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

by Lucy Dawson

  ‘Tris rang me while I was with her,’ I blurt. ‘To let me know that he was in a noisy hotel in Sheffield.’ I pause. ‘I could have just told him then and there. It would have been so easy. “Guess who I’m looking at right now.” He asked me outright yesterday if there was something I wasn’t telling him.’ I come back into the room and sit back down on the sofa, arms now hugging around my drawn-up knees. ‘Mia has no clue who I am. She’s just living her life, totally unaware of me, Clara, Teddy… it was like looking in a mirror and seeing myself from twenty years ago. She told me she was twenty-five – but that she can play younger.’ I bite my lip and shake my head in disbelief. ‘She’s still just a baby. Just starting out.’ I exhale again and look up at the ceiling to try and stop more tears from spilling over. ‘I’m so angry, Flo. I don’t know what to do with this anger.’

  ‘I know. All of this is very complicated for you. It’s shining a light on lots of feelings you’ve not had to confront for years.’ She begins to drum her fingers on the side of the sofa. ‘Look, I’m sorry to keep on about this, but you very obviously had a conversation with her. Why would she randomly tell you she can play younger, that she’s twenty-five? You’re not telling me the real context here and that’s not fair. I took a huge professional risk in talking to you about her at all – but that’s not actually the worst thing about this. You haven’t thought this through. I told you not to talk to her for lots of very good reasons. Why do you think she’s in therapy in the first place?’ She sits forward, energetically. ‘Suppose I was to tell you that she’s dangerous?’

  ‘She can’t be, because you would have told me that straight away. You wouldn’t have risked her hurting me.’

  ‘But what about if she’s a risk to herself? Did you think of that? She’s vulnerable – by the very definition of being in therapy. Forget the impact of her finding out who you are, it would be enough for most patients to discover their therapist has divulged information they were trusted with to anyone else, full stop. That’s the whole point of having a counsellor. You tell them your innermost thoughts and fears. The deep dark stuff no one else knows. So suppose Mia finds out I’ve betrayed that trust, has a massive setback, kills herself and then it all comes out why. Now how do you feel? Still OK with talking to her?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Charlotte?’ Flo presses me for an answer, but all I can do is look away.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt her.’

  ‘Then leave her alone.’ Flo is emphatic.

  ‘Why was she in therapy?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘But there’s nothing seriously wrong with her?’

  ‘All I can say is I’m not working with her now. You’ve got to step back from this. You have a life with Tris, Clara and Teddy that you want to keep exactly as it is, for the children’s sake. Remember? Remember telling me that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit.

  ‘If you do want to confront this by getting it all out in the open and telling Tris, you can – there are ways we could think of that would achieve it without compromising me, but that isn’t what you want. You want your life to stay as it is.’ She sighs and retrieves her phone from the floor by the sofa. ‘Why don’t I babysit for you and Tris next week so you can go out together?’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll see. Go to bed,’ I say. ‘And thank you for tonight, in every which way.’

  ‘But you’ll stay away from her now? Promise?’ She stands up.

  ‘Yes. I promise.’

  She walks over to me, bends down and kisses my forehead. ‘You should go to bed too. Even if you don’t sleep, your body needs to rest. You don’t wish I hadn’t told you, do you?’ She looks down at me, suddenly troubled.

  I shake my head. ‘I wish she’d found someone else to be her counsellor and not you, though.’

  ‘Me too.’ She sighs. ‘I just imagined how you would have felt if it had somehow come out that I knew all along. You’d have forgiven me, obviously, but you’d have been heartbroken.’ She reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘I love you. We’re going to get you through this. I promise.’

  I blow her a kiss as she disappears off upstairs, and lean back on the sofa, retrieving my mobile from where it’s slipped under a cushion. No new messages.

  I think about Mia, out there somewhere in Blackheath. I close my eyes and see the confusion on her face when I made my offer: half a million pounds – her share – to pretend to be me.

  I slip out into the side passage to smoke a last cigarette before bed.

  It’s not as if it couldn’t happen. I’ve heard of mega deals being done and read about them in the news. I really want Mia to do this and to do this for Mia. I breathe a cloud of smoke out and begin to settle back down, but there are, of course, a thousand reasons why it might not work and then what? I shiver. I have already lied to my sister, which makes me feel dreadful, but I had no choice. Flo would make it her mission to talk me out of my plan if she knew what I’d actually said to Mia tonight… It’s not as if I’m going to let any of this compromise Flo; not for a second. This is my risk. I stub out the fag on the wall. There is still time to stop this, of course. It’s barely begun.

  ‘Mia Justice.’ I whisper her name under my breath like a promise.

  I’ll sleep on it.

  SIX

  MIA

  ‘Get off your phone!’ Seth teases as he comes back into the bedroom. His hair is still damp from the shower and as his elbows open wider to force a stubborn top button, his shirt lifts, briefly exposing his chest and flat tummy. Such a shame he has to go to work. ‘It’s a really unhealthy way to start the day,’ he nods at my mobile, ‘binging on a load of other people’s anger.’

