so I hover outside and poke my head around the door. Al is sitting on the loo with her head in her hands. Leanne and Daisy are pressed up against the walls either side of her. Every couple of seconds, the main door into the loos opens and pumping house music floods the entire space as women file in and out, grumbling as they squeeze past me to find an empty cubicle.
“Al, sweetie.” Daisy hitches up her dress and squats down next to her friend. “Let’s get you home.”
Al shakes her head. The hems of her jeans are wet with rainwater and the laces of one of her trainers are untied. There’s cellophane poking out from beneath the arm of her T-shirt. She’s had another tattoo but I can’t make out what it is.
Leanne catches my eye, as though noticing me for the first time. She’s dyed her fringe pink since the last time I saw her. Her sharp black bob has always looked a bit severe, but with the pink streak and her new thick-rimmed black “geek” specs dominating her thin face, she looks like she’s wearing a motorbike helmet.
She shrugs and angles her arm towards me so I can read the time on her Mickey Mouse watch. It’s midnight. She flashes her fingers at me then holds up two more. Shit, Al’s been drinking for twelve hours.
This isn’t the first time Leanne’s had to call Daisy and me to take Al home. At five foot six, fourteen stone and bull-like in temperament, it takes all four of us to manoeuvre Al anywhere, especially when she’s drunk. Simone used to manage it, but she had an advantage: Al was in love with her. She could always talk her into going home, no matter how much she’d had to drink.
Two of the girls washing their hands in the sink behind me start laughing, and Al looks up.
“Are they laughing at me? Are you fucking laughing at me?” She half rises but Leanne presses down on her shoulder and Daisy grips hold of her wrist so Al is rooted to the toilet.
I glance behind me. “They can’t even see you.”
“They know.” Al runs a hand over her Mohican. “Everyone knows. I’m a fucking laughing stock.”
“No, you’re not,” Daisy says. “Relationships end all the time, Al. No one’s judging you.”
“Oh yeah? Then why did Jess on reception say ‘Ticket for one?’ when I came in?”
“Because you came alone?”
“Oh, fuck off, Daisy” – she yanks her hand out of Daisy’s grip – “what would you know? You haven’t been dumped once in your whole life.”
“Well, I have,” I say, “and I know how much it hurts, especially if they leave you for someone else. I’d had my suspicions about Jake for a while, but then when he—”
“Emma!” Leanne makes a stop talking gesture with her finger across her throat.
“Not that Simone left you for someone else,” I say, but it’s too late. Al’s on her feet and barging past me.
“If she’s here with that fucking bitch, today of all days, I’m going to swing for her. I’ll swing for both of them. Fucking baby dyke bitches.”
“Al!” Daisy totters after her, reaching for her arm. “She’s not worth it. Al!”
“Well done, Emma.” Leanne glares up at me from behind her neon fringe. “I’d just talked her down and you fired her up again.”
“She didn’t look very chilled to me.”
“You didn’t see her before. She was punching the cubicle walls. She nearly got us both thrown out.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
She pushes past me. “You never do, Emma.”
By the time I find the others, they’re standing in the centre of the dance floor downstairs with a circle of people surrounding them. Al is in the middle, jabbing her finger at Simone and some other girl I don’t recognise. Daisy and Leanne are either side of her.
“I fucking knew it,” Al says. “I knew you were sleeping with Gem.”
“Actually” – Simone squares up to her, even though she’s several inches shorter and several stone lighter – “Gem and I got together after we split up, not that it’s any of your business.”
“I think you’ll find it is.” Al turns her attention to the other woman, who takes a step closer to Simone and slings a heavy arm around her shoulders. She’s at least six feet tall, all sinew and muscle, with a heavy jaw and close-cropped hair. She’s got a boxer’s physique and the attitude to match.
“Think you’re clever, do you?” Al says. “Taking Simone off me?”
“I don’t think anything.”
“’Course you don’t. Pig shit doesn’t think.”
