Lie to Me: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist Read online

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Toby pulled a face. ‘We’re supposed to be a left-wing theatre collective, not a bunch of clowns.’

  Isobel patted Cara’s skirt kindly. ‘It’s a great idea, darling, but very much a last resort.’ She stood up, slipping her violet-painted toes back into her shoes. ‘I vote we do another push to get bookings, and if we still don’t have any luck, we’ll do a free performance in the city centre to attract publicity.’ No actual vote followed – they no longer bothered pretending they were a cooperative – but there was a general murmur of agreement, and with that, they wandered back into the house to embark on yet another run-through.

  The afternoon rehearsal seemed to go on forever, but Isobel finally sent the others home and the two women were alone again. Cara cooked a mediocre spaghetti bolognese, distracted by carnal thoughts of Jay, who was whiling away the time in the local pub with a pint and a packet of crisps. Was his head as full of her? she wondered.

  ‘I’m not sure the others really get Purple Blaze,’ said Isobel, dousing her meal with extra salt and pepper. ‘Toby’s more interested in politics than theatre and Jay’s the opposite – he’d play Dick Whittington’s cat if someone offered it. Not that he’d be any good at it. He doesn’t have the talent, or the passion.’ His passion is for me, replied Cara, but only inside her head.

  Isobel reached forward, taking Cara’s hand in hers and stroking it fondly. ‘If I didn’t have you, I don’t know what I’d do.’ She looked at her thoughtfully, as if waiting for the appropriate reply.

  ‘Me too,’ muttered Cara finally. Something felt wrong, but she couldn’t work out what. Isobel must have felt it too, because she let go of her then, and stood up to run the tap for a glass of water.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, why wouldn’t it be?’ Cara bit her lip, relieved that Isobel had her back towards her. She glanced up at the kitchen clock. Two hours to go before her rendezvous with Jay. Two hours of lying and pretending to her dearest friend. Why couldn’t she just come out with it? Maybe Isobel would be pleased that after her pathetic attempts at university, she’d finally landed a proper boyfriend. It would be neat if Isobel could get together with Toby and make a foursome. The two of them had so much in common, and they were both attractive. A thought occurred to her. What if Isobel was already secretly seeing Toby? That would be so ironic.

  They went upstairs at a quarter to eleven. Isobel gave her the usual good-night hug on the landing, kissing her on the cheek, her lips grazing the outer edge of Cara’s mouth.

  ‘Nighty-night, darling. Sweet dreams,’ she said.

  Cara sat on her bed, listening out for Isobel in the bathroom. The loo was flushed, the taps were turned on, then off, and finally the water gurgled through the plughole. Isobel padded up to the attic room and Cara heard the brass rings on the curtains rattle against the pole as they were drawn across. A few more footsteps, a couple of creaks, then all was silent.

  Now she had to wait for ten minutes or so. Cara knew from the time they shared a bedroom that Isobel usually dropped off as soon as her head hit the pillow. This ability had annoyed Cara, who tended to lie awake for ages, fighting off drifting, sinking feelings, as if frightened she would never wake again. But now she was pleased, because it meant she could leave the house unnoticed.

  Carrying her pumps, she tiptoed down the stairs and escaped through the door of the conservatory. It was pitch black outside and she could only just make out the stepping-stone path that led to the gate in the back fence. She put on her shoes and made her way across the garden, the skirt of her dress catching on the thorns of a rambling rose that had been trained over the wooden arch. The gate wasn’t padlocked, but the bolt was stiff and made a loud clang as she drew it back. She glanced back anxiously towards the house, but all seemed quiet. She lifted the gate off its hinges so that it didn’t squeak, and swung it gently open.

  ‘Jay?’ she whispered. ‘Are you there?’

  He emerged immediately from behind a hawthorn tree, his face illuminated by the burning tip of his cigarette. The dim glow hollowed his eye sockets and cheeks, making him look almost ghostly. He took her hand and they walked silently around the path until they came to the old boathouse. There was a square of hard-standing there, which sloped down to the water’s edge. Jay retrieved a blanket that he’d hidden round the side of the shed and laid it out as if preparing for a picnic. He pulled her towards him, pressing her shoulders downwards. She sank to her knees and he joined her, kissing her face and neck, removing her cardigan, slipping the thin straps of her dress from her shoulders and revealing her small pink breasts. She sighed as she leant backwards, twisting her legs round and letting him fall onto her like a stone.

