Don't Ever Tell: An absolutely unputdownable, nail-biting psychological thriller

by Lucy Dawson

  ‘I’m confused,’ I say slowly. ‘You’re telling me I’ve already been cast in a screen adaptation of your new book?’

  ‘No. You’re going to pretend to be me.’

  I must look as lost as I feel because she puts her drink down quickly.

  ‘Stay with me. I’ll explain. Let’s go back to Glenn Close for a moment. She’s amazing, you’re right. She has undeniable raw talent but she’s also spent years learning, practising and perfecting her craft. Experience has made her one of the best, right?’

  I nod.

  ‘She’s deservedly at the top of her game. But for every Glenn Close, Judi Dench or Meryl Streep there are hundreds more very experienced, very good actresses clinging on lower down the ladder, going nowhere fast… no one’s looking at them. Everybody is too busy watching the pretty, young newbies climbing on right at the bottom, ready to work their way up, because no one wants to miss the new Glenn Close. It’s just the way the system works… the way life works.’ Charlotte shrugs and takes another sip of her drink. ‘It’s no different for female authors. I’ve been hanging onto the middle of the ladder for such a long time now I’m stuck… and it’s so frustrating because I’m a million times better a writer than I was when I first started, yet it’s all going to waste. And that’s when it occurred to me… it doesn’t have to be this way!’ She lowers her voice and leans forward. I feel myself instinctively lean in too. ‘This very good book that I’ve written?’ she whispers, ‘we’re going to pretend you wrote it. Beautiful, new, shiny, exciting, you. An almost-famous young actress who can write too… they’re going to fall over themselves to snap you up.’

  ‘But,’ I begin.

  She holds up a hand to silence me. ‘A debut author that everyone wants to publish could be offered as much as a million pounds for her first book.’ She laughs as my mouth falls open. ‘That’s just in this country. A worldwide smash, one that’s translated into dozens of different languages, could easily earn you double, triple that… and that’s before you’ve even thought about the film of the book. Not that it’s all about the money, of course. If you “write” a book that successful, people are going to know who you are, Mia Justice. You’re going to get called for acting jobs that once upon a time you could have only dreamt of being seen for – and you’ll get them, because you’re genuinely good. I saw that tonight. You’re really good. You just need a much bigger stage to shine on, that’s all.’ Her eyes glitter with energy, and I almost feel breathless myself. ‘Think about it, Mia. We combine my experience with your beauty and youth. We’ll be unstoppable. Let’s use the system to our advantage! You’ll be the next big thing and it’ll change both of our lives forever.’

  She stops talking suddenly, sits back and crosses her arms. ‘And all you have to do is pretend you wrote a book.’ She falls silent and picks up her drink again, while I begin to entertain the very real possibility that she might be completely insane.

  ‘It sounds crazy, I know.’ She doesn’t take her gaze from my face. ‘But it’ll work… I promise you that. The only thing is we get one shot at this. You never get another chance to be a debut.’ She drains her drink and looks at her watch. ‘I need to go. You literally can’t tell a soul about this – not your agent, your best friend, your boyfriend. Everyone always tells someone else and then boom, the secret is out. If that happens, we’ll have torn up our golden ticket.’ She gets to her feet.

  ‘Hang on a minute. You can’t just… I mean – how come this didn’t happen to you with your first book then? Why didn’t you get a million quid for that?’ I’m babbling.

  She shrugs. ‘It wasn’t a very good book. It was all right, but it wasn’t brilliant. I told you – I’m a much better writer now than I was ten years ago.’

  ‘So why don’t people pull this trick all the time then, if it’s so easy?’

  She laughs again. ‘They do! You honestly think all of those celebrities who suddenly turn their hand to writing a book sit down and do it themselves? Of course they don’t! Someone like me writes it, the celeb is coached on how to talk about it as if they wrote it, the readers buy it in droves – everyone’s happy… well, almost everyone. The big difference in that scenario is the writer gets a usually very shitty one-off fee for their efforts. You and I will be splitting the profits from our adventure 50/50.’