Boxer Woman smirks. “Piss off, Al. No one’s interested, least of all Simone. And for the record, I didn’t take her off you, she came running.”
“Bullshit. We were happy before you started sniffing around.”
“Is that so? According to Sim, you’re a possessive control freak who wouldn’t let her out.”
“Is that what you told her?” Al glares at Simone. “That I’m a control freak? After everything I did for you? When we met, you had nowhere to live. You had nothing, Simone and I let you live with me rent-free. I gave you money to go clubbing. I would have done anything for you.”
“You smothered me.”
Al’s eyes mist with tears. “Then you should have told me, not run off with this bull dog.”
“What did you call me?” Boxer Woman drops her arm from around Simone’s shoulders and takes a step towards Al. “Say that again to my face, you fat bitch.”
“Fuck you.” Al half steps, half jumps forward and swings at the taller woman before Leanne or Daisy can stop her. Her fist makes contact with Gem’s jaw and she stumbles backwards. Her foot slips on the beer-stained floor and she tumbles to the ground. The crowd whoops with excitement, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot a male member of security, walkie-talkie pressed to his ear, striding towards us. Daisy sees him too and gestures for me to help Leanne, who’s desperately shoving Al towards the door.
It doesn’t take much persuasion to get her to leave now. She’s so jubilant she practically skips out of the room.
“Fucking yeah!” She punches the air then winces and hugs her right hand to her body. She glances behind us as we hurry her towards the exit. “Where’s Daisy?”
Leanne and I exchange a look. “She’ll be fine. She’s chatting up the bouncer.”
“Dirty slut.” Al laughs all the way out of the building and into the waiting cab.
Chapter 3
It’s the next morning and I’ve only been at my desk for ten minutes when Geoff, my boss, wanders over. He lingers behind me, his hand on the back of my chair. I shuffle as far forward as I can so I end up perched right on the very edge of the seat.
“Late again, Emma.”
“Sorry.” I keep my gaze fixed on the spreadsheet in front of me. “Tube was delayed.”
It’s a lie. We didn’t get Al into bed until 2 a.m. and then I had to wait for a taxi to get me back to Wood Green. By the time I rolled into bed, it was after three.
“You’ll have to make up the time. I want you here until seven.”
“But I need to get to Clapham by then, my brother’s in a play.”
“You should have thought about that this morning and got up earlier. Now …” My chair creaks as he rests his full weight on it and leans around me so his mouth is inches from the side of my face. I can feel his breath, hot and sour in my ear. “I’m expecting that spreadsheet by lunchtime so I can look over it before I speak to the sales team this afternoon. Or should I expect that to be late, too?”
I want to tell him to stick his spreadsheet up his arse. Instead I curl my hands into fists and press my fingernails into the palms of my hands. “You’ll get it.”
I’ve been Geoff’s PA for three years. He’s Head of Sales here at United Internet Solutions, a software, hosting and search engine optimisation company. I was only supposed to be here for three months – it was meant to be just another of the countless temping jobs I took after university – but he extended my contract and then offered me a five-grand pay rise and a permanent position. Daisy told me back then to turn it down and do something else, but the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do is be a vet, and you can’t do that with a business degree. And I couldn’t face temping again.
I wait until Stephen Jones, Geoff’s favourite salesman and self-proclaimed “top dog”, strolls past us and into his office, closing the door behind him, and then I head for the ladies’ loos, my mobile phone hidden up my sleeve. I check the stalls to make sure that neither of the other two women who work for UIS are about, then I dial Mum’s number. It’s Tuesday, which means she should be at home. She works in the GP surgery she and Dad set up when they were newly married and still childless, but she only does Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The phone rings for several minutes before she finally picks up. She’s had her mobile for years but still hasn’t worked out how to set up voicemail.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” That’s how she greets me. No “Hello, Emma,” no “Everything okay, darling?” just “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I am at work.”
