The Lies We Tell Read online

  Really, summer is the cruellest season, she thinks, gazing down onto the wilting plants. A shadow briefly stirs but she battles to resist it. Not now, she tells herself. For despite the date, today is just a day like any other. Katy refocuses on the dusty beds below. But as she starts to make a mental note to do some watering later, she is distracted by a noise. The low grinding of a key. A sound which appears to be coming from the French windows of the flat below. Which is impossible, of course, because the place is empty.

  A hooded figure steps into full view on the patio below. A man – probably in his early twenties, she deduces – though his face is obscured by the hood of a white sleeveless top across the back of which is emblazoned the word Everlast. Although slight, his body is toned, she notes, her eyes drawn to the muscularity of his upper arms and, in particular, his left biceps around which a black ring of thorns has been tattooed. His feet are bare beneath the dusty hems of his black sweat pants and then, as he starts to fill a watering can with water, splashed with wet.

  Strange behaviour for a burglar, she thinks, watching him water the nearest line of bedding plants, wondering who this stranger could be. A friend of Phil's, probably. Though she doesn't recall having seen anyone like him hanging around the place before.

  Another noise from the neighbouring garden snags both of their attention. The sound of chanting. It’s the woman who lives in the downstairs flat next door. A lawyer, Katy recalls, though they have never spoken. She had rarely seen her at all, in fact, until just before last Christmas when the woman went on maternity leave and swapped sombre suits for T-shirts and lycra. Now, with the door open wide, she is standing on the sun terrace outside her back door dressed only in an oversized granddad shirt with arms outstretched as if in honour to the morning sun.

  ‘Caught you!’ Michael laughs, burying his face in her neck. As his free hand reaches to unfasten the towel still knotted around her Katy halts it.

  ‘Don’t,’ she hisses, gesturing towards the open window through which she can now see her neighbour performing some kind of yogic genuflection to the morning sun. Or perhaps it's t'ai chi. ‘There's someone down there. Outside.’ Her gaze shifts to Phil's garden but the hooded figure has gone leaving only a damp trail of footsteps which have already started to evaporate in the morning sun.

  ‘Spoil sport,’ Michael sighs. He shoots a quick glance up at the kitchen clock then turns back towards Katy. 'Come back to bed for a bit. It's still early.'

  'Not today it isn't,' she smiles, relieved to have a real excuse. ‘I’ve got to be in early for this morning's presentation.'

  In the bedroom, Katy pulls out a selection of clothes. In the bathroom, Michael lines up the badger brush, razor, soap and balm on the glass shelf as the basin fills for his daily ritual. As she dresses Katy can see without looking each stroke of the blade as the silence is broken every half minute or so by a gentle splash of water and then, when it is done, the brisk slap of lotion on skin. Familiar sounds that until recently would reassure. A slice of male intimacy she has come to relish since moving in with Michael three years earlier. Though now it is merely a fleeting distraction.

  For since she discovered she is pregnant something about the proximity of their living arrangements has begun to pall. He's crowding her – that's how it feels, at least. Michael. And his mother, Jean.

  Katy grimaces at the thought of how her mum-in-law to be, widow of a Scottish Presbyterian minister, had taken it upon herself to place an announcement in the Telegraph. She'd done it within hours of her son confiding their recent decision to finally get hitched with a small, informal ceremony scheduled to take place at a local west London church in just two months time. Though they'd both been annoyed Michael had said nothing, of course, for fear of upsetting her. Goodness knows what the woman would say if she knew the reason for their haste. Which reminds Katy of something.

  'Ring me later about dinner tonight at Mum’s, OK?' she calls, crouching down to retrieve a missing shoe from beneath the bed. 'I should be free by midday.’

  Straightening up from the sink, Michael turns towards her as he pats his face dry. ‘Ah. Yes. About that.' Carefully, he dabs his neck with the hand towel. ‘Look, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it. I got a call yesterday from an old school friend who's a head hunter. They want to meet for dinner to discuss an executive creative role they're looking to fill. I'm really sorry, Katy. But we weren’t going to tell either granny-in-waiting until after the scan, were we – not till we're sure everything's OK?’

