Читать книгу House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist - E. Seymour V. - Страница 7

Present Day

It kicks off the moment Tom spots his photograph in our county magazine.

“For God’s sake, how the hell did that happen?”

It all began with a party at Lily Gin’s, a popular cocktail bar off the Promenade. Free booze. Ear-bleeding beat. Everyone hollering. The local newspaper I work for has a sister magazine that held a joint bash there for advertisers and the great and good of Cheltenham. Their way of saying ‘thank you’. A roaming rookie photographer snapping folk glad-handing is the source of Tom’s ire. It’s strange because he isn’t confrontational or quick to anger. Not chilled, like me, but quiet and mostly silent with an undertow of edge that I find a bit Darcy-like and dead exciting. Tom blowing his stack isn’t a thrill at all; it’s worrying.

Personally, I think how nice he looks. “It’s a great snap.” It really is. The picture isn’t posed. We are deep in conversation. Slightly turned away from the camera, the scar at his temple that makes him look dangerous and sexy is more prominent than usual; dark-blonde beard neatly trimmed; his nose with a slight kink at the bridge, full kissable lips close to my cheek. For once we are captured together, which makes a change. Anyone viewing my photo album for the past few years could be forgiven for thinking I’m single.

“Fuck’s sake, you know I hate having my photograph taken.”

To the point of phobia, but as it was clicked, with Tom unawares, by some newbie photographer, I can’t see what the problem is. Sleek, monumentally happy and relaxed, Tom is whispering something in my ear that makes me smile, although I can’t for the life of me think what it was, mostly because I’m now half into my dress, trying to get ready for work.

“It’s only the county mag,” I point out, finally zipping myself up.

“Yours,” he says, fury in his eyes, as if I am personally liable. I don’t bother to point out the inaccuracy of his accusation.

“For goodness’ sake, I’m not the editor, Tom. You know very well I don’t write a thing for the magazine these days.” Still, he glowers. “Look, I’m sorry,” I say, spreading my hands, thinking that I really should be heading out. It was all right for Tom to chunter on. He’d got a day off from the restaurant where he works as a chef.

“I told that bloody photographer to go away.”

“She’s only a kid.” Which explained why the celebrity especially invited didn’t get so much as a look-in, to the embarrassment of all.

“I never wanted to go to the launch in the first place,” he growls, prowling around our tiny sitting room.

Didn’t you? I can’t recall any protest at the time, but think it best not to say so. “Well, you did. It’s done now,” I say, softening my tone. In my experience with men, it’s never a good idea to get arsey. Not really in my nature in any case. Others remark that I’m laid-back to the point of horizontal, a family trait, care of my mother. Somehow my chalk-and-cheese relationship with Tom works. Classic attraction of opposites.

“In a week’s time it will be in the recycling bin,” I add. “Forget about it.”

“How can I forget when it’s online for the world to see?” His normal deep tone is high and tight. How someone raised in South London can sound as if they have Welsh vocal cords remains a conundrum.

“Jesus, if you looked like the Elephant Man, I could understand it but …”

“It’s an invasion of my privacy.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I appreciate that Tom is a private person. He’s not into social media like all my friends. He’s more of a low-profile, right-under-the-radar kind of guy. I get all that, but this is an extreme reaction by any standard. Time to shake him out of it. “For goodness’ sake, lighten up.”

“Don’t you dare fucking speak to me like that.”

My cheeks never flush because I have a sallow complexion. Heat fills my face as if I’d been plunged head first into hot water. “Will you please keep your voice down,” I hiss. “You’ll wake Reg.” Reg is my younger brother. He’s actually called Max; more suitable for his rock god, shag everything that moves, image, but I christened him Reg years ago because I thought it would annoy him. Somehow, it stuck.

Tom’s expression is one part grimace, two parts hauteur. “I don’t think that’s very likely, do you?”

He has a point. Reg, who has the lifestyle of a bat, stumbled in around four in the morning and is dead to the world. But I could do without Tom’s sarcasm.

I try to outstare him and fail. The stubble on his cheeks, the set of his jaw, the rawness and slightly lost expression in his eyes, which are the colour of dark rum make him despite myself, maddeningly attractive.

“Bloody hell, Tom. Are there to be no photographs at our wedding?”

He blanches. “What wedding?”

He was joking, wasn’t he? He means no photographs, no twenty thousand quid down the toilet matrimony? Stupidly, I burble on. “And family snaps with kids– ”

Now he looks as if I plunged his head into hot water. “Kids?”