“Should you be on the phone? You don’t want to upset your boss, not after your recent appraisal.”
“Mum, can you just … never mind. Look, I can’t make it to Henry’s show tonight.”
There’s an audible intake of breath followed by an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, Emma.”
There it is, her disappointed tone, the one perfectly pitched to make me feel like utter shit.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I really wanted to make it but—”
“Henry will be disappointed. You know how much work he’s put into his one-man show. Tonight’s the night he’s invited lots of agents along, and it’s so important that the audience is on his side and—”
“Mum, I know.”
“He wants to take it to Edinburgh, you know that, don’t you? We’re ever so proud.”
“Yes, I do know that, but Geoff—”
“Can’t you ask him nicely? I’m sure he’d understand if you explain why.”
“I have asked him. He said I have to work until seven because I was late this morning.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. So it’s your own fault you can’t come? Don’t tell me, you were out drinking until late with your friends again.”
“Yes. No. We had to help Al. I’ve told you how upset she’s been about Simone recently, and—”
“And that’s what I should tell Henry, is it? That your friends are more important to you than your family?”
“That’s not fair, Mum. I’ve been to all George’s matches, and I was there when Isabella opened her dance studio.”
I spent most of my childhood being dragged from one sibling event to another, a habit that has now become so ingrained that I start each day by checking the calendar in my kitchen to see who’s doing what. Isabella is my oldest sibling. She’s thirty-two, an ex-dancer, ridiculously beautiful and married with a son. George is my older brother. He’s twenty-eight and a golf pro. He lives in St Andrews and I rarely see him. Henry’s the youngest; he’s twenty-four and the next Jimmy Carr, if you believe my mother.
“Mum?”
There’s a pause, a pause that stretches for one, two, three, four seconds.
“Mum? Are you still there?”
She sighs again. “You should get back to work. It sounds like you’re in enough trouble as it is.”
I swipe at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Could you wish Henry good luck from me?”
“I will. I’ll speak to you soon. You’d better get back to it. Work hard and make us proud.”
The line goes dead before I can reply.
Chapter 4
Present Day
I’m sitting in the staffroom, the letter in my hand, my messenger bag at my feet. It’s been six hours since Sheila handed me the envelope, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve examined it. There’s my name, my assumed name, Jane Hughes, at the top then Green Fields Animal Sanctuary, Bude, Nr Aberdare, Wales. There’s a first-class stamp in the top right corner. It’s been stamped but it’s too smudged to make out the town or date. The letter itself is written in blue biro in cursive handwriting. The words aren’t large and bold and shouty. They’re neatly written, punctuated, spelled correctly.
“You haven’t stopped reading that since I gave it to you,” Sheila says, taking a step towards me, hand outstretched. “Can I see?”
“It’s nothing. Like I said, just a letter from Maisie’s owners. Nothing important.” I crumple the letter in my hand and throw it towards the bin before she can reach me. It hits the rim and bounces in.
Sheila stops short in the middle of the room. Her outstretched hand drops to her side and she makes a small “Oh” sound, but she doesn’t retrieve the letter from the bin. Instead she gives me a puzzled smile then heads for the coat stand in the corner of the room. She pulls on her waterproof jacket, grabs her oversized handbag from one of the chairs and hoists it over her shoulder.
“I’m off, then,” she says. “Are you in tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Make sure all the gates are secured before you go. We don’t want Mr Four-by-Four and his mates attempting a dognap in the middle of the night, do we?”
“I will, don’t worry.”
“I won’t.” Her smile widens and she raises a hand in goodbye then heads for the door.
Thirty seconds later, the bell above the main doors tinkles as she leaves. I fish the letter out of the bin, tuck it back into its envelope, and put it in my back pocket. Then I pick up my messenger bag and take out my mobile.
There are two texts and one missed call.
17:55 – Text from Will:
You still on for dinner tonight? x
17:57 – Missed call, Will.