  Annoyed, Katy is about to object from the upstairs landing where she now stands then thinks better of it. How irritable she's become these days, she reasons. Though it is surely her rampaging hormones, that's all. And the oppressive heat – the hottest July in seven years. The time of year, too – always her least favourite. And then there's the date …

  A new job will be good for both of them, she knows. Having missed out on promotion the previous Easter, the extra money will help cover the cost of the childcare they’ll need when she’s ready to return to work. Noticing yesterday’s shorts and T-shirt which Michael has left on the floor by where she now stands to remind himself, at some point, to put them in the laundry bin, she smiles. Swiftly grabbing the bundle with her free hand, she deftly lobs the knot of clothes in his direction. It takes him by surprise, catching him on the shoulder before he has time to duck.

  ‘I’ll send your apologies,' she calls down, brightly. ‘You can make it up to me later.'

  *

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite get that.’ Katy adjusts the mobile phone so the earpiece is a little further from her ear. Running up the steps towards the street level exit of St James's station is making her breath come in short, shallow gasps and beads of sweat have gathered at the back of her neck where hair meets skin.

  ‘I said: you’re late,’ Sally-Anne booms.

  ‘I know. There was a problem on the District & Circle, but I won’t be long–’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just coming into reception,’ Katy lies.

  ‘Well you’d better be here in five – we need to have a final run through before the presentation which, I might add, is due to begin at half past.’

  She bites her lip. Being on the receiving end of one of Sally-Anne’s bad moods always makes Katy feel like a naughty schoolgirl. She might still make it though, just. ‘OK. Better go – the signal’s cracking … ’

  Slipping the mobile back into her bag she breaks into a run, only slowing her pace once she turns off the pavement into the darkened walkway leading to the offices within. Catching sight of her reflection in the chrome and black corridor that once was state of the art office design, she straightens her blouse and smoothes her hair before casually walking past the receptionists who are already busy fielding calls. As soon as she’s out of their sight, she darts up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Good of you to join us,’ Sally-Anne declares, shooting Katy an ice-pick stare as she bursts through the door.

  Katy re-sets her expression to business-like. She's worked with Sally-Anne since first arriving at Janssens as a temp six years before – long enough to know better than to waste her time concocting gushing apologies or elaborate excuses. The woman is firm but fair if you play a straight bat, as her father used to say. A cricketing term the origin of which Katy could never fathom. Because it was Sally-Anne who secured her a full-time position and under whose guidance she has since steadily risen up the ranks to become acting head of client services while Miriam, the official holder of that title and her immediate boss, is on maternity leave.

  Rising from her desk, Sally-Anne picks up her pad then reaches for her skinny cappuccino with an immaculately manicured hand. On her feet the woman still has on the yellow and red Masai Barefoot Technology trainers she wears to work in the vain hope of offsetting the stubborn thickening of her ankles. Otherwise she is dressed today in a fuchsia linen trouser suit with yawning buttons that tell their own story of the struggle to conta
in the woman’s heavily-tanned chest. Around her neck, the paste choker modelled on the Bulgari necklace Keira Knightly wore on Oscar night almost obscures the blossoming of her second chin. Her flawless fingernails bear witness to how rarely she taps a keyboard nowadays.

  ‘Just coming,’ Katy calls out lightly. But now she feels on edge and the air con makes her shiver. Uneasy, like there's something important she's forgotten.

  Reaching for the presentation notes which she has left in a box file to one side of her computer, she slips the papers into an A4 notepad and clasps it tightly. Though she has gone through her presentation piece so many times she almost knows it by heart, the prop is reassuring and the tension in her jaw line starts to subside. Until, as she starts moving away from her desk, her attention is drawn to a Post-It bearing a message in a childish scrawl.

