Our Little Lies Read online

  Our Little Lies

  Gemma Metcalfe

  Joe Cawley

  Copyright © 2021 Gemma Metcalfe and Joe Cawley

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  The right of Metcalfe and Joe Cawley to be identified as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-35-4

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  1. Grace

  2. Grace

  3. Grace

  4. Grace

  5. Grace

  6. Grace

  7. Grace

  8. Grace

  9. Justin

  10. Justin

  11. Justin

  12. Grace

  13. Grace

  14. Justin

  15. Grace

  16. Grace

  17. Justin

  18. Grace

  19. Grace

  20. Justin

  21. Justin

  22. Grace

  23. Grace

  24. Grace

  25. Grace

  26. Justin

  27. Grace

  28. Justin

  29. Grace

  30. Justin

  31. Grace

  32. Justin

  33. Grace

  34. Justin

  35. Grace

  36. Grace

  37. Justin

  38. Grace

  39. Justin

  40. Justin

  41. Justin

  42. Grace

  43. Grace

  44. Justin

  45. Grace

  46. Grace

  47. Justin

  48. Justin

  49. Grace

  50. Grace

  51. Justin

  52. Grace

  53. Justin

  54. Grace

  55. Justin

  56. Grace

  57. Justin

  58. Grace

  59. Grace

  60. Justin

  61. Grace

  62. Justin

  63. Justin

  64. Grace

  65. Grace

  66. Grace

  67. Justin

  68. Grace

  69. Grace

  70. Justin

  71. Grace

  72. Justin

  73. Justin

  74. Justin

  75. Justin

  76. Grace

  77. Grace

  78. Justin

  79. Grace

  80. Justin

  81. Justin

  82. Grace

  83. Justin

  84. Grace

  85. Justin

  86. Grace

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

  You will also enjoy:

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  To my brother David, who I’ve always looked up to… both literally, and in admiration. Joe x

  * * *

  To Nanna, your stories made me the writer I am today. I love you the world. Gemma x

  1

  Grace

  Now

  This is it. This is where my story ends.

  I don’t expect you to condone what I’ve done. All I ask is that when you know the whole truth, you try to understand. After all, are we not all capable of sin in the name of love?

  I once heard that love never dies a natural death. A loving heart is killed; stabbed by hurt, poisoned by betrayal, snuffed out with lies.

  And a dead heart can only beat with revenge.

  I’ll let you in on a little secret. Nobody in this story is as they first appear. Nobody is innocent.

  Least of all me.

  2

  Grace

  Now

  The harsh reality of the interrogation process has an immediate effect. I choke down the rising bile in my throat and fold my arms tight across my chest. The room contains no windows, holds no hope. If I stretched out, I could just about touch both of the pitted, lead-grey walls. But I don’t. I sit hunched forward, my denim-clad thighs sticking to the black plastic of one of three chairs. Each seat is bolted to the floor through drab, green carpet tiles, stained and worn, like most who trudge over them, I guess – like me now, I suppose.

  A female officer glares at me. What does she think I’m capable of? What am I capable of? I’m struck by the coldness in her pale-grey eyes. It reminds me of the ash left in a dying fire.

  ‘This interview is being recorded. It is presently 8.32pm on Tuesday 19th May 2020. I am Detective Inspector Sally Ambrose, currently at Cheadle Heath Police Station.’ She leans across the table, intertwining long, slender fingers which seem too feminine for a DI. Instinctively, I conceal my bandaged hand between my thighs and pray she doesn’t ask me about it. ‘Grace, you’re aware of the charges against you?’

  I turn my head to the wall where a riot of smudged fingerprints seem to point accusingly. ‘I’m not refuting any of it.’

  She allows my admission the space to breathe. ‘Do you know where Daniel is?’

  I shake my head, tears spilling down my face. ‘I don’t. Please find him. Please make him be all right.’

  The detective’s brow creases. ‘Do you have reason to believe he’s come to harm?’

  I blanch. She’s trying to catch me out. ‘No. It’s not that. He wouldn’t hurt Daniel. It’s just…’ My gaze drops to my lap.

  ‘Just what?’ Her voice has turned ice cold.