17:58 – Text from Will:
Sorry, just wanted to check. You do eat sea bass, don’t you? I know there’s one kind of fish you don’t like but couldn’t remember if it was sea bass or sea bream? Not too late to pop to Tesco if you don’t like it!
Shit, I forgot I was supposed to be going to Will’s for dinner.
The phone vibrates in my hand and a tinkling tune fills the air.
Will.
I’m tempted to swipe from right to left and pretend I’m working late, but he’ll only worry and ring back.
“Hello?” I press the phone to my ear.
“Jane!” He says my name jubilantly, his voice infused with warmth.
“Hi! Sorry I didn’t get back to you about dinner but I’ve only just finished my shift. One of the dogs developed explosive diarrhoea when I was doing final checks, so I had to strip his bed and get it in the washing machine.”
“Mmmm, explosive diarrhoea. I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
He laughs. I want to laugh too but I can’t.
“So, are you still on for tonight, then?” The smallest note of tension enters his voice. Ours is still a fledgling relationship in many ways. We’re still on best behaviour, still testing the waters, still figuring each other out. “Because I’ve got a bet with Chloe, you know.”
Chloe’s his daughter. She’s nine. Will’s not officially divorced from her mum yet, but they’ve been separated for eighteen months and, according to him, living separate lives a lot longer than that.
“What kind of bet?”
“She thinks you’ll be dead by morning.”
“You can’t be that bad a cook!”
“The first time we took her to bonfire night, she sniffed the air and said, ‘Smells like Daddy’s cooking.’”
This time I do laugh, and the tension evaporates.
“I’ll be round in half an hour,” I say. “I just need to lock up here and pop home for a shower first.”
“Do you have to?” Will says. “I was looking forward to a whiff of eau de diarrhoea.”
“You’re grim.”
“And yet you still like me, so what does that say about you?”
My grin disappears the second I leave the staffroom. I lock the doors to reception first then walk through the building so I’m outside the dog compound. The sound of frenzied barking greets me as soon as I step out into the dusk. I enter the building and double check that all the doors to the kennels are shut, the bedding and toys are clean and there’s water in the water bowls. I completed my checks before I finished my shift, but I have to reassure myself everything’s still in order before I leave for the night. As I round the building and approach the runs, the barking increases and cages rattle as Luca, Jasper, Milly and Tyson throw themselves at the fences. Only Jack stands motionless and silent, staring at me through his one good eye.
“You’ll be okay, boy.” I speak softly, my eyes averted so we’re not making direct eye contact. “You’ll be okay.”
His tail wags from side to side but it’s a hesitant movement. He wants to trust me but he’s not sure whether he should. Unlike Luca, Jasper and Milly, Jack’s details won’t be entered on our website to advertise him as available for re-homing once his seven-day observation is over. Instead, like Tyson, we’ll look after him until his neglect case comes to court, whenever that might be. He could be here for months, but I’m not planning on going anywhere. Or rather, I wasn’t until the letter arrived earlier.
I check the other dog compound then cross the yard to check on the cattery. Two of the cats press their paws against the glass and mew plaintively, but the others ignore me.
I pass quickly through the small animals facility, checking doors are locked and windows are secured. It’s quieter in here and my reflection – pale and ghostly – follows me from window to window as I hurry down the corridor.
“Hello! Hello!”
The sound makes me jump as Freddy the parrot makes his way along the cage towards me.
He tilts his head to one side, his beady eyes fixed on me. “Hello! Hello!”
He used to belong to a retired army major called Alan, who taught him to swear at visitors, particularly unsuspecting Jehovah’s Witnesses and double-glazing salesmen. When Alan died, none of his relatives wanted anything to do with Freddy, so he ended up here. He’s an expensive breed of bird and I don’t imagine he’ll be here long, but we tend to rush any visitors of a sensitive disposition past him as quickly as we can.
