Her Last Lie

Chapter 3

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Tuesday, 25 October 11.30 p.m.

CANADA

So here I am, travelling home on the train after my wonderful trip, and uploading the photographs I promised to post here before I left. Hope you like them. Canada was a-ma-zing.

I’ve so enjoyed posting photos and news about my travels over the last few months, but, the truth is, I need somewhere to free my mind or I’ll explode into teeny tiny pieces. Nobody in my real world knows about my blog, and they certainly wouldn’t understand what I’m about to say.

God, I’m having doubts whether I should write it here. But then I don’t get many hits. Those who do visit are one-off visitors, searching images to look at my photos, rather than read my incessant travel ramblings. So I guess then it’s OK. It could be therapeutic for me to offload into the abyss.

So here goes. I met someone in Canada. His name’s Andy, and quite simply I’m in love with him. There, I’ve said it. It’s out there now. I know I’m with Jack, and I feel bad about that. But Andy’s different. He’s from Toronto, and has the most amazing accent, but, of course, that’s not all I love about him.

I’m smiling now, and the woman sitting opposite me, about sixty, attractive, dressed trendy, is giving me a funny look. She can’t see inside my head. That I’m thinking of the quirky way Andy flicks his gorgeous auburn hair from his brown eyes. How giddy I felt when he was close to me. The way my skin tingled when he touched me – kissed me.

I sound ridiculous. Like a pathetic heroine in a novel, all loved up and besotted. But it’s true. I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone. Not after what happened in Australia.

And I suppose I’ve always thought women who said that the urge to cheat is uncontrollable were foolish. That nothing would make me do anything to hurt sweet, kind Jack. But when something like this happens the draw is too strong. It’s painful. There are no choices.

It’s hard because I’m still with Jack, and I know he loves me. He’s always been so good to me – would do anything for me.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Andy had said when he approached me in a café in Toronto, where I’d taken to going each afternoon. Mind if I join you? A line right out of a 1950s film. Up there with: Is this seat taken?

He was standing so close I could smell his aftershave, and he was holding a cappuccino in his hand, a swirl of steam rising from it. His smile was seductive, and his eyes locked me into a stare. He pulled his scarf free from his neck, as though I’d already said yes to him sitting with me, as though he had everything planned.

Without a second’s delay – not even the nagging memory of six years ago made me pause for thought – I took my jacket and bag from the chair next to me, and said, ‘No, no it’s free. It’ll be great to have the company.’

We started talking. And as though we’d known each other for ever, I spilled my life. Told him what happened in Sydney. How it had made me feel. How it still makes me feel. I’d talked about it all before, but somehow Andy made me feel safer than I ever felt possible.

We drank wine, and I told him where I was staying. He was travelling on business and renting a place nearby.

That night we made love. And the next.

Oh God, the guilt is bubbling up now, making me uneasy, faint and unsteady. My fingers are trembling on the keyboard. Should I have slept with Andy without talking things through with Jack first? Did I have a choice? Does anyone have a choice when the passion is so strong?

Andy cancelled his business meeting, and over the next few days he was right there by my side, the smell of him making me delirious, his dark eyes melting me.

He told me how he’d grown up in Toronto, an only child of two university professors. He loved the summer there, he said, but the winters were so cold, day and night, sometimes dropping to minus twenty-five. He took me to places I might never have found alone. Graffiti Alley, just south of Chinatown, was the most remarkable. The vibrant colours and stunning pictures of the murals painted by street artists on the walls of connecting alleyways were incredible. I got carried away and took far more pictures than I will ever need. As we walked, Andy nodded down a narrow alley, closed off by a fence.

‘That was once the site of the secret swing,’ he told me. ‘I remember it.’ He’d paused, clearly thinking back. ‘The swing had a kind of cold, haunted feel about it, hanging there between the walls. I can see it clearly, even though it’s not there any more.’ He’d slipped his arm around my waist, and I was glad I wasn’t alone. That I was with him.

The following day we travelled to Niagara Falls, and shared a hotel room. Our passion grew stronger, which I never dreamt possible.

We screamed with laughter when we took a boat trip, and the cascading waterfall sprayed our bodies.

