Читать книгу Her Last Lie: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist! - Amanda Brittany, Amanda Brittany - Страница 21

Chapter 11

Isla brought up Trevor’s Facebook profile on her phone. He’d added a picture of himself standing by a TR6, his fair hair longer than it had been on the train and beginning to curl. But otherwise he looked the same.

She scanned the bar once more. A few men resembled Trevor, one with a goatee beard who winked at her, another with his arm around a bloke. But he wasn’t there. Well not that she could see.

She sat down at an empty table, planning to give her old friends until eight o’clock, and then leave. As she took another gulp of wine, her phone trilled, and her mother’s face appeared on the screen. Isla had taken the photo last Christmas, when her mum had a ring of red tinsel round her dark hair and her cheeks were rosy from cooking. She pressed answer, and pinned the phone to her ear.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, keeping her voice low.

‘I can hardly hear you, Isla, darling.’ A bash of crockery in the background meant she was either filling the dishwasher or cooking. ‘Where are you?’

‘In a pub in Cambridge, about to meet up with old uni mates.’

‘That’s nice. Is Jack with you?’

‘No, no I’m on my own.’

A pause. ‘Well don’t leave your drink unattended.’

Isla opened her mouth and closed it again.

‘I’m just ringing to see how your trip went,’ her mum continued.

‘Good, yes. Canada was beautiful.’ It already seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘Niagara Falls is stunning.’

‘I did worry about you while you were away. You know that. It was a big step going to Canada alone.’

Before Sydney, her mum had been super-chilled about Isla travelling the world. She’d helped her sort out flights and accommodation, getting discounts because of her job as a travel agent. She’d understood it was Isla’s life to do with what she wanted. But things had changed after Carl Jeffery. She’d become far too overprotective. Which was part of the reason Isla never confided in her about the appeal.

‘You always worry, Mum,’ Isla said. ‘It’s your job.’

She laughed, relief in her voice. ‘I was also calling to see if you and Jack are free on Sunday to come for dinner.’

‘Yes, I think so . . . ’ Isla glanced up towards the entrance, noticing a woman with red hair who looked like Veronica. But as the woman got closer she knew it wasn’t her.

‘You think so?’

‘Sorry. Yes. I know so.’ She looped her hair behind her ear. ‘Sounds lovely – I’ll look forward to it.’

‘You can tell us about your trip. Bring along lots of photos, won’t you?’

‘They’re all on Facebook.’

‘You know I rarely go on there. Not since my cock-up.’ She’d had her privacy settings wrong back in the summer, and discovered that everyone could see her phone number and email address. She’d felt vulnerable. And despite Isla putting it right, she’d stayed away.

‘OK, fine,’ Isla said. ‘I’ll bring my laptop.’

‘Lovely. I thought we might have turkey with all the trimmings.’

‘Great.’ Isla shifted on her seat, turning away from a couple who appeared to be listening to her conversation. Although her chat with her mother was more fifty shades of boring than Fifty Shades of Grey, so hardly eavesdrop-worthy.

‘I realise we have turkey at Christmas,’ her mum continued, as though confirming her thoughts. ‘But I thought I might blow tradition this year, go crazy and have beef on Christmas Day.’

‘That’s very daring of you.’

‘Mmm, I might change my mind before then.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘I really must pick up a nut-loaf for Sunday for Abigail. This whole turning vegan thing is making my head spin. It’s all very admirable, but between you and me I’m not sure she even understands what vegan means.’ A gushing sound – probably the dishwasher – reverberated down the phone. ‘Can vegans eat cranberries?’

Isla smiled. ‘Of course they can.’

‘Well, it’s not easy. They can’t have anything dairy, apparently. So that’s my vegetarian lasagne out the window.’

‘But there’s no dairy in cranberries.’

‘No, no of course there isn’t. And while we’re on the subject of Christmas.’

‘Were we?’

‘Will you come on Christmas Day this year? Gran and Granddad are coming up from Devon. I know how much you like to see them.’

‘Listen, can I let you know nearer the time? I’m not sure . . . ’

‘It’s almost November, Isla.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, I like to get things sorted in my head. Particularly as I wasn’t sure we’d see you this year.’

‘Why wouldn’t you see me?’

‘Well, you might take off to Dorset to see Jack’s mum. Jack said she’s been quite poorly.’

Isla’s neck tingled. She felt sure Jack wouldn’t want to go to Dorset. ‘Listen, I’d better go. My uni friends have arrived.’ It was a lie; there was still no sign of them.

‘Oh, OK, darling, enjoy your evening. Love you.’

‘Love you too, Mum.’

Isla ended the call, pressed the Facebook icon on her phone screen, and updated her status.

In Wetherspoon’s, Cambridge, waiting to meet up with old uni friends.

She added a fingernail-biting emoticon, to reflect her nervousness, regretting it instantly, imagining Trevor seeing it.

Should she delete it? But it had already attracted two likes. A silent scream echoed in her head. She longed to leave, craved fresh air. Too hot in her stupid skirt suit, to the point where perspiration trickled between her boobs. She rolled her finger over the rubber band on her wrist, before pinging it three times. But it didn’t help her rising anxiety levels, and neither did a long sip of her wine.