“Bye, Freddy,” I call as I head towards the main doors. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bitch!” he calls after me. “Bye, bye bitch!”
Will has been talking for the last ten minutes but I haven’t the slightest clue what he’s on about. He started by telling me about something funny that happened at school this morning, some ten-year-old who confused tentacles with testicles in his lesson about octopuses, but the conversation has moved on since then and I can tell by the look on his face that smiling and nodding isn’t enough of a response.
The letter is burning a hole in my pocket. It has to be from a journalist, that’s the logical explanation. But why not sign it? Why not include a business card? Unless they’re deliberately trying to spook me into talking to them … It’s been five years since I returned to the UK, and four years since a journalist last tried to get me to sell my story, so why now? Unless that’s it – it’s the five-year anniversary of our trip to Nepal, and they want to dig it all up again.
“You lied, didn’t you?” Will says, and I look up.
“Sorry?”
“About the sea bass? It’s not the sea bream you don’t like; it’s the bass. That’s why you haven’t touched it.”
We both stare at the untouched fish on my plate, the dill and butter sauce congealed around it like a thick, yellow oil slick. “I’m sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Spill …” He runs a hand through his dark hair then rests his chin on his hand, his eyes fixed on mine. “You know you can tell me anything.”
Can I, though? We’ve known each other for three months, been sleeping together for half that time, and yet I feel we barely know each other, not really. I know that his name is William Arthur Smart, he’s thirty-two, separated with a nine-year-old daughter called Chloe. He’s a primary school teacher, he likes folk music, his favourite films are the Star Wars trilogy, and he can’t stand the taste of coriander. Oh, and he’s got a sister called Rachel. What does he know about me? I’m called Jane Hughes, I’m thirty, childless and I work at Green Fields Animal Sanctuary. I like classical music, my favourite film is Little Miss Sunshine and I don’t like the texture of sea bream. I have two brothers and a sister – Henry, George and Isabella. It’s all true. Almost.
“What’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?” I ask.
He frowns momentarily then smiles. “I told my teacher my dad was Harrison Ford when I was ten. I said he might let me bring the Millennium Falcon in to school if I promised not to scratch it.”
His answer is so typically Will that I can’t help but smile. He’s a good person. Nothing he’s said or done in the last three months has given me reason to think otherwise, but I don’t trust my instincts. You can spend years of your life with someone and still not know them. So how can I trust someone I barely know?
“Hello?” He waves a hand in front of my face. “Anyone there?”
“Sorry?”
“I just asked why you asked that? About the lie?”
“No reason, just curious.”
He stares at me for several seconds then sighs softly and reaches for my plate. “I’ll get dessert. And if you don’t eat my world famous raspberry cheesecake, I’m taking you to a doctor to get your tastebuds checked.”
“Will,” I say as he disappears into the kitchen.
“Yes?” He pokes his head out the door, my plate still in his hand.
“Thank you.”
He looks confused. “But you didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t talking about the fish.”
“What for, then?”
I want to thank him for not pushing me to talk about my past and for just accepting me at face value, but the words tie themselves in knots on my tongue.
“For this.” I wave a hand towards the bottle of wine and the flickering candles on the table. “It’s just what I needed.”
He pauses, as though trying to work out if I’m being sarcastic or not, then grins broadly. “If flattering me is your subtle ruse to try and get out of tasting my cheesecake, I’m not falling for it. You know that, don’t you?”
Chapter 5
Five Years Earlier
“So did you sleep with the bouncer, then?”
Daisy smirks from behind her mug of tea. “Someone had to distract him from throwing Al out.”
Leanne looks up from her mobile. “That’s a yes, then.”
