Читать книгу House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist - E. Seymour V. - Страница 10

Vick lives in a terraced home that makes an IKEA interior look sterile. Muted Cream. Muted Blue. Scandi-Mute. In person, she is not in the least washed out. Big-boned, she has a wide, open and honest-looking face, great skin and generous figure. Her nose is straight. Her eyes are hazel, flecked with green. Unlike me, her hair is short, curly and blonde. She wears jeans with a cerise- coloured shrug over a French-grey shirt. She is the kind of person who engenders trust. Anyone would talk to her freely and reveal his or her secrets. Obviously in the wrong career, she’d make a great investigative journalist.

“Coffee?”

“Lovely,” I say. “How’s it going?”

We sit at her scrubbed-pine kitchen table. Nothing on the work surfaces bar essentials: a toaster, kettle and coffee-making machine. Makes my kitchen look like a hoarder’s paradise.

“Not bad. Work is shit.”

I watch as she spoons coffee beans into a grinder. Serious stuff. Me, I reach for the nearest jar of instant.

“But I had a call from my new agent today.” She says it with a flourish, a ‘ta-da’ in her tone.

“Really?”

Vick offers a toothy grin. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“Didn’t mean it like that. You know I’ve always been your biggest fan.”

“I couldn’t have kept the faith without you.”

“Nonsense. So what’s she got planned?”

I don’t hear the answer because it’s blasted out by the sound of beans pulverised to dust. The smell is better than the blare.

“Sorry,” she says, screwing up her eyes in apology.

“You were saying?”

“Only a role in some Agatha Christie number.” She finishes with a glorious smile.

“Wow, when did you find out?”

“Message on my answerphone when I got back. I phoned her straight away and bingo!”

“God, tell me more.”

“Later,” she says, a stern expression in her eyes. “What gives?”

I take a breath and tell her everything about my morning with Tom, bar the sex, and then motor through the overheard conversation and my find on Facebook in the afternoon. Vick fiddles with the coffee-making contraption.

“He went absolutely schiz,” I say, miserable at the memory.

She puffs out through her cheeks. “Blimey, that’s a lot to take in. So are you suggesting Tom is cheating on you?”

“I don’t know, but after his revelations about no children and, frankly, no wedding, not that this bothers me so much,” I add hastily, thinking that I’m a liar, “it seems a distinct possibility.” Now that I say it aloud, the full force of its implications shrivels me.

“Sugar and cream?” she says, pouring out a thick stream of strong dark liquid into two white mugs, no adornment.

“Cream, please.”

She pushes my drink towards me; sits down opposite. “The kid in the Facebook photograph could be someone else’s.”

I agree without conviction.

“Repeat the conversation you overheard again.”

I do, word for horrible word.

“So, he’s going to meet someone, maybe this woman, on Wednesday,” Vick suggests. Less than a week’s time, I think anxiously. “Simple. Follow him.”

“Wednesday’s our busiest day at the newspaper. I can’t take off.”

“But I could.”

“You can’t. He’ll recognise you.”

Vick arches an eyebrow and flashes a smile. “I’m an actor, mistress of disguise.”

I have a sudden vision of my best friend dressed in a raincoat with a false moustache and spectacles with milk-bottle lenses. Scrub that thought. “You won’t be allowed to take time off work.”

“Who said anything about asking? I’ll throw a sickie.”

“They’ll fire you.”

“So what? If this role comes off, I’m packing my job in anyway.”

“Goodness,” I stutter. This really is a dream come true and I’m pleased for her. I’m less thrilled by her next piece of news.

“Could be away for several months. It’s a touring theatre company.”

I make all the right noises despite the sense of impending abandonment.

“Anyway, this isn’t really helping. Why don’t you check Tom’s phone?”

I baulk at the prospect. It displays such a blatant lack of trust. If Tom did that to me, I’d be furious. I burble the same.

“Desperate measures,” Vick says, as if Tom’s behaviour hands me carte blanche to do as I please. Truth is, part of me doesn’t want to know. If I find a string of texts or calls to an unknown number, I’m sunk.

“Pity he isn’t more active online,” Vick muses. “A quick search could yield all manner of results.”

Simply because Tom appears to have no digital footprint does not rule out that somewhere, some place he is as busy as hell online. There’s the Dark Net that people keep banging on about, usually with heavy associations with child sexual exploitation. Hell, what am I thinking? Thankfully, Vick interrupts my more wild-card thoughts. “What about the castle?”

“What about it? A pile of ruins isn’t that identifiable.”

Vick flicks a smile, tips her head to one side. Her earrings catch the light and jangle. “You know, there could be a rational explanation. I mean the woman could be ancient history. A hanger-on. She could be nobody at all.”

I wish I could believe my friend. She peers at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Is there something you’re not saying?”

My mouth tightens in dismay. “She looks like me.”

“What?”

“Here, I’ll show you.”

I drag out my laptop, fire it up and point out Stephanie Charteris. Vick’s strained expression, the way her cheekbones tug, tells me that she’s as astonished as me. She looks again. “The child definitely looks like the mother.”

My head snaps up. “Oh God, do you really think so?”

“I didn’t say the child looks like Tom,” Vick says in reproof.

“What about the rest of the stuff,” I say, shutting the laptop down, “the phone call?”

“Only way to find out – ask him.”

I sip my coffee. I know this.

“Or you could ask her.”

“God, Vick, I don’t think I have the nerve.”