  ‘All right, Dad,’ I tease, and his face falls. ‘Sorry,’ I say immediately, propping myself up on my forearms.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says bravely, but I see him glance at himself worriedly in the wardrobe mirror and I feel bad for making such a stupid throwaway remark.

  ‘To be fair, it was a Dad thing to say.’ He tucks his shirt into his suit trousers and turns his attention to his cuffs.

  I watch him, fascinated. ‘Why don’t you just have buttons there too, wouldn’t it be easier?’

  ‘My father always told me that a gentleman is someone who can play the accordion, but doesn’t—’

  I laugh, having not heard that before.

  ‘And he also never wears button cuffs.’ He turns to face me. ‘I think that probably gets cancelled out if you’re putting links into last night’s shirt though.’ He gestures down at his creased sleeves.

  I smile lazily back at him. ‘Will everyone at work think you’re a dirty stop out?’

  ‘I’ll sneak in via the back door.’ He winks at me. ‘I have a fresh suit and shirt hanging in my office – they’ll be none the wiser… it’s sensible to keep a clean uniform handy in case you have to pull an all-nighter,’ he explains; I must have looked confused. ‘Although that usually involves a mountain of very dull client work, several colleagues and a lot of coffee. This was a lot more fun. What are you listening to?’ He nods at the phone. ‘I like it. It’s very chilled, bit sensual for 7 a.m. though.’

  Sensual… Yessss! My careful selection has had just the effect I was looking for. ‘Jamie Woon. The track’s called “Sharpness”,’ I say nonchalantly. I roll over onto my tummy, but no one ever pulled off seductive while looking like a giant sausage roll, all wrapped up in a duvet, so I deliberately push it down to reveal my bare back. ‘It’s hot in here,’ I yawn. I can feel his eyes on my skin.

  Sure enough, he climbs on the bed behind me and kisses first the base of my back, then moves up to my neck, softly sliding his hands round onto my breasts. ‘I don’t want to go to work.’

  I twist onto my back and look up at him innocently. ‘Then don’t. Stay and play with me instead.’

  He groans and lets his head drop. ‘You have no idea how much I want to do that, but I have to go.’ He studies my face and moves a stray bit of hair out of
the way before gently kissing my lips. A new track comes on: Eliza’s ‘Wasn’t Looking’. It’s a blatant sex song. Slow, persistent beat, dreamy, husky vocals.

  Seth looks at me and raises an eyebrow. ‘What are you trying to do to me? This isn’t on random shuffle at all, is it? This is a playlist. A deliberate, seduction playlist.’

  ‘Of course not!’ I protest, embarrassed at being caught out.

  ‘Where’s your phone, let’s see what else you’ve got lined up to lure me.’ He tries to grab it, but I get there first, rolling right onto it, hiding it under my body, my hair falling over my shoulders. ‘Noooo! Don’t,’ I insist, my voice muffled – as, laughing, he tries to reach it – ‘You’ll break it!’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I feel him get up and release me. ‘But honestly – you don’t need to try and persuade me. There’s nothing I want to do more than stay.’

  I turn onto my back again and blow him a kiss.

  He looks at me, lying in front of him, half-naked and his smile fades. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

  His sudden serious tone makes me stop playing games and blush bright red. In the beat of silence that follows, where we look at each other, something shifts in the atmosphere. I know I don’t imagine it and sure enough he hesitates, before saying casually: ‘suppose I were to leave a couple of things here. A clean shirt, a toothbrush – that sort of thing. Would that be OK?’

  I bite my lip, unable to hide my delight. ‘I think that would OK, yeah.’

  ‘Not too soon?’ He looks suddenly uncertain and shy. Basically completely adorable. I have always had a thing for men in sharp suits, working that competent, professional vibe. Probably because it’s the total opposite of what I’m usually surrounded by? If most actors were an item of clothing, they’d be slightly grubby jeans.

  ‘Not too soon at all,’ I tell him truthfully.

  His face splits into a huge, spontaneous smile. He darts forward and, putting his hands on the bed either side of me, he kisses my mouth as I sit up, almost knocking me off balance in his enthusiasm.

  ‘Shit – sorry!’ he says, as I giggle, and gently put my hands either side of his face to steady myself.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I whisper, feeling happiness beginning to suffuse through me. I can feel his stubble beneath my fingertips. I don’t want to let him go.

  ‘Could I see you tonight?’ he asks. ‘I mean, you’ve probably already got plans, but…’

  I pull a face. ‘Yeah – I do. I’m sorry. I’m meant to be going out to a friend’s birthday drinks after work.’ I hesitate, about to say I could cancel them, but I’ve not totally abandoned my senses yet, or my principles. It’s still early days and I’m not making the same mistakes again this time and ditching my whole life, much as I like him. And I really like him.