It’s been a week since we manhandled Al out of the nightclub, and the three of us are gathered in Leanne’s tiny studio flat in Plaistow, East London, to talk about how best to help her. Daisy and Leanne are sitting cross-legged on her single bed, the crocheted bed cover pooling on the threadbare beige carpet, while I’m perched on the only chair in the room, a hard-backed pine affair by the window. There’s a basic kitchen on the other side of the room – sink, microwave, fridge and a two-ring portable electric hob – and a clothes rail along the wall opposite the bed, and a small chest of drawers with a 14-inch flat-screen TV on the top. Leanne’s tried to cheer up the room with a print of a sunny poppy-filled field, a small porcelain Buddha, a plaque that says, “Only Truth Will Set You Free” on the windowsill, and a spider plant next to the cooker, but it’s still undeniably bleak. In the two years that Leanne’s lived here, it’s only the second time she’s invited me round. Correction: Daisy invited me round. Leanne texted her to suggest they get together to talk about how best to help Al; Daisy suggested I come, too.
“Right.” Leanne sits up a little straighter and presses her glasses into her nose. She’s been unusually chirpy ever since we turned up, which is slightly weird considering she told Daisy on the phone that Al was sacked from her job three days ago and she was worried she might be a suicide risk. “I’ve been thinking about how best to help Al and I’ve come up with an idea.”
Daisy puts her mug down on the chest of drawers. “Go on.”
“There are three main issues here.” Leanne pauses, relishing the fact that she’s got a rapt audience, then holds up her index finger. “One: Al is physically stalking Simone and Gem. She sat outside Gem’s house all night last night – literally on the front doorstep – waiting for Gem to come out. Simone called the police.”
“Shit.”
Leanne raises her eyebrows. “I know. Apparently they just had a ‘friendly word’ and told her to move on, but if she does it again … Anyway.” She raises a second finger. “Two: Al is stalking Simone on the internet. Now she’s lost her job, she’s spending every bloody second on her laptop. I was round there yesterday and when she went to the loo, I took a quick look at the screen. She was on some kind of forum about hacking Hotmail accounts. And three,” she adds before I can interrupt again, “well, it kind of ties in with one and two. She’s spending too much time on her own. We need to keep an eye on her, but none of us can do that twenty-four seven, unless …” She pauses dramatically. “… we take her on holiday.”
“Yes!” Daisy’s silver bracelets rattle as she punches the air. “Let’s go to Ibiza. I love it there. I know a guy who used to work for Manumission who could get us free tickets.”
“Did you shag him?”
She gives me the middle finger.
“That’s a yes, then,” I say, and she laughs.
“So? Ibiza, then? Ian will give me the time off, and I’ve got a month until my next runner job. Whoop, whoop! Ibiza, here we come.” The bed squeaks in protest as Daisy bounces up and down.
“How long for?” I ask. “I’ve got three weeks’ holiday left but I was hoping to save one of those weeks for Christmas.”
“Quit. Honestly, Emma. It’ll be the best decision you ever make. Go to Ibiza and get another job when you come back. You can afford it. You’ve got three months’ emergency money saved up, you said as much last week.”
“Actually …” Leanne tentatively raises a hand but Daisy ignores her.
“Go on, Emma, it’s for Al. She’d love a couple of weeks in Ibiza. She went last year, didn’t she?”
“Didn’t she go with Simone?”
“How’s that a problem? She won’t be there this time. Will she?”
“I don’t know, but she’ll have lots of memories of going there with Simone, and—”
“Emma!” Leanne snaps. “Can I get a word in, please?”
“Why are you having a go at me? I wasn’t the only one talking.”
“As I was saying” – she peers over her specs at Daisy – “I think we should go on holiday, but we should go to a place where, a) she’s a long way from Simone, and b) she hasn’t got access to the internet, and c) she get can her head together.”
“Like where?”
“Nepal,” Leanne says.
“Where?”
“Nepal! It’s in Asia, near Tibet.”
Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Why would we want to go there?”