For a month he travelled with me – the train journey through the Rockies was the best experience of my life.

At the airport, just before I headed for home, I felt as though I was about to leave part of myself behind. I felt bilious and delirious at the same time.

He’s texted me already to check I landed safely, and my heart ached as I read his words. He said he can’t go another moment without seeing me. That he’s desperate to come over and will jump on the next plane.

I must tell Jack about Andy.

I know that.

God, I’m crying. The woman opposite is rummaging in her bag – bringing out a pack of tissues, handing me one. She’s probably wondering about the weird woman tapping away on her laptop.

I dab my cheek with the tissue. The self-hatred bouncing against the ecstasy is impossible. But I have no choice. It’s such a mess.

But surely you should be with the person you love. Life is too short. We’re a long time dead, as my mother once said.

Andy is my drug – my cocaine – and I need to hold on to this feeling. I refuse to let it go at any cost. Surely, I deserve happiness after everything I’ve been through.

I know I’m supposed to be on my blog to tell you about Canada, because that’s what it’s set up for – to talk about my travels. But I’m tired, and my head feels fuzzy. So, for now, I’ll point out the stunning shots of Graffiti Alley, and my favourite photograph of Niagara Falls. Those cascading waters took my breath away. They’re to die for – like Andy.

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Chapter 4

Tuesday, 25 October

Isla emerged from Letchworth Garden City Station just before midnight, dragging her case behind her. Her carry-on bag, laptop and camera inside, was draped over her shoulder. If only her apartment was closer. She was exhausted.

A taxi was parked next to the entrance, and as she headed towards it, the driver got out, took her case from her and put it into the boot.

‘Where to, love?’ he said with a smile, slamming the boot closed, and walking round to the driver’s side.

‘Oakley Court. It’s an apartment block in—’

‘I know it,’ he cut in, as she climbed into the back seat. ‘My daughter lives near there.’

Once in the taxi, the driver accelerated away. The journey would only take five minutes, but the thought of being sealed in with a man – even a pleasant-faced man in his fifties wearing a turban – prodded at Isla’s anxiety. It was probably because she was tired. When she craved sleep, thoughts she could normally control encroached. Was it really safe to get into a car parked outside a railway station with a man she didn’t know?

‘You been on holiday?’ the driver asked.

Oh God, he was going to be a talker. She could do without a talker right now.

‘Yes,’ she said, cursing the fact she’d been brought up to be polite. Never wanted to offend.

He indicated and pulled onto the main road. ‘Somewhere nice?’

Please stop talking. ‘Canada,’ she said.

‘Very nice indeed.’ He nodded, approvingly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go. Did you see Niagara Falls?’

‘I did, yes.’

‘I read on the Internet that five thousand people have committed suicide there.’

Why would anyone say that? ‘Yes I know, it’s awful.’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry, not a very cheerful subject.’

No, no it’s not.

His brown eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror, and even though his tone was light and friendly, her neck tingled, and anxiety bubbles rose in her chest. She ran her finger over the band on her wrist and averted her eyes.

‘And there was that woman who went over the waterfall in a barrel and survived. I saw a documentary on the telly-box.’ He paused. ‘Not that I watch documentaries very often. I like gardening programmes. Alan Titchmarsh is my favourite. Do you like Alan Titchmarsh?’

‘I don’t mind him.’

‘It’s my wife who’s the documentary addict. If there’s been a documentary about it, she has watched the documentary. Ooh, I seem to have said documentary rather too much.’ He laughed, as he indicated and turned a corner. ‘We saw that documentary on Netflix about the chap who got charged with murder and went down for years. He didn’t do it, so they got him out again. Then he got banged up again for another murder, would you believe? And now they’re trying to get him off again. He must feel like he’s doing the murder hokey-cokey – in, out, in, out, shake it all about. You seen it?’

Thoughts of Carl Jeffery pushed into her head. Would it be better if she knew the outcome of his appeal? She shook away the thought. If he was out – free to kill again – the knowledge would break her.

‘Santa’s beard,’ the driver said. ‘Who’s this pillocky person behind me?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Some ruddy moron’s gating my tail.’