  He hadn’t asked if she was on the pill (she wasn’t) and had never even suggested using a condom. Why was she taking risks like this? Why didn’t she care? The undergrowth stirred. Nobody else knows what we do, she thought. Only the night creatures. That’s what I’ve become – Jay’s night creature, asleep during the day and only properly alive in the dark. He began to thrust, crushing the base of her spine into the ground. Tomorrow there would be a bruise, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was this.

  She opened her eyes to look upwards at the stars. Something in her peripheral vision moved and she turned her head to look. A black shape passed behind a tree.

  ‘Somebody’s there,’ she whispered. ‘Watching us.’

  He laughed. ‘No way.’

  ‘I saw him!’ She heard the sound of retreating footsteps along the path. ‘Listen! He’s running away.’

  ‘So what? Let him look, I don’t care. Makes it more exciting.’

  ‘Stop it!’ She pushed him off and he rolled onto his back, groaning. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, now.’ She clambered to her feet, grabbing her knickers and almost falling over as she tried to put them back on.

  ‘But I haven’t finished.’ He spoke as if she was interrupting his meal.

  ‘Well, I have. I want to go home.’

  ‘You’re pathetic,’ he said, but he zipped up his flies and led her back round the path towards the house.

  In the hostile silence, Cara listened to her thumping heart. She kept looking straight ahead, not wanting to think about who’d been lurking in the shadows, how much they might have seen. It made her feel dirty and cheap.

  ‘Let’s go to your room,’ Jay said, as they arrived at the gate.

  ‘We can’t. She’ll hear us.’

  ‘Not if we’re quiet.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The conservatory, then, that’s two floors below.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not in the mood any more.’

  ‘Come on, Cara.’ He raised his voice. ‘You can’t leave me high and dry like this! I’m still as hard as rock and it bloody hurts.’

  His words stung her. ‘That’s all you care about, is it? Charming.’

  ‘If you weren’t so shit-scared of Isobel, we could do it in your bed. Anyone’d think she was your mum, the way you go on. No, no, actually it’s worse than that; it’s like you’re married to her or something. Like she owns you.’

  ‘Stop shouting,’ she hissed. ‘I’m going indoors now, let me go.’

  She tried to release her arm, but he tightened his grip. ‘Do you let her touch you up? Is that part of the deal?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘There must be some reason. Are you playing us off against each other?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Who do you prefer?’ he snarled. ‘Her or me, or don’t you care?’

  ‘Let me go, Jay, or I’ll scream.’

  ‘And wake her up?’ He turned his head towards the house. ‘Oops, too late.’

  She looked up. The attic window was wide open and Isobel was standing there, her dark silhouette framed in light. Cara drew in a sharp breath, her throat tightening. ‘Isobel!’ she tried to shout, but it came out as a feeble squeak. Jay let her go and she ran into the house, tearing through th
e hallway and leaping up the stairs two at a time. ‘Isobel! Isobel!’

  She knocked loudly on the bedroom door, but Isobel didn’t answer. She tried turning the handle, but something was jamming it from inside. A chair perhaps, wedged under.

  ‘Isobel, please, let me in.’ Still no reply. ‘I want to explain…’

  Several seconds of silence passed, then Cara thought she heard the sound of the window closing, the bed creaking as Isobel lay back down. There was a faint click and the sliver of light escaping from under the door went out like the last flicker of hope.

  ‘You can’t just go back to sleep.’ Cara’s voice was teary and desperate. ‘Please! We need to talk.’

  She would not leave, she decided; she would stay here until Isobel came out of the room. She sank to the floor and squeezed herself into the small gap between the top of the stairs and the door. Jay had gone home, thank God – at least she imagined he had. She coiled her body and lay there like a faithful, panting dog guarding its mistress, her nose and throat congested with tears. Minutes, maybe hours passed uncomfortably; soon all her joints felt locked and were starting to ache. She uncurled herself and sat with her back against the door. Her eyelids felt heavy and her head kept dropping to her chest. She didn’t want to fall asleep, but if she did, at least Isobel couldn’t leave the room without waking her up.

  The next thing she knew, dawn had broken and the birds were singing. They were in strong voice this morning, as if there was much to celebrate, but Cara knew they were wrong. Utterly, totally wrong. Emotion flooded her body and she had to stuff her fist into her mouth to stop herself from screaming. She couldn’t keep it all in any longer; she had to talk to Isobel. Now.

  She crawled to her feet and knocked loudly several times. ‘Isobel? Are you awake? It’s me.’ The silence was unbearable. She squeezed the handle, but it still wouldn’t give. ‘Isobel! Are you okay? If you don’t answer, I’m going to have to kick the door in.’

  She heard sounds of movement, the scraping of a chair, and then the handle spun free and the door opened a few inches. Isobel stood there, barefoot in a creased white cotton shift, strands of jet-black hair pasted across her forehead. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed from hours of crying.

  ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

  ‘But I need to explain…’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Isobel started to shut the door, but Cara leapt forward, barging her way into the room.

  ‘Look, I know I’ve done wrong. I should have told you about me and Jay from the beginning – it was unfair to keep it a secret, after all you’ve done for me.’

  Isobel looked at her askance. ‘You think that’s why I’m upset?’

  ‘Well… er, yes. I…’ Cara faltered. ‘I mean, we’ve never had secrets from each other before.’

  ‘Haven’t we?’ Isobel sat down heavily on the bed.

  ‘What is it? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ve kept a secret from you for over three years. I thought you’d work it out, but you never did. You never even suspected.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m in love with you, Cara. I’ve loved you from the very beginning. I knew you weren’t naturally that way, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to scare you off. I thought, in time, you’d understand how beautiful our friendship was, that things would develop and grow… and the fact that I was a woman wouldn’t matter to you.’ She paused to steady her voice. ‘Why do you think I asked you to come and live with me here?’

  Cara felt herself colour up. ‘I don’t know – to start Purple—’

  ‘I couldn’t give a toss about Purple Blaze. That was just an excuse. I was missing you so much, I thought I was going to die. I wanted to be with you again. I thought that once we were by ourselves, it would happen. I didn’t invest all my inheritance so you could fuck the first bloke that came along.’

  Cara flinched. ‘I had no idea you felt like this,’ she began, but Isobel shook her head dismissively.

  ‘Not true. I’ve been thinking about it all night. If you had no idea, you’d have told me about Jay. Why else would you skulk around in the dark like a bitch on heat? You disgust me.’

  The words stabbed at her like knives. Isobel thought her disgusting? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I never meant to hurt you. I’ve obviously made a huge mistake.’

  ‘No, I made the mistake,’ said Isobel. ‘Now go, please.’

  Cara hesitated; they couldn’t end the conversation like this. ‘I really care about you…’

  ‘Stop making it worse and get out.’

  She backed towards the door. ‘What about the others? They’ll be here soon…’

  ‘Tell them to go home – tell them the whole thing’s finished. And I never want to see Jay ever, ever again, okay?’

  ‘And what about me?’ said Cara. ‘Do you want me to go too?’

  ‘Yes… No… I don’t know… Just leave me alone, please. I need to think.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Isobel shook her head and lay down on the bed, curling herself into a ball.

  Cara went back to her room, shutting the door behind her. Had she always known that Isobel was in love with her? No, she thought, absolutely not. They had behaved like a couple, that was true; always together, not seeming to need other friends and not bothering with men. A few people at university had made probing remarks, but Cara had always been quick to put them right. They were just close friends, she’d insisted, but thinking back, Isobel had always kept uncharacteristically quiet on the subject. Cara sighed. How stupid and naive she’d been. This was the 1980s, for God’s sake, not Victorian times. Several men on their course were openly gay and that hadn’t troubled her one bit. She had nothing against lesbians; she just wasn’t one of them, which was probably why she hadn’t realised Isobel was attracted to her.