  I need to speak, to have this end right now. I can’t allow him to take the fall, not when this is all my fault. My stomach lurches, a scream from deep inside bubbling to the surface. I need to let it out, to rid myself of the demon within, the monster that allowed this to happen: to purge. To say I’m sorry.

  Our eyes lock, woman to woman.

  It’s time to confess.

  3

  Grace

  Two Years Ago

  ‘Please God, let it be positive.’ Slipping the cap back on the test, I place it face down on the edge of the bath.

  Three minutes to go.

  I’ve lost count of the number of tests I’ve peed on over the years; Clearblue, First Response, those crappy dipstick ones from Superdrug. Two lines for the jackpot, X marks the spot – it all amounts to the same thing when neither appears, namely that my reproductive system is about as useful as a hand-knitted condom!

  Flushing the toilet, I fasten my jeans and tighten my belt to the last notch. I’ve lost more weight in the last six months than I care to think about. Turning sidewards, I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror, wincing at the emaciated, ghost-white figure I’ve become; legs like twigs, jutted-out hips and sharp shoulders – of course, there was a time I’d have considered such a figure desirable, rebuffing suggestions that I was anorexic as jealousy gift-wrapped in concern.

  ‘I’m afraid one of the l
ong-term effects of an eating disorder is often infertility.’ The gynaecologist’s words had been fired at me like bullets. Only then did I realise I was actually sick – mentally as well as physically. For years I’d starved my body, and now it was wreaking its revenge.

  I fought to make it right – eating well and giving myself over to counselling. Justin, my partner of ten years, was just as desperate to start a family as I was, which was a blessing at first, though over the years his heartache only added to my guilt. There’s nothing quite like guilt to quash your appetite.

  I glance at the downturned test, hope fluttering in my heart despite knowing the chances are slim. My period’s late, three weeks and four days, though I only plucked up the courage to buy a test this morning. ‘Just do this one thing for me, God, and I promise I’ll never ask for anything again as long as I live.’

  As a child, my younger brother, Andrew, and I attended a Pentecostal church with our mother, a born-again Christian who was the mixed-race daughter of a Black South African pastor. My heart still swells with joy when I think back to that time, Mum, Andrew and I singing our hearts out on a Sunday morning, my arms raised high and my heart thumping in time to a twenty-strong worship band, but I’ve long since given up on church. Andrew’s death at the hands of a hit-and-run driver saw to that. Thirteen years young, his life snuffed out in a heartbeat. I was sixteen, on the cusp of adulthood but, like most sixteen-year-olds, blissfully ignorant to the horrors life can afflict. Andrew’s death robbed me not only of my brother but of my innocence, faith, the belief that the world is a good place. When Mum also died a few years later, I didn’t so much disbelieve in God as despise him. Yet, like many a disgruntled believer, I still cling to God when I’m drowning in despair.

  I track the seconds hand on my watch until it reaches twelve.

  Two minutes to go.

  A knock on the bathroom door sends my pulse racing.

  ‘You want me to open the red or the white? It’s fish, so white, yeah?’

  Justin has no idea my period’s even late, let alone that I’m taking a pregnancy test. There was a time he would have at the beginning, but not now. Now I’m not even sure he’d notice if I were three weeks late home from work.

  ‘Whatever you think.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Just on the loo.’

  ‘Should I stick some prawns in too, or just stick with the cod?’

  Nausea claws at my throat at the thought of fleshy, raw fish. For God’s sake, leave me alone. I swallow down the irritation. ‘Just cod.’

  ‘Cheesy mash or normal?’

  I lean forward against the sink, hands splayed like starfish and take a slow breath. ‘Just give me a minute, all right. I’m not feeling so good.’

  ‘Why, what’s the matter?’

  Go away!

  ‘Grace? You got the squits?’

  ‘Good God, Justin, can you just leave me alone for five minutes!’

  The sound of creaking floorboards sinks my stomach. I never mean to push him away, and yet somehow, I manage it every time.

  A sudden wave of nausea brings me to my knees. I hang my head over the toilet bowl and dry retch until at last, my stomach contracts and empties itself. The sight of sick only makes me heave more, but there’s nothing left to part with. Wiping the acidic residue from around my mouth, I pull myself up and stumble over to the sink to splash cold water onto my face.

  Seconds later, my hand shakes as I hover over the test. A part of me is desperate to toss it straight in the bin without looking, but I know I have to face it head-on, whatever the result. Cautiously, I turn it over.