Isla glanced over her shoulder and squinted. The back window was filled with the full beam of a car’s headlights, far too close.

The taxi driver slowed, and whoever was behind heeded, putting some distance between them.

‘Sports car,’ the taxi driver said with a grumble. ‘Some idiot going through a midlife crisis, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably bought a guitar too and wants to be the next Bryan Adams.’

He pulled into the car park at Oakley Court, which had once been the sweeping drive of a now-converted Victorian house.

‘Thanks,’ Isla said, opening the door, relieved the journey was over.

He jumped out, opened the boot and pulled out her case.

‘Thanks,’ she said again, paying him.

He drove away, and she began stabbing the passcode into the keypad on the front door, before glancing over her shoulder. The sports car that had tailgated the taxi was parked across the road, lights on. Someone was sitting at the steering wheel, but it was impossible to see who it was – no more than a silhouette.

Unnerved, she fumbled the rest of the code into the keypad and pushed open the door. She heaved her case up the flight of stairs, and put her key into her front door and turned it. As she pushed against the door, something prevented her from opening it fully. Her heartbeat cranked up a notch, but she realised quickly that a newspaper and a pile of letters were blocking the door. She reached her hand round and pushed them aside.

Inside, once the door was closed behind her, she stood in the darkness and took a long, deep breath, frustrated that her anxiety had risen to what she called silly levels. She’d been fine in Canada. Things had gone so well.

The apartment was quiet without Jack and Luna to greet her, and she missed the comfort of their presence.

Jack rarely went to Dorset. His mum must be very ill.

She flicked the hall light switch, but the inky darkness remained. The bulb had blown.

As she wheeled her case through the blackness, she noted the air was musty and heavy with a faint mingling aroma of Jack’s aftershave and the slight waft of bacon.

The floorboards in the lounge creaked as she padded towards the window and looked out. The sports car was still in the lay-by opposite, lights off. She yanked the curtains closed.

In the kitchen, she turned on the tap and streamed water into a glass. She swallowed half of it, her dry throat thanking her, and poured the rest onto the dry soil of a sad-looking plant that Jack had forgotten to water. She took off her coat and slipped off her shoes. She knew she should shower to eradicate the journey, but instead made her way into the bedroom and fell onto the bed fully clothed. Closing her eyes, she drifted into a doze.

Five minutes later, the intercom buzzed. Her eyes sprang open. Could it be Jack home early? He often forgot his key. She rose and headed from the bedroom, her heart pounding as she took in how still and silent the apartment was. She approached the front door, fighting back memories of six years ago, frustrated by her fear. She didn’t do this any more, she told herself. She wasn’t afraid any more.

She pressed the talk button on the intercom. ‘Hello. Jack, is that you?’ There was no reply. Maybe the intercom hadn’t buzzed. Perhaps it had been part of a dream. It wouldn’t have been the first time her dreams seemed real. When she’d been taking tablets, she would often have vivid nightmares that felt far too real. But that was a long time ago. ‘Jack?’ she said again, noting the wobble in her voice.

She released the button, headed into the lounge, and crept towards the window. She peered through the gap in the curtains. Someone, hood up, was crossing the road, jogging away from the apartment block. The sports car’s lights flashed, and whoever it was flung open the door, jumped inside, and sped away with a screech of tyres.

Isla hurried back to bed and dived under the duvet, where she cradled her knees. Tears filled her eyes, as memories of Carl Jeffery swooped into her head.

Six years ago

He stood at the bar, pretending to look lost. ‘You’re so pretty, I’ve forgotten what I was going to ask for.’

She’d known immediately it was Carl Jeffery. Bronwyn, a girl who was staying at the same hostel as Isla, had told her about him. ‘He’s fucking gorgeous,’ she’d said. And there was no doubting that he was. Rugged good looks, dark hair curling into the collar of his checked shirt. The kind of Aussie she could imagine living in the outback in a shack, boiling water in a tin kettle on an open fire, undeterred by huntsman spiders and venomous snakes.

But Carl’s flattery was transparent.

‘It can’t be that hard to remember what you want,’ Isla said, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. ‘It’s a bar, for Christ’s sake. Now what can I get you?’

