The Liars

by Naomi Joy

  I watch as a noisy seagull lands on a wooden post on the beach beyond. The bird squawks and yelps as if in danger, or in pain, and the sound fills the sky. Soon enough, another gull flies past and the pair wail over each other in dissonant, ghastly melodies. I decide to head inside and fold up the single wooden chair I keep on the deck of my tiny suntrap.

  I live in a glass-fronted block of new-build apartments and am surrounded by units exactly like mine. I find there’s a certain security in the similarity of it all. Safety in numbers, as they say. Because why would anyone head to the fifteenth floor to break into my flat, when there are hundreds of identical ones that line the easily-accessed ground and first floors? But, if anyone did scale the outside to take a look through my windows, they’d be disappointed: my tastes veered towards the incredibly boring and minimalistic, the only thing of value in this place a secondhand flat-screen in the bedroom.

  But I didn’t choose to live here just for the high-floor number. This complex also boasts a twenty-four-hour security guard, anti-climb gates, a keycode entry system, and CCTV along every corridor. In my own apartment I’ve installed motion-detection cameras and a geo-fence that alerts me if anything moves whilst I’m away. I check the footage obsessively throughout the day. I’ve become awfully paranoid since everything happened. But at least I’m still here. Small step though this might seem, moving to an apartment by myself has been a giant leap forward for me.

  *

  I’m wrapped up in a dressing gown stuck into a love story set in Ancient Rome, my eyelids heavy, ready for bed. My tongue tastes of the hot chocolate I’ve been sipping and the flat is warm and cosy, a candle burning over the mantle.

  And then there is a knock at the door and it’s as though someone has poured ice over my haven. My ears prick, the hair on my arms stand on end and I silently place the book down on the coffee table in front of me. Keeping my breath light, I tiptoe over to the door just as another series of raps fire out.

  I pause, every inch of me alert and tense.

  I hear shuffling and movement from outside and I press forward until I reach the door.

  ‘I’ve moved in next door, just wanted to introduce myself,’ shouts the voice.

  But I don’t let that disarm me. What kind of self-respecting neighbour introduces themselves after dark?

  I move my eye in line with the peep hole and spot a man, back to the spy-hole, standing at my door. Who is he?

  Hands up against the wood I keep watch as he makes a move to leave and then changes his mind, turning fully towards me and knocking once again. The thuds hit me as I lean into the barrier that separates us, each vibration running the length of my body. I am frozen, unable to move, because now I have seen his face: the angry vein that pulses over his forehead, the irritated scowl on his lips, the raven-coloured hair that sits on top of his head, and the hand clenched to a fist as he raises it once again to lure me into opening up.

  Bang bang bang.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Acknowledgments

  I want to start by thanking my agent, Kate Nash, for her belief, unparalleled work-ethic and enthusiasm. Thank you for making my dream a reality. Many thanks too to my editor, Hannah Smith, for holding my hand through the first-book wilderness! I am so grateful to have found you. Thanks also to the team at Aria, to Vicky, and the wider Head of Zeus family.

  Special thank you to my mum and my sister for reading, re-reading and re-re-reading version upon version of this book (and others!) Your help has been immense and I appreciate it so much.

  Thanks to my amazing dad for always encouraging me to be creative. To my brother: grazie. To Nana and Pompa, for being such wonderful grandparents. To my enormous family in Jersey and beyond. To my dear Nanny, who I’m sorry didn’t get to see me achieve this particular goal.

  Thank you to my wonderful friends, a few of whom endured a very early version of this story: Georgie, Abby and Katie. To Fiona, for having faith in me from the beginning, long before I had any in myself. To Sophie and Emily, for always being so encouraging. And to the girls in Jersey who will be glad my wild storytelling has found an outlet!

  Heartfelt thanks to the outstanding women I have worked with over the years, who firmly disprove the existence of toxic female rivalries. Especially Eli, for being such an inspiration to everyone she works with. Thanks to those who have been toxic, too.

  Above all, thanks to Colin. Without your kindness and support I wouldn’t have written this book. I hope you’re ready for a few more brainstorms.

  About the Author

  Naomi Joy is a pen name of a young PR professional who was formerly an account director at prestigious Storm Communications. Writing from experience, she draws the reader in to the darker side of the uptown and glamorous, presenting realism that is life or death, unreliable and thrilling to page-turn.

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