“There’s an amazing retreat in the mountains called Ekanta Yatra. My yoga teacher told me about it. Look!” She flashes her mobile at Daisy then taps the screen. “Amazing fresh, home-cooked food, yoga, a river you can swim in, a waterfall, massages, facials. We could spend a day in Kathmandu then do two weeks at the retreat, then we could fly to a place called Chitwan and go on a jungle safari. It would be the adventure of a lifetime.”
Leanne’s face is aglow. I’ve never seen her look so energised; she normally looks so wan and tired. She’s desperately thin, and Daisy and I have speculated several times about whether or not she might have an eating disorder.
“Could I see that?” I reach out a hand for her mobile. She presses it into my palm without saying a word.
I scroll through the website. It would seem Ekanta Yatra’s run by a group of Westerners who met when they were travelling through Asia and decided to start a “retreat from the world” nestled in the Annapurna mountain range, an area popular with hikers. It’s beautiful, and the idea of spending a couple of weeks being pampered, reading novels and swimming in a crystal-clear river appeals, but …
“There’s no Wi-Fi,” I say.
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, yeah. I’ve started applying for new jobs and I won’t be able to check my email.”
Leanne slips off the bed and takes five steps across the room to the kettle. She picks it up and refills it from the tap. “You don’t have to come, Emma. No one’s forcing you.”
It’s not that Leanne and I actively dislike each other; we are friends but only when we’re with Daisy or Al. We don’t go for drinks together or have text message marathons. We’ll laugh at each other’s jokes and buy each other birthday presents, but we’ve never developed any kind of closeness or warmth. I don’t know why that is. Maybe it’s because I didn’t like the way she looked me up and down the first time we met. Maybe it’s because I forgot to get her a drink when I went to the bar to get a round. Or maybe it’s because, sometimes, when you meet someone, you get a vibe that they just don’t like you, and that vibe never quite disappears.
“I’ll bloody force her,” Daisy says, jumping off the bed and onto my lap. “You’ll come, won’t you, Emma?” She cups her hands around my face and nods it up and down. “See, look, she’s saying yes, she says she’ll come.”
“It sounds expensive.”
“No more expensive than a couple of weeks in Ibiza,” Leanne says as she pours boiling hot water into three mugs.
“Al’s lost her job,” I say. “How’s she going to afford to go?”
“I’ll pay for her,” Daisy says. “Or, rather, Dad will.” She jumps off me and back onto the bed, but I catch her smile slip. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven her dad for sending her away to prep school when she needed him most. She was only six years old, and her little sister had died tragically a year earlier. Shortly after her baby sister’s death, unable to cope with the grief, her mum killed herself. Daisy’s dad, a City trader, justified the decision to send her to boarding school by saying it would give her life some stability, plus a mother figure in the shape of a house mistress, but, to Daisy, it was like being abandoned all over again. It’s why she’s so ruthless when it comes to ending friendships and relationships. It’s better to leave than be left, no matter how painful the separation might be.
“Well? Are you up for it or not?” Leanne turns to face us, a steaming mug in each hand. She’s smiling again but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She squeezes past me to reach the chest of drawers. Tea slops onto the pine top as she sets the mugs down. “I thought we could go next month.”
“Next month?” I catch Daisy’s eye but she shrugs. She’s got Ian, her boss, wrapped around her little finger. He lets her work in The King’s Arms whenever she’s in between runner jobs, so he won’t bat an eyelid if she suddenly announces she’s off on holiday for three weeks. And Leanne’s an aromatherapy massage therapist who rents a room in a beauty salon, so she can take off whatever time she likes. Geoff won’t make escaping to Nepal for three weeks so easy for me.
“You are entitled to time off,” Daisy says, as though she’s just read my mind. “Or you could just quit.”
“Daisy …”
“Fine, fine.” She holds out her hands as though in surrender. “But if you don’t come, I’ll never talk to you again.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Ha, ha.”
“Is that a yes, then?” Leanne twists her hands in front of her. “Are we going to Nepal?”
“Only if we can convince Al.”
Daisy grins. “Leave that to me.”
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