  ‘Some woman rang for you around nine,’ calls Dawn as she beings to read. Sally-Anne’s PA is rake-thin and blonde with a fixation with Marilyn Monroe that today has her dressed in a tightly-fitted satin blouse and black pencil skirt despite the heat. ‘She was most specific about the spelling,’ she presses on, helpfully. ‘A Judith Davies, spelled with an i-e-s. Hey, are you OK?’

  The room spins for a moment and a number of things happen at once. As Katy sinks down into her chair, the notes slip from her grasp. As she closes her eyes, a sudden wave of nausea makes her skin prickle cold with sweat. Judith Davies. The name for which she spent months scanning the obituaries section of her father’s Daily Telegraph. The abbreviation of which still makes her spirit bolt.

  Tranquilo, she hears. The echo of Michael’s voice is calm and reassuring, though the bile licks the back of her throat. Relax.

  A beat later, Dawn’s arm is curling around her shoulders. With the stifling heat, the younger woman’s pale skin has taken on a wild and feverish glow and her perfume, a smell like pear drops, is overpowering. Fearful she will retch, Katy tries to think of something else. Like birthday dinner at Mum's, later. Michael’s job interview. The presentation she’s about to give. Only when she opens her eyes does the other woman step back. When will this end? she wonders, bleakly. Another week or two, perhaps. Surely no more?

  ‘Drink this,’ Dawn offers, breaking the seal on a plastic bottle of mineral water.

  Exhaling slowly, Katy offers up a watery smile as a familiar voice from somewhere close by mumbles her thanks. She drinks and the pressure inside her skull begins to ease allowing her brain the space to think. Not for the first time she wonders if Dawn knows. Some second sense, perhaps. Or, maybe, she can just smell the hormones. Then, as her head starts to clear, it hits her.

  Jude. It has to be. For how many Judith Davieses can there be who'd want to speak to her – today of all days? What can she possibly want after so long?

  Her body stiffens. Not against nausea this time but the tension building between the rational side of her brain which is racing with questions, and the rowdy gang of emotions jostling for position. Curiosity. Relief. Shame. And something else. An exquisite collision of excitement and fear which makes her almost toss the Post-It into the bin. Before as quickly as it came, the urge is gone and she slumps defeated against the back of her chair. For what would be the point?

  What’s it people say about what goes around, comes around? Because the two of them are bound and always have been by what happened out on the scalding heath that day. Inescapable, that’s the word for this moment, she thinks, her gaze refocusing on the yellow square of paper. Fate.

  An impatient tut-tutting sound draws Katy back to the moment. Looking up she sees Sally-Anne, her faced locked into an impatient frown, standing the opposite side of the office holding the door open. No time for this now, she thinks, stuffing Jude's message deep into her pocket as she stumbles to her feet. Gathering her notepad, pen and papers Katy cradles them in one hand then pauses, briefly, to take another gulp of water. Though the hotness has passed, her face feels cold and clammy.

  Katy wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Which is when she feels it. Still there after all this time. The stubborn knot of scar tissue from Jude's pen that lurks just beneath the skin two inches below her right wrist. Touching it with her left forefinger, pressing it lightly at first then harder, Katy digs in the fingernail then twists it, sharply. Increasing the pressure, she relishes the dull ache. Embraces the old war wound that makes her feel alive.

  Glancing across the room towards where her boss is waiting, her face tightens with the effort it takes to pull herself together.

  ‘Just coming, Sally-Anne,’ she smiles.

  Chapter 2

  London – July 2013

  Reaching across the table, Katy pours herself another cup of coffee from the silver pot. The conference room air con has quickly turned her skin to goose bumps and she needs warming. Her presentation is done – and went well, judging by Sally-Anne’s body language. But the meeting is still only half-way through and now her attention is flagging.

  Diverted by thoughts of what to buy for dinner with Mum, her mind starts to wander. To the list of wedding-related things they must get sorted in the coming week. And yesterday's letter from the doctor's surgery with the date for her twenty week scan. Disparate strands drawn together by her subconscious to obscure the note still nestled in her pocket. Then the spell is broken by the fitful drumming of a fly against glass. It is dying, she can see, slowly, as it flails against the hermetically sealed window. Is it her, or has the dull hum of the cooling unit got louder?

  Katy's gaze slips towards the glittering world outside and as her mind drifts she finds her thoughts dragged backwards to inescapable exams in stifling classrooms. Coconut oil-stained summer dresses. The smothering weight of heat and hate and fear that bloated the heath that day. One minute they'd been two, the next all she saw was the abandoned bag that lay in the middle of the clearing on its side, its mouth gaping into the dusty earth like a silent scream. Otherwise there was nothing, she thinks. Just silence. An eardrum-pounding silence that felt like it would never end.

  She can still feel the fear, lodged like a lump of dough at the back of her throat; remember how, for what seemed a lifetime, she was unable to move. The uselessness of her, she recalls, grimly. A living, breathing thing petrified by the horror of an instant. And then, without any conscious decision to do so, she was in flight.

  Running.

  Back towards the slender ash trees on the outer fringes of the copse and the distant footpath beyond that gashed the ancient heath land’s face. Conscious thought – even the mere acknowledgement of the desperation of her situation – eclipsed by pure sensation. Fossilised teeth of jagged stones beneath her soles. Concrete earth jarring her body with the whiplash jolt of a live cable. Branches slapping her face like flailing limbs. And then all this and more dissolving into a single, inescapable plateau of pain. All she was aware of was the blood pounding in her veins. The tightening of her chest. Her head like a clenched fist. Then the sudden white light from the open heath that seared her eyes.

  Jumping over smaller obstacles, ignoring how her ankles twisted she pressed on, until at last she glimpsed the footpath ahead. A few more strides and it was hers. Only then, once she was on the dusty track, could she allow her pace to slow and risk a quick backward glance. The rough ground now separating her from the dense foliage of the copse was open and empty. Inscrutable, she thought, taking in her surroundings. To her left, the dusty footpath stretched away for a few hundred yards then disappeared behind a wide clump of gorse. And to her right … the same. In one direction, in a quarter of a mile or so, the track would fork and the wider path would lead her back to the camp. But which?

  Hungrily, she scanned the Punch Bowl’s tree-lined rim for any recognisable landmark. But the ragged horizon encircling the ancient heath now seemed identical in all directions. It was like standing centre stage in a giant amphitheatre trapped before an unseen audience. Then, with a sinking heart, she remembered: Jude still had the map and compass in her backpack. With no time to lose, sh
e had to make a decision.

  Raising her eyes as if in search of divine inspiration, she took a deep breath, crossed her fingers just in case, picked left, then ran. Battling now to blot out what had just happened. Jude's body, crumpling as she was dragged into the bushes. An image that re-played in a distorted loop again and again in her mind’s eye. How long had it been, now? Five minutes perhaps, maybe ten. A lot can happen in that time. Too much. But Jude will be alright, won’t she? She’d put up a fight if she hadn’t already managed to get away. She's strong, and the mouth on her – that alone will scare many a would-be attacker away.

  At last, the flatness of the ground gave way to a gradual upward incline with taller shrubs and maturing trees. But she was so focused on her mission she did not notice. Nor did she remember that the camp was, in fact, down a gentle slope. The going was getting easier which had to be good, right? Running through the trees she even began to pick up speed. Not far to go, now. Nearly there – the memory of it now makes Katy's chest tighten.

  But then, no more than a second later, she burst from the shade into bright light and complete disorientation. Because there was no evidence of the outbuildings of the camp or even the rough track down which they’d arrived from the station just a few days earlier. Somewhere close by, though, was a low rumble. With nowhere left to turn there seemed just one way to go. So she ran towards the noise. Cleared a low fence in a single bound and then a grassy verge to find – too late – her feet on tarmac.

  A lorry thundered past, swerving to avoid her towards the central divide of the busy A-road that circumnavigated the Punch Bowl’s rim. Someone close by let out a scream that was more like a howl. But before she could identify the voice as her own the sound was obliterated by the screech of pumping brakes of the car now heading straight towards her. All she could do was smell the burning tang of rubber. Until, at the last moment, blindly, instinctively, she spun around.