Читать книгу Tell Me No Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a twist you won't see coming - Lisa Hall - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

I heave a box from the back of the van, taking care not to stretch too far. It’s not heavy, and I shift it in my arms as I turn and look up at the house. A fresh start, that’s what it is. It’s not just a house, it’s a chance for Mark and I to put straight everything that has gone wrong this year, to give Henry a happy family home instead of the war-torn existence full of accusations and blame that he’s had to put up with this year. This imposing, statuesque Victorian townhouse is going to make us feel like a family again, with its large rooms set over three floors, a garden with enough room for Henry to run around in and impressive trees that line the street outside. It’s a step up too, from our cramped two-bedroom flat in Crouch End, to this beautiful house in Blackheath, that’s almost so big I don’t know how we’ll ever fill it. And Blackheath isn’t that far from Crouch End, not really. A movement to one side catches the corner of my eye and I turn slightly to see Mark walking towards me, holding out his arms.

‘Here, give me that.’ Dark eyes twinkle at me, in the way that captured my heart six years ago, and I swallow hard. Twinkly eyes or not, forgiveness is not quite that simple.

‘I’m fine. It’s not heavy. And I’m not made of china.’ I shift the box again in my arms, but he insists and tugs it gently away from me.

‘You’re carrying precious cargo there.’ Mark smiles down at me and I manage to muster up a small smile back. Surreptitiously, I run my hand over the small swelling of my stomach, still almost invisible to anyone else. Mark strides towards the house, and after one last look at its imposing front, I follow after him.

He heads straight for the huge, airy conservatory at the back of the house, a stunning addition that lets vast amounts of light into what would otherwise be a gloomy, shadow-filled, Victorian kitchen. He adds the box to a pile that has already been off-loaded and turns to me.

‘Nearly there, Steph. Only a few more boxes to go and we’re done. You can start unpacking if you want, make it look like home a bit before Henry gets here.’ I give a small nod, and Mark pulls me towards him.

‘Honestly, Steph, it’s a fresh start. We can say goodbye to all that’s happened and try to start again. Or we can carry on dwelling on it all and let things really disintegrate. We can do this, Steph, I know we can.’ Hearing the slight sense of desperation in his voice, I lean into him and feel his chin rubbing against my hair as he rests his head on mine. Pulling away I look up at him, trying to see the man I married, instead of the man who broke my heart.

‘I know, fresh start. I’m trying, Mark, really I am. It’s just a bit overwhelming, that’s all. Everything’s changed, everything that I thought was solid has turned out to be ... liquid. I’m just finding my foundations again. Give me a bit of time.’

‘I’m sorry, Steph. You know that, I’ve never been more sorry. We can get over this; it’ll be hard but we can do it.’ He tugs me back into his arms and I rest there for a moment, squashing the queasiness in my stomach, and trying to ignore the stench of decay that still surrounds our relationship.

Two hours later, the removal lorry is finally unloaded and I’ve managed to find mugs and the kettle. Henry’s bed has been made up, and I feel like maybe this wasn’t the worst idea we’ve ever had. Maybe we have done the right thing, getting away from everything that went wrong, trying to start again somewhere new where there are no memories. Surveying the mass of boxes in Henry’s room I take a deep breath – I just need to get over the anxiety that hangs over me in the wake of all things new, and remind myself that this is for the best. I’m just smoothing the bed covers on Henry’s bed when the doorbell rings. Hoping it’s my parents bringing my little boy home, I run lightly down the stairs. I can hear Mark in the conservatory, swearing under his breath, obviously attempting to put a piece of furniture together or unpack something that is clearly getting the better of him. Swinging the door open, my ‘Hello’ dies on my lips as I realise it isn’t who I am expecting. Instead of my mother standing on the doorstep, there is a tall, redheaded man in a Christmas jumper, despite the fact that it’s not even the middle of November yet. There is a vaguely familiar air about him, as if I think I have met him somewhere before, but nothing comes clearly to mind. This isn’t unusual; my memory for faces isn’t the best even when I’m not pregnant.

‘Hello?’ I lean on the doorframe, aware that I must look a sight. My T-shirt is crumpled and filthy from cleaning Henry’s room before setting up the bed, my hair a tangled bird’s nest. The man on the doorstep smiles, showing off a perfect set of gleaming white teeth, and holds up a bottle of red wine.