  She’s talking as if we’re definitely doing it. I watch her reach for her bag and put it over her shoulder. ‘I appreciate you’re going to want to think about this and that’s fine but I really hope you’ll say yes. When the idea came to me, I thought of you straight away. I remembered you.’ She points at me sweetly. ‘I’ll come and find you again in a couple of days when you’ve had a chance to let everything sink in. You can give me your answer then. In the meantime, remember the rules – tell no one, or the deal’s off.’

  ‘Wait.’ I grab her arm as she passes the table, about to leave. She glances coolly down at my hand and I let go of her quickly, embarrassed. ‘All I have to do is pretend I wrote it?’

  ‘Yes. You have to act the part of a talented actress who wrote a book that went on to open a million doors for her…’

  I immediately picture my Oscar moment – I can’t help it – I’m walking up onto the stage, clutching my chest in shock, everyone is clapping and cheering. I inhale sharply.

  Charlotte watches me. ‘I know. It really could be wonderful, couldn’t it?’ She looks at her watch again. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Wait! You haven’t even told me what the book is about!’ I call after her as she reaches the door.

  She stops and looks back at me over her shoulder. I’m not sure, but I think I briefly see pity, or is it irritation, in her eyes?

  ‘It hardly matters, does it?’ She smiles again. ‘It’ll hold your attention, I promise. You’ll be hooked until the very last page.’

  FIVE

  CHARLOTTE

  The last train home is predictably horrible: bright, shouty, packed and pissed. Phones are going off left, right and centre, there’s a nauseating fug of sweaty bodies, burgers in takeout boxes and paper bags full of greasy fries. The final panting passengers flop into their seats with relief, having run through cold streets in their coats to make it on time. The heating is faulty and maintaining the carriage at a steady subtropical level, but not only have I left it too late to move further down the heaving train, my random choice of whisky in the bar is having a dire effect on my otherwise empty and now churning tummy. I’m concentrating on staring ahead to quell the nausea and the creeping arc of bright colours appearing in my left field of vision. I do not want a migraine. I want to be in bed, now.

  My throbbing head is not being helped by the young couple squashed into the seats to my left, the other side of the narrow aisle, who are playing back a noisy recording of some comedy gig they’ve just been to, without a thought for anyone around them. I imagine reaching out and snatching the phone from them before flinging it down the carriage. Except it would hit someone. Maybe I should crush it under my heel instead? The girl has the sort of ‘common and lazy’ accent my mother warned me and Flo would stop us getting into grammar school unless we finished our words properly, as we’d been exhaustively taught. I think about Mia implying I’m posh and smile grimly. Mum would be delighted to hear that. I do, however, have a little more gratitude for her efforts as I listen to this girl say over and over again: ‘E’s so funni! Inni? Inni funni, Mycool? E’s sooooo funni! Lissen!’ Her boyfriend – Michael, I assume – turns it up even louder, presumably to drown her commentary out.

  I sympathise, only my ears are about to start bleeding, the colours are getting brighter and the waves undulating more rapidly in front of my eyes. I blink and slowly turn to look at them. ‘Excuse me, do you mind? It’s a bit noisy.’ I point at the screen.

  They both look at me, at each other, laugh and then without a word, the bloke turns his back on me, blocking them from sight, but not sound. They don’t turn it down.

  I imagine reaching into
my bag – calmly pulling out a knife, sinking it through his buttery soft black leather jacket until it finds jelly-like back fat. Or maybe simply stabbing it into the blue jeans that are straining over his trussed ham thighs. I gingerly turn away, lean back on the headrest, close my eyes and wonder when I became such a bitch. The simmering rage is a new thing, I know that – but when did this sheer intolerance for the existence of other people kick in? At the same time, two and a half weeks ago, when everything changed?

  But I must not think about that right now. Tears are a breath away from flooding into my eyes and I will not lose it. I will not be The Emotionally Unstable Middle-aged Woman On The Train.