Her expression infers that I’m not normally lacking when it comes to courage. I might be horizontal – admittedly not at this very moment – but I don’t lack fire when the need arises. I haven’t managed this long without a shred of steel in my adult backbone.

“Do you really think Tom means what he says?” Vick says after a pause. “You know, about kids.”

“Vick, if you’d seen him this morning, you’d understand he meant every single word.” I look her in the eye. Honest people find it difficult to be dishonest. Something about the way in which Vick fails to hold my gaze, the way in which she cradles her drink, the slight hunch in her shoulders, reveals there is something she isn’t saying.

“What?” I push her.

She returns the mug of coffee to the table, untouched. I hold my breath so tight I feel dizzy. Her eyes remain fixed on the scrubbed wood. “I like Tom. I like him a lot. I know he makes you happy, Roz.”

“You think he’s a player, don’t you?” I blurt out.

She looks back up. Straightens. Gathers herself. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Seems to be a popular pastime.” There’s a cynical, bitter, cheated-upon twist to her voice. I get it. Vick’s love life was, and is, a mess. “I’ve known a few chefs in my time. Some prone to alcohol addiction alcoholism and, occasionally, pathologically hostile, and every one of them is highly strung and angst-ridden.”

“But that’s not Tom at all.”

“He’s no drunk.” She speaks in a tone that leaves open the possibility of other unappealing traits. “I know you both seem loved-up.” Seem. Oh my God, what is Vick driving at? That I’m deluded, that my heart rules my head, that I’m bonkers to pin so much on Tom as prospective father material? Even as I think it, I recognise it for what it is: the truth. I’m so distraught I barely catch hold of what she says next. “I don’t know. Little things start to make sense.”

“What little things?” I repeat. My voice is dull, no energy, no shine. Aged. I think immediately of Tom’s fear of the dark, of his aversion to confined spaces, his rabid hatred of any record by Frank Sinatra. In the realm of ‘peculiar things I detest’, this is one of the strangest, surely. And then there’s the other thing, the big thing, the bloody elephant in the room thing that is not standing idly in the corner but running amuck.

“The packed rucksack under the bed,” Vick declares.

Why did I mention it, I silently wail, but how else to explain my discovery not long after me and Tom moved in together? When I delved inside I found a change of clothes, money in a separate wallet and a brand-new phone. I teased Tom about it at first until he explained it away as an adult-sized comforter, the residue of a damaged childhood and a sense of never feeling quite secure. Afterwards, he closed down every conversation when I brought up the subject.

“Maybe he’s about to make a run for it,” Vick said at the time, only half joking now, it seems. I remember dismissing it.

She scratches her temple, struggling. “He can be quite nervy.”

“Tom? Come off it, Vick.” And yet I know exactly what she means. Underneath the composed exterior, there is a definite edge.

And that lost look.

She seems suddenly as nervous as me, blinking, snatching at her coffee as if it’s medication for pain control. I don’t push it. I want to, but hope Vick will fill in the gap in her own good time. I can tell she finds the subject awkward and sensitive, and dread drips sweet nothings in my ear. The wait is almost intolerable and I nearly botch it, but then she takes a breath and shifts her weight in the chair.

“For a man who doesn’t socialise, he was well out of his comfort zone at the magazine bash. Every time the photographer got within sniffing distance, he literally slid off into a corner.”

Into the shadows. Feeling his way through the darkness or crouching in it? Goodness, where did that come from? I remember he made a deal about wanting to leave early, complaining of a headache. But that’s not what Vick is trying to tell me.

An anxious, face-saving smile breaks out, lighting her eyes. “Remember, we used to joke that he was the ‘doesn’t do’ man.” Another frown of bewilderment from me ensues. “Doesn’t have a passport. Doesn’t socialise. Doesn’t use social media in the accepted sense,” she explains.

“Mildly strange.” I force myself to sound relaxed, no sweat.

“Doesn’t have a driving licence either.” Her pupils suddenly dilate.

“It’s not a hanging offence.” She thrusts me a startled look and I realise that my volume control is switched to full. I dial it back. “Aren’t we speculating too much?”

“Yeah,” she says, pushing a smile, eager to roll the conversation to a less- contentious footing. “Probably,” she adds in a soothing tone that is usually mine to dispense.

I glance at my watch and stand up, my coffee unfinished. “Better fly. Dinner with Tom,” I remind Vick. In the past it would have elicited pleasure and thrill and anticipation. Now, I regard it with trepidation and fear. “Oh shit,” I burst out.

“What?”

“I forgot to ask Reg to make himself scarce.”

“No problem, I’m more than happy to feed him.” I catch the slow smile on her face. Vick doesn’t admit it but, in common with many women, she has the hots for Reg. I’d like to let on that offering to mother him is not the way into my brother’s heart, let alone his pants, but it would be too cruel.

“You make him sound like he’s five.”

Vick hoists an eyebrow. “In his head, he is.” But to your mind, he’s all man, I think.

We both grin at shared anarchic memories of my Peter Pan-like brother. Vick instantly relaxes. She sees me to the door, slides her arms around me and gives me a hug that would crush stone. “You know where I am if you need me.”

Hot and shiny with sudden tears, I wonder if my body is kick-starting into action and I’m about to have a period. “Thanks,” I say thickly, clinging on as if Vick is my surrogate mother.

“Don’t forget to tell Reg that I’m cooking pasta tonight.”

“I won’t.” Still I cling.

“Go,” she says, loosening my grasp with a firm smile. “Have a lovely lovely time. It will sort itself out, you’ll see.”

Weakly, I smile back. Why don’t I believe her?