  ‘No problem, I understand.’ He grins when I don’t even offer to meet him somewhere afterwards. ‘It’s my turn to have my kids this weekend, but can I take you to dinner on Monday night?’ He straightens up, swings round and grabs his jacket from the bedroom chair in one smooth movement.

  ‘I’m not free then either,’ I say regretfully. ‘Gotta show to put on!’ I do half-hearted jazz hands, then let them fall to the bed. ‘I really need to try and get a fun job next. Something sparkly and silly. But in answer to your question, I wish I could. I’m sorry.’

  He sighs. ‘Is this why most actors date each other, because you’re the only ones lying around in bed all day while everyone else has to get up and go to work?’

  I give a mock, outraged gasp and fling a pillow at him, which he dodges, adding: ‘And then all you do is go and faff around for a couple of hours.’

  I flick him the vs but confess, ‘Yeah, pretty much. It’s just easier for most people in the biz to date each other, I guess. That’s not to say dating a civilian can’t work,’ I add quickly. ‘It just takes a bit of effort.’

  ‘“A civilian”?’ He picks me up on it immediately, amused.

  ‘What Liz Hurley once called non-acting folk.’

  ‘What a fabulously derogatory term.’ He checks his pockets for his phone, then moves over to pick up his laptop bag, resting it on the bed and unzipping it to check he’s got everything.

  ‘I know someone else who calls you Muggles.’ I consider. ‘That’s worse, I think. Still – only a week to go and I’ll be officially unemployed. I’ll have all the evenings free you want then. You’ll be sick of the sight of me.’

  ‘No, I won’t – and something is going to come up. You’ll see.’

  I open my mouth to tell him about Charlotte’s offer, but stop at the last minute. She specifically told me not to.

  ‘No one as talented as you gets to rest up for long,’ he continues. ‘We should enjoy it while it lasts though. We’ll actually be able to go out to dinner together at a normal time in the evening. That would be nice.’

  I can’t help noticing he’s really starting to talk like we’re a proper couple. Things are definitely getting more serious. ‘Silver linings to every cloud,’ I agree calmly, determined not to betray my excitement. ‘Yes, it will be very nice.’

  Before he can answer, the music changes again, only this time it’s Robin Thicke’s ‘Lost Without U’. I forgot this was on there and hastily scramble to the phone, to change it, but it’s too late, Seth is already pulling a face. ‘Not sure about that one. It’s a bit Man from Del Monte, isn’t it?’

  ‘Huh?’ I look at him, confused. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  ‘Never mind.’ He picks up his laptop bag. ‘Right. I really must go.’ He bends and kisses me briefly this time. ‘I’ll call you. Have a great day.’

  ‘You too.’ I listen for the front door to the flat slamming shut behind him and once it has, sigh and collapse back onto the pillows, still holding my phone. I lie there for a minute staring at the ceiling, already bored in the silence and now nervy too, thinking about this time next week, when the run will be finished and I’ll have nothing I need to get up for. No commitments bar one weekly counselling session with yet another new therapist. That’s not at all depressing.

  I should just go back to sleep and not start to squirrel about this. I’ll be shit-tired tonight otherwise, but my brain is so wired now… plus even if I were to doze off again, I’d get make-up all over my pillow. I’m looking forward to the bit where I feel relaxed enough not to have to sneak out of bed before his alarm goes off, to put on some slap, so I look ‘naturally beautiful’ when he wakes up next to me. The trouble is, I spend so much time in heavy stage make-up, I really do feel naked without it, and I’m not ready to reveal myself completely – yet.

  I turn onto my side decisively and select a new playlist. The sound of Glen Campbell fills the room and I start to sing along as I return to Charlotte Graves’s Instagram page and the information-gathering sesh I was conducting while Seth was in the shower.

  It’s not that it’s a bad account. She’s got some reasonably funny posts on there, but I can see what she meant last night about her career having flatlined. I’m not surprised – she’s definitely not getting her social media right. There’s nothing to mark it out as special or interesting – which will be why she only has four hundred followers, most of whom seem to be other writers I’ve never heard of either. Her feed is all cappuccinos and glasses of gin, random book covers and the stupid ‘arty’ shots everyone chucks in – the last of which was a blue sky seen through the branches of an autumn tree… yawn… She also doesn’t know how to use hashtags, doing that really irritating thing of thinking they’re meant to be funny add-on comments rather than understanding they’re actual search terms. Someone needs to tell her there is no point whatsoever to putting #anyoneseenmybraintoday? Weirdly, there’s hardly anything personal at all. No pics of her, or other people and only a handful that show the inside of her house – a Victorian terrace, from what I can make out. I scroll over one and realise there’s a toy kitchen in the corner of the room. She’s got little kids? I peer at it more closely. Most parents I know –
my sister for example – