Читать книгу The Last Lie: The must-read new thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author - Alex Lake, Alex Lake - Страница 11

Standing in front of the fireplace, Alfie tapped his glass – crystal, full of vintage champagne, he loved this stuff, he really did – with the handle of his fork – silver, antique – and watched as conversations died down and heads turned to face him. When the room was silent, he smiled and started to speak.

‘Thank you all,’ he said, ‘for coming to celebrate this very special day. My wife’ – he turned to Claire and smiled – ‘it’s still a thrill to call her that, even after three years, is celebrating her thirtieth birthday. I told her before the party that I had something special for her, and I do.’

He gestured to Jodie, who moved to the front of the guests and handed him a guitar. It was a Martin D50 which Claire had bought him, after some not-too-subtle hints, for his last birthday. It was an instrument he had dreamed of owning all through his childhood, but which, until he met Claire, had been woefully out of his reach. Woefully out of most people’s reach.

‘Alfie,’ Claire said, ‘what are you doing?’ She looked at Jodie, eyebrows raised.

Jodie held up her hands, palms facing Claire. ‘Merely doing what I was told,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Jodie,’ Alfie said, and then turned to Claire. ‘I wrote you a song,’ he said. He slipped the strap over his neck and held up his right hand. ‘I know, it’s soppy and over the top but I don’t care. I’m the luckiest man alive, and I want everyone to know it. So, here we go. It’s called “Since the Start”.’

He strummed an E chord and started to sing.

‘Since the start

Since the day I met you

Since the start

I have known I loved you.’

He sang the rest of the song. It was pretty good, in a way. Highly derivative, basic chords, minimal musicianship required, but writing and playing and singing it would be far beyond most people, which was what mattered. When he finished, he could tell that the guests’ reactions were mixed: the women were touched at his display of naked emotion, the men looked faintly embarrassed for him.

Which was good. That was exactly what he wanted them to feel. He wanted everyone to see how much in love with his wife and how different to all the other guys he was.

Claire, predictably, had tears in her eyes. As the applause died down she hugged him, kissing his cheek and ear and mouth.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘That was beautiful. I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’

After the song, Mick, Claire’s dad spoke. He gave a tearful tribute to her and talked about how proud Penny, his wife and Claire’s mum, would have been of her daughter. He didn’t mention Alfie – or his song – which was par for the course. When he had finished and the guests had returned to their increasingly drunk and loud conversation about politics or sport or something else they knew nothing about, Alfie slipped out to the kitchen.

He put on his jacket. He had a packet of Chesterfields and a book of matches and he was planning to sneak off and find a secluded spot – there was a bench in a corner of Mick’s vast back garden that would do – where he could light up and have a quiet smoke. He had a packet of mints, too; on one occasion before they got married he’d said he’d do anything for her and Claire had asked him to give up – for his sake, she said, because she loved him so much and couldn’t bear the thought of him poisoning himself, the soppy bitch – and he didn’t want her finding out he’d lied.

He walked through the kitchen and opened the back door to the terrace. There was a footstep behind him.

He turned around. It was Mick. He was holding a large tumbler of whisky, his face red with a combination of high blood pressure and too many drinks.

‘Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘Thanks for hosting. It’s a great party.’

‘No problem. Anything for my little girl.’ Mick nodded at the terrace. ‘Going out?’

‘Could do with a bit of fresh air.’

‘Too warm in here?’ Mick glanced at the window. The moon was visible, still low in the sky. ‘It’s dark out.’

‘It’s fine in here.’ Alfie smiled. ‘I was just thinking of taking a walk. But I don’t have to.’

Mick held up a hand. ‘No. You do whatever you want. I was only asking. I did want to talk to you, though.’

‘Oh?’ Alfie said. Mick and he had never been close. They had probably had no more than two or three one-on-one conversations since he and Claire had met. Mick was not the kind of father who warmed to the men who were sleeping with his daughter. No doubt he had fantasies of taking Alfie shooting and accidentally unloading both barrels on him. Alfie didn’t mind. He’d had the same thoughts himself. He couldn’t stand the old bastard.

He liked his money, though.

And the money he’d given to Claire. There was at least a couple of million in various investments, moved into some kind of trust in her name to avoid inheritance tax. Claire didn’t like to talk about it, but Alfie knew it was there, because Mick had tried to make him sign a pre-nup.

Well, he’d tried to make Claire make Alfie sign one. When she mentioned that her dad thought it might be a good idea, Alfie had agreed.

If you think it’s necessary, darling. I wouldn’t want it to come between us. I trust you totally.

She was visibly uncomfortable. I trust you too. But Dad’s insisting.

Then you should do it. Your dad obviously doesn’t think we’re going to last, and maybe you share his opinion.

She didn’t do it. She told Alfie a few weeks later there wouldn’t be a pre-nup, and she never mentioned it again. It was at least two months before Mick spoke to him again, and when he did Alfie loved it. Mick didn’t like losing; Alfie liked winning.

Mick coughed. ‘I wanted to say that I was touched by your song. It’s not the kind of thing I would ever have done – or anyone I know, for that matter – and I have to say I found it a bit bloody much, but Claire liked it. And that’s all that counts.’

It was clear the words were hard for him to say. He would have preferred to have been congratulating Alfie for scoring a hat-trick of tries or his first test century or landing a particularly hard left hook, but a romantic – soppy – song would have to do.

‘Thank you, Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘That means a lot.’

‘You probably guessed this,’ Mick said. ‘But I didn’t think much of you when I first met you. I thought you were a bit of a chancer, if I’m honest. I thought you lacked drive, and ambition, which is why I wanted the pre-nup. And maybe I should have insisted, but you make Claire happy. I’ve realized it doesn’t matter whether you’re the kind of man that I think is right for her. All that matters is whether she thinks you are. I’m glad she’s found somebody she can have the life she wants with.’

He was, Alfie realized, quite drunk. Perhaps it was deliberate. After all, it was the only way he would ever be able to force the words he’d just said out of his mouth.

‘She makes me very happy too,’ Alfie said.

‘Good.’ Mick was clearly not interested in how Alfie felt. ‘And now you need to give her what she really wants.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘I never thought I’d say this to any man about my little girl, but it’s time to get busy! She wants a baby, and there’s no point in wasting time.’

His little girl, Alfie thought, who liked, on occasion, to be handcuffed to their bed and blindfolded. She was an annoying bitch, but in the right mood, she was good in bed. He wondered what Mick would think if he knew. Perhaps some photos could find their way into his possession so he could see what his little girl got up to.

‘We’re working on it,’ Alfie said. ‘Hope to have news soon.’

Mick’s eyes narrowed. Alfie realized he had said too much. Claire, evidently, had not mentioned they were trying.

‘Is everything OK?’ Mick said. ‘Are you having problems?’

‘No,’ Alfie said. ‘No problems. It’s early. That’s all.’

‘OK. Good luck.’ He reached forward and patted Alfie on the shoulder. ‘And take care of my girl.’

‘I will,’ Alfie said. ‘You can count on it.’