‘Sorry, I know I’m probably intruding hugely, but I just wanted to introduce myself. I live next door – I’m Laurence. Laurence Cole.’ He holds out a hand and I shake it without thinking, before glancing down at my dusty palms and wiping them surreptitiously on my jeans.

‘Hello, Laurence Cole. You’re not intruding as such … It’s nice to meet you, but perhaps now isn’t a very good time.’ I glance behind me, where swear words are pouring from the kitchen.

‘Steph, is that the chap from next door? I told him to pop over; show him in.’ Mark’s voice floats out from the kitchen and my heart sinks a little. I’m really not feeling up to visitors; the house is a tip and I look a fright. But I rustle up a smile, taking the wine bottle from Laurence and showing him into the kitchen where Mark has just about given up on putting a cabinet together. As a television producer it’s safe to say DIY isn’t his forte. Getting to his feet, Mark wipes his hands over his jeans and holds one out for Laurence to shake.

‘Sorry about that.’ Mark swats his dark hair out of his eyes and turns to me. ‘Laurence, this is Steph, my wife. She’s a journalist too.’

‘Hardly a journalist, Mark.’ I look down at the floor, before raising my eyes to meet Laurence’s. ‘I don’t really think interviewing minor celebrities for trashy magazines is journalism.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Laurence smiles at me. ‘I wouldn’t mind interviewing a few celebs. I’m at the far more boring end of the scale, I’m afraid – I’m a financial journalist. I bring you all the doom and gloom from the financial quarter.’

‘There’s probably more juicy gossip your side than there is at Steph’s end.’ Mark gives Laurence a wink as I cringe. Mark doesn’t always think before he speaks, not realising that sometimes he comes across as brash and embarrasses me, even when he’s trying to be complimentary. Busying myself opening the bottle of red he’s brought over, I don’t realise at first that Laurence is speaking to me.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘I said that must be where I know you from.’ Laurence accepts the glass of wine I’m offering, his hand brushing mine as he reaches for it. I pull back, not sure if I imagine the tiny fizz of electricity that sparks on my skin where his hand glances against mine. He takes a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘From the magazine. I think you interviewed Sasha Ronan after she got caught having an affair with that London banker – the one who embezzled a ridiculous amount of money and then spent it on his mistress. It was one of those trashy magazines that picked up on it all and gave her the chance to tell her story.’ My cheeks burning, I fill the kettle to make myself a drink, seeing as how I can’t drink the wine, no matter how much I want to.

‘Well, you know, it pays the bills.’ I avoid looking at Laurence; he is ridiculously good-looking and obviously my pregnancy hormones must be going crazy, my face hot with the force of the blush that spreads across my cheeks.

‘Sorry – I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I just meant that that was where I’d heard your name before. It caused a bit of a scandal in my office, and we talked about it for weeks. It made a change to read the other side of the story for once.’ He smiles at me, and I feel the hot flush of my cheeks subside.

‘Chill out, Steph, he didn’t mean anything by it. We don’t want to fall out with the new neighbours before we’ve even settled in.’ Chuckling, Mark perches on the kitchen stool next to me and picks up his glass of wine, patting my hand in that clumsily affectionate way he has. I slide my hand out from under his and spend the next hour listening to him and Laurence trading stories, like they’ve been friends for years. They don’t seem to need much input from me, thankfully, and I can tune out and think my own thoughts, random and spiralling, taking me somewhere far away.

We see Laurence out some time later, after an impromptu takeaway suggested by Mark, following a call from my mother to say that Henry has fallen asleep after a busy day and she will keep him for another night, allowing us to settle in properly. Standing at the end of the garden path, watching Laurence fumbling with his door key to get in, Mark puts his arm round me and pulls me in for a hug. I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of him, the smell of clean laundry and Hugo Boss aftershave, with a slight tang of sweat.

‘See, I told you everything would be OK. We’ve made a friend already – it’ll be nice living next door to someone we get on with, who we can have a curry and a bit of a laugh with. And I’ll feel better when I’m working away, knowing there’s someone nearby if you need them.’

‘Hmmmmm. Yes, Laurence seems nice. It was very kind of him to bring us a bottle.’ I wrap my arms tightly around him, wanting to believe that what he’s saying is true, that everything will be all right. Walking back up the path together, the curtains in the living room of the house on the other side of the street twitch slightly, and I can’t help but feel an unexplained but overwhelming sense of unease.