  4

  Grace

  Two Years Ago

  My brain stutters, as if unable to take in what my eyes are seeing. I collapse down onto the toilet seat and squint as I hold the test up to the light. There’s a faint line, I’m sure, though my eyes could easily be playing tricks on me. I’ve fallen victim to it countless times before, convinced myself of a second line when it was little more than a shadow. But this time – I look again – yep, it’s definitely visible.

  Hands trembling, I fish the box out of the rubbish bin and scan the instructions. A second line, no matter how faint, is a positive result. I bring the test close to my face, breathing momentarily suspended as the enormity of the situation takes root. I’m pregnant! I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t holding proof right here in my hand – a kiss from Mother Nature, the promise of new life.

  I remain in a daze for the longest time, a surreal kind of elation paralysing me. I have a baby growing inside of me. He or she will be – I quickly do the math – seven or eight weeks. My child – God, I can hardly say the words to myself. My. Child.

  Cautiously, I place both hands on my stomach and make a silent promise to be the best mother I can be. Justin and I may have our problems, but there’s no doubt we’ll give this child the world. Shit! Justin. He still has no idea.

  Thundering down the stairs, I head straight for the kitchen, keeping the test concealed behind my back. I imagine Justin’s face as I break the news to him, the brief look of shock as he registers the positive test followed by the inevitable euphoria. A smile breaks out as the image takes shape. I run through the announcement in my mind. I’m pregnant, Justin. We did it!

  ‘Justin!’ I burst through the kitchen door and stop dead.

  Justin’s finger stabs at the screen on his mobile. His cheeks are flushed red, eyes hardened. ‘Sorry what?’ He stuffs the mobile into his jeans pocket, coughs into his fist and then, perhaps aware of my stunned silence, rearranges his face into something resembling indifference. ‘Bloody hell, Grace, you shit me up then.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Instinctively my fingers curl tighter around the test still hidden behind my back.

  ‘Making fish pie, what does it look like?’ He expels a nervous laugh.

  ‘You look worried.’ I nod at the phone in his pocket. ‘Who were you on to?’ The accusation is clear, though I have no idea what it is I’m accusing him of.

  He snorts, his eyes everywhere but on me. ‘Nothing, just work stuff.’ He leans back against the countertop and visibly swallows the lie. ‘What were you going to say?’

  The test now feels like a red-hot poker in my fist. After a few seconds of silence, I hold it up, tears distorting my vision. ‘I’m pregnant.’ I can’t believe this is it, the moment I’ve waited my entire adult life for, the words now spoken in an almost apologetic whisper. This isn’t how it was meant to go.

  Justin stands open-mouthed, unblinking, his face a train wreck of thoughts. ‘Grace… I…’ He takes the test and, in the same way I did only a few minutes ago, holds it up to the light. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’ My voice splinters. ‘You’re happy, aren’t you?’

  He nods, unconvincingly I notice. Where’s the amazement? The euphoria? I feel my chin trembling as he hands it back, my stomach twisted into knots. His eyes widen, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

  He’s happy, thank God. I let go of the breath in my chest and allow myself to relax, to enjoy the moment. Is it possible I imagined the other stuff, the guilt, the shame? I didn’t, I know, but there’s no way I can analyse all of that now.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asks, now frowning. ‘Why did you do the test alone?’

  I shake my head, the reason lost under all the other shit inside my mind. I’ve just announced I’m having a baby, we’re having a baby, after everything we’ve been through; the years of hurt; the treading on eggshells around one another, terrified of saying the wrong thing; the month after month of stomach cramps, knowing, always knowing what will follow and hoping against it anyway, then the inevitable shedding of a month’s worth of dreams, of imagining a life so very different. And now, now we finally have what we’ve always wanted, and all that Justin’s interested in is why I took the test alone? ‘I’m not sure. I suppose I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’

  He seems to consider t
his, or perhaps he isn’t thinking of me at all, his head still caught in whatever he was doing on his phone. What was he doing?

  Vomit burns my throat. Hand clasped to my mouth, I run to the loo and remain doubled over the toilet basin for what feels like hours, my heart and head accelerating at double-quick speed. I’m pregnant, and Justin… Justin is hiding something.