  I reach down into my bag and pull out my water bottle, take a sip, screw the lid tightly back on, put it back and carefully twist the clasp of the bag shut. Hesitating, I also try to fold the curling corners of the front leather flap back under on themselves. It’s aged well, this bag – as it should have given how much it cost – but it’s starting to look battered now. I’ve spilt the kids’ school water bottles in it so often, the base is now permanently darkly stained and the leather has hardened. Tough luck though, because when I googled a new ‘Heritage Oak Bayswater’ recently, I discovered it would now cost the best part of a grand and a half. I imagine Tris asking incredulously ‘how much? What’s wrong with your old one?’ We’re past the extravagant presents stage now. I would have quite liked an eternity ring after Teddy was born – but I don’t think that’s ever occurred to him either. Still, only seven and a half weeks until Christmas. I wonder what this year will bring? I open my now-clear eyes and stare past the woman to my right, out of the window at the trees and blocks of flats rushing past us in the dark, and picture the John Lewis coat he got me last year. Nothing says desire like an anorak.

  ‘It’s got a lined hood,’ he said helpfully, as I held it aloft and stared at it. I’d not been specific enough. I’d meant I needed a going out winter coat – one to wear out to dinner, or maybe even the odd black tie do. ‘And it’s fully waterproof. You said you wanted one, didn’t you? I thought this would be good for the school run? It’s got lots of pockets.’

  I didn’t even try it on, just thanked him with a kiss on the cheek and had it refunded. When I checked the receipt I noticed he’d paid for it on the joint account in any case, so there we are. Ultimately it was as if it had never happened. I intended to buy myself some expensive underwear instead, but I didn’t get round to that either. Although I must. I used to have so many matching, pretty pairs of bras and knickers. Now I am a woman who has two bras: one black, one skin-coloured with a wire that keeps popping out. I shift uncomfortably and close my eyes again as the train begins to slow – we must be approaching Orpington. I force my hands to uncurl from their tight fists and spread the fingers in my lap instead, resting them on my knees as I focus on my breathing. I hear the Canadian voice of my yoga teacher from this morning’s class in my head: ‘I invite you to let the negativity drain from your fingers and toes. Breathe the gunk from your lungs. Don’t let your thoughts pollute and weigh down your opportunities… be the best version of you.’ She always does a funny little laugh at the end of statements like this, as if her own wisdom has taken her by surprise. She gets away with it though, because of her accent. It makes everything feel authentic. I don’t think it would have the same conviction if she was from Liverpool. I’m no more flexible for going two hours a week during term time, but just while I’m there, I don’t think about anything. I hear her voice and switch off from my life… although I found it a bit much at the end of today’s class when she started talking about how what we celebrate as Halloween used to be a pagan ritual to mark the end of summer and the arrival of darker days.

  ‘While the leaves fall and the new moon arrives, see this as a time to cleanse and rejuvenate. We welcome the phase of the year when what we no longer need dies away – but we must also remember to nurture and care for ourselves.’

  I laid on the mat and thought back to Mallorca. All of us laughing and splashing in and out of the pool. Spritzers in the square before dinner as the children played together in front of us. When I was happy.

  I had to leave the class; I knew I would break down then and there if I stayed. The teacher gave me a quizzical look but didn’t say anything. Hopefully she’ll have the sense not to ask me if I’m OK at the start of next class either and let it go. On the up side, I’m slightly calmer for going today, which is good. I almost lost it completely last night.

  ‘I’m going to Waitrose.’ Tris had appeared in the kitchen doorway and hovered until I couldn’t ignore him anymore and had to take my headphones out. ‘Tell me what you need and I’ll get it – but I want to go now.’

  ‘Could you please just give me a moment?’ I begged, closing my eyes as the sentence I’d been struggling with, and just grasped, slipped through my fingers and vanished forever into the ether.

  ‘C’mon. I want to go now. I’ve got a really early start in the morning.’

  ‘It’s OK, thanks. I’ll do it tomorrow.’ I stared desperately at the screen, hoping to, somehow, magically see the words form in front of me, or will my brain to hear an echo of their order at least – but it was too late. ‘Shit! It’s gone.’