Charmers had never taken Isla in. In fact, she wasn’t interested in men at all at that time. Her breakup with Trevor still rattled around her head even then. How he’d wanted her to settle down. How he didn’t want her to travel. It had all got so messy. The last thing she wanted was another relationship.

‘So, what’s your name, pretty lady?’ Carl’s smirk was lopsided, his eyes deep set.

She thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Seriously? That’s your best line?’

He laughed. ‘Oh come on, give a guy a break.’

‘You’re really not my type.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t waste your time.’

‘You’re gay?’

‘So I have to be gay not to fancy you?’ She knocked the lid off a bottled lager and handed it to a worse-for-wear customer who was leaning on the bar holding out a five-dollar note.

‘So what will it be?’ she said, eyes back on Carl.

‘Lager,’ he said, pulling himself onto a stool.

‘Coming right up.’ She bent to get one from the fridge.

‘So when did you arrive?’ he asked, as she handed him the cool bottle. ‘I haven’t seen you around.’

‘Two weeks ago,’ she said, watching as he parted his lips and took a long gulp.

‘Staying at the Bristol?’

She nodded.

‘You like it there?’

‘Yeah, it’s cool.’ She moved away. She really wasn’t interested. And anyway, Bronwyn fancied him.

During the evening, women gravitated towards him, and he ended up at a table with an attractive blonde who seemed to fuel his ego and kept him topped up with drinks. His laugh was loud and confident, and Isla found herself watching him, despite an inner instinct not to. She watched the way he leant forward to listen, attentive as the woman spoke, the way he rested his tanned hand over hers, so it became invisible.

‘There’s a fucking dancing possum in here,’ yelled the drunken bloke at the bar, snapping Isla out of her dream world, as he fell off his stool. ‘Did you see it? Did you see it? It’s wearing clogs and a pink hat.’

‘Oh, Ernie, you’re imagining things again. You need to give up the amber nectar,’ she said, coming out from behind the bar. Despite her small size, she pulled him to his feet. ‘You’ve had enough, mate,’ she continued, escorting him across the bar, and out through the door. ‘Now go home to Mrs Ernie.’

‘Chucking out the drunks again?’ said Bronwyn, appearing through the night, and following Isla back into the bar. ‘So how’s it going?’ she continued, her friendly Irish lilt just one of the things that made her so likeable.

‘Yeah, I’m good; be glad when I’ve finished,’ Isla said, hurrying back behind the bar.

‘I’ll have a wine, please,’ Bronwyn said, tipping coins from a tatty zip-up purse onto the bar. She sat down and dragged her fingers through her red, layered hair. She was eighteen and travelling alone, but seemed to have an aura that said ‘don’t mess with me’.

‘Good to see you, my little Irish beauty.’ It was Carl approaching, after leaving the blonde woman alone. ‘I’m loving the cut-off shorts.’ He ogled her thighs, and then lifted his eyes to meet Isla’s, holding her gaze. Isla looked away, annoyed with herself for getting drawn in by his game playing.

‘I’ll have another lager,’ he said to her. And once she’d handed it to him, he lifted Bronwyn from the stool, and carried her, her legs gripping his body, her lips on his, to a table in the corner. Her giggles were almost childlike.

***

‘He asked me out,’ Bronwyn told Isla later, as they walked back to the hostel. ‘Says we should have some fun together.’

‘Did you say yes?’

‘Yep, I like fun. My mums have told me since I was a little girl that I should get as much out of life as possible. And he is pretty gorgeous, don’t you think?’ She skipped ahead, and turned to face Isla, continuing to skip backwards, her skinny body being swallowed by the darkness.

‘Bron,’ Isla called after her, when she’d fully gone from view. ‘Wait up.’

‘I’ve told him I’m not sticking around here for too long,’ Bronwyn called out.

‘And he’s OK with that?’ Isla called back.

‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

The darkness was suddenly total, the silence only punctuated by Bronwyn’s distant footfalls, and the intermittent sound of an owl hooting. ‘Bronwyn, please wait up,’ Isla called, picking up speed. ‘Bron? I’m knackered. I can’t be arsed to run.’