“The ones we’re going to have.” I practically screech, thinking the row has taken a surprising and horribly revealing turn. Didn’t we discuss this? I’m sure we did.

Lines set into his forehead contract. “I don’t want them.” His brutal words pound into me, smacking the air out of my lungs. Dear God, he means it.

Had I been kicked in the gut by a mule while drinking ten double Stollys in quick succession, I couldn’t feel more wounded. At thirty-seven years of age, my biological clock, unlike some of my friends’ timepieces, ticked, tocked and apparently stalled. I have many ambitions but, as much as I have a life plan, I envisage children being part of them. My mum gave birth to my brother when she was forty-three. Everyone says she looks younger than her years and that she passed that same ‘youth’ gene on to me. In my head I reckon I’m roughly thirty, same age as my kid brother. Surely state of mind and disposition count for something when it comes to reproduction? Besides, Tom is younger and in his prime. Even if my fertility is jeopardised by age, there is always adoption or fostering. To know that the man I love simply does not want children leaves me stunned. Bereft. Desolate.

“Besides,” he continues quietly, “it’s not really on the cards, is it?”

Words that threaten to tumble out of my open mouth halt in the back of my throat, retreat and expire. Had they lived, they would have gone something like: “YOU BASTARD. WHAT ABOUT ME? YOU NEVER SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT KIDS.” So much for my horizontal ‘hey man’ and chilled disposition.

I gawp at him, trying to contain the hurt in my expression. Denial dribbles out of me. “You don’t mean that.”

He stares stony-eyed – so much worse than saying something.

“You’re being daft, Tom.” My voice is dead shaky.

“Am I?” This is not said with rhetorical intonation, but bone-shaking affirmation. Doesn’t he realise what his words are doing to me? Doesn’t he see that he is not only trampling on but also destroying my dreams?

“Tom,” I say, nervously, trying to dislodge the unexpected shard of fear stuck fast in my soul. “We really should talk it through.”

“This,” he says, rustling the shiny pages and thrusting the magazine in my face, “is what we need to discuss.”

Something in his expression, unnerving and creepy, alarms me. Dumbfounded, I realise what it is.

Tom is afraid.

I swallow, glance at my watch, dance from one foot to the other. “Look, I’ve really got to go. Elliott will have me spit-roasted if I’m late again. Can we talk this evening?”

He doesn’t answer. Standing there, bare-chested, abs rippling impressively, he seems outwardly inviolate yet also vulnerable, reminding me of myself when we first met. When he runs his fingers through his thick mane of hair as if he single-handedly carries the weight of the world’s problems, I have a sudden, urgent desire to dump my bag, take off my clothes and fuck him right there and then. Instead, I ask him what he is doing for the day.

He shrugs, the anger dissipating from his voice. “This and that. Might go for a swim.”

I brighten up. Displacement activity, I think. “Will you sort dinner?”

At the mention of the word ‘dinner’, his field of expertise, he relaxes. “I’ll pick up something, a bottle of wine too.”

I read contrition in his eyes. “Fine,” I say, smiling with relief, as I make for the door.

“But what about Reg? Will he be joining us?” Tom’s inflexion is arid. Why does he have to spoil what I assumed is a truce? Admittedly, things between us have not been easy since Reg pitched up. My thirty-year-old ‘baby brother’ came to stay for a few days that turned into three weeks. Since our old hippie mum moved to Australia with her new husband ten years earlier, and our dad, a retired dentist, lives in the States and has done for many years, I feel responsibility for him. In my head, I’m sort of in loco parentis. If I tell Reg this, he’ll laugh in my face. I love him, yet can’t help count the days before he flies to LA with his band Robberdog. He plans to pay Dad a visit while he’s there, to ‘reconnect,’ he maintains. I don’t know what I feel about that, other than the fact that our father will throw a fit when he sees the state of Reg’s buckled teeth.

I assure Tom I’ll sort it with Reg. Once more, I turn to escape.

“Roz,” he calls after me.

“Yeah?”

Tom moves like a ghost. One moment on the opposite side of the room, the next right up close, hypnotic eyes melting into mine. When he reaches out I drop my bag, the intoxicating smell of warm, naked skin and man enveloping me.

His mouth finds mine. Lust radiates from my brain, through my chest to my groin. He doesn’t ask me to stay. He has no need. He simply hitches up my dress, slides down my knickers and takes me there and then in the sitting room, up against the wall. Fool that I am, pulsing with desire, I’m willing.