  ‘Don’t swear at me, please.’

  ‘I’m not swearing at you!’

  Tris frowned. ‘But because of me? There’s not really a difference, I don’t think? I’m trying to help. I know it’s tough for you having to do everything when I’m away, but there’s not even enough milk for me to have some cereal. Obviously I don’t expect you to have cooked for me when I get back from the gym, but I need to eat something. So I’m going to go now. Text me a list.’

  ‘Tris, I’m working!’ I rubbed my eyes, tiredly. ‘If I turned up at your work – halfway through a meeting – and told you I was going to do a food shop and could you text me a list immediately, what would you say?’

  He threw his hands up. ‘Exactly! I get it, OK? I’m never around to do a shop. You’re making a point that I should go more by letting us practically run out of everything – so now I’m going. Congratulations.’

  I looked at him confused. ‘What are you on about? We’re low on food, I know, but I’ll go tomorrow. I’m not making a point about anything?’

  ‘Can you please not be deliberately difficult and just text me a list.’

  I stopped what I was doing and stared at him. ‘Deliberately difficult? Seriously, what?’

  ‘I’ll be gone tomorrow – all right? I know I drive you mad, that my even being in the same room annoys you.’

  ‘Tris, why are you picking a fight with me?’ My voice had become emotionless.

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to do evenings anymore. I thought your deadline wasn’t until after Christmas?’

  ‘I write when the kids are at school, which usually works fine. It does not work when one of them is ill for a week and then it’s half term, which puts me two weeks behind schedule, so I have to work all the hours God sent in the evening instead.’

  ‘Then just tell them. Tell your publisher the book is going to be late. This is such bullshit!’

  ‘The point is, I can do it, if I don’t have to stop all the time to do lists. I told you, I can go shopping tomorrow.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ He put his hands on his head. ‘I am TRYING to help you, so you don’t HAVE to go tomorrow. Look, just stop writing, OK? We don’t need the money. I make enough. You don’t have to do this.’

  My whole career neatly dismissed. Just like that.

  ‘I want to make this work,’ I said quietly. ‘You know that. It’s important to me. It’s my job and it’s actually a good one to have when you have kids.’

  ‘You make less from your writing, annually, than your agent’s assistant makes. You realise that?’

  I ignored him. ‘I’ve worked really hard to keep it going and still be around for them before and after school. We’ve had no childcare costs at all. I’ve done it all, and you kn
ow what? Our kids have inspired me. They’ve driven me. I have made the time to write when I couldn’t buy or borrow it.’

  ‘That’s really great,’ he sighed. ‘You go, girl!’ He mimed a fake little fist bump, and I wanted to use mine to punch him in the face.

  ‘I’m working on something I have to get finished sooner rather than later. It’s important.’

  ‘Aren’t we important too, though? You and I? Our marriage? There has to be some time for that too, doesn’t there?’

  That was what did it. Wow. Just… wow. I went cold and then hot all over. I had to bite the inside of my lip to stop me from saying something I would regret and opening the box that it would then be impossible to shut.

  ‘You know what? I actually think I will go and do the shopping now.’ I put my computer to one side. ‘I need to get out of the house. Perhaps you’re right. I’m going slightly crazy. I’ve had the build for next door’s extension going all day – the drilling has been hard to concentrate through and – you won’t know this because you’ve been at the gym – for the last hour someone a few streets away has been having a party. Listen.’ I stood up and walked to the window, throwing it open. A cold gust blew over me carrying with it the shrieks of overexcited teenage girls and the bellows of equally hyped up boys over a relentless bass. ‘It took forever to get the kids to sleep.’

  He listened. “But they’re asleep now, and you’ve got headphones you can plug in, haven’t you?’

  The same ones I’d pulled out when he’d appeared in the doorway to complain about there not being any milk, in fact? I kept silent.

  He came right up close to me and I looked away.

  ‘Is there anything else wrong? Something you’re not telling me?’

  I shivered and shook my head as he reached past me to close the window again.

  ‘I’m just very, very tired.’