  She paused her thoughts for a second, turning her head to gaze out of the window at the treetops. Was that entirely true?

  Come on, admit it, she said to herself. There had been moments, hadn’t there? Especially since they’d come to Darkwater Terrace. Like when Isobel jumped into her bed on Saturday mornings and started to play-fight, hitting her with the pillow and lifting her pyjama top to tickle her bare tummy. Or how she squeezed next to her on the tiny sofa every evening when there were plenty of other, more comfortable places to sit… And then there was their new ritual of the nighty-night kiss, started by Isobel. Cara touched her lips and remembered.

  Yes, she’d sensed the longings but had chosen to ignore them. She felt bad because she couldn’t love Isobel in the way she wanted to be loved, and yet she didn’t want to lose the friendship. A guilty realisation sank into her. Isobel was right. She’d kept the fling with Jay a secret not out of daring and rebelliousness, but out of cowardice and selfishness. And now everything was spoilt.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Me

  Arlecchino’s is a small private members’ club in Soho, squashed between a Thai restaurant and a post-production studio. I must have passed the anonymous black door hundreds of times as it’s only a few streets from my office, but I’m sure I’ve never noticed it before. It’s as if it’s appeared like magic, a pop-up – just for today, just for us. Normally, I’d be really excited to be invited to a place like this; I’d have told all the girls at work and taken pictures of my food. And later, I’d have rung Dad and regaled him with stories of celebs I’d spotted and how much shorter, or uglier, they looked in the flesh. But I daren’t tell Dad I’ve made contact with Isobel Dalliday, or that she’s watched the videotape and has been texting me ever since, desperate for us to meet up. My finger hovers over the entry button. To press or not to press? Once I pass through this door, there’ll be no turning back.

  I give my name to the unwelcoming voice at the other end and she buzzes me in. The narrow staircase wall is greasy with thousands of fingerprints – inhabitants, guests, customers. It feels, even smells like an old brothel. This is shabby-chic tak
en so far it’s just shabby. At the top of the stairs is a small landing. The ‘hostess’ is perched behind an artistically chipped off-white desk, her platinum-blonde hair set in a victory roll, wearing a tight black dress with a white lace collar. So vintage. So very ‘meedja’.

  ‘Isobel’s waiting for you in the Blue Room,’ she says, without even looking at me. I scribble in the visitors’ book, then follow her red-nailed finger to the back of the club.

  The Blue Room is painted a purplish-grey like a cold dawn. Uneven dark floorboards, sofas draped with silken throws and velvet cushions that look like unmade beds, gloomy fringed lampshades and original shutters at the narrow windows. Everything’s deliberately threadbare and tawdry, as if the whores have never left. There are several clubs like this in Soho; I’ve been in one or two, tagging along to meetings with clients. They’re film sets, luxuriously distressed, the props carefully chosen, supporting artists all in place. Men in Harry Potter glasses and slim black shirts huddle boyishly around iPads; immaculate women in fitted dresses and everlasting lipstick are being charmingly ruthless to anyone who will listen, while everyone sitting on their own is pretending to be super-busy with their smartphone.

  Isobel is by the window, sitting in a winged armchair: fraying fabric in thick grey and black stripes, its stuffing theatrically bulging out. She’s rapid-reading what looks like a script, swilling a large glass of red in one hand. I study her from across the room. She’s curled up to one side with her legs crossed, a pencil tucked behind her ear, which she’s taking out now to scrawl something in the margin. She turns over the page, then another. Her natural rhythm quick, almost irritable, as if the rest of the world can’t keep up. I hesitate, one foot poised to turn on its heel, but it’s too late, she’s already spotted me.

  ‘Don’t stand there like a lady-in-waiting,’ she says, beckoning.

  We’re shown to a table in the corner of the dining room and sit down opposite each other. The tension between us zings, but we don’t say anything. The waiter whisks up my linen napkin and deposits it gracefully on my lap, repeating the same action with Isobel before handing us the menus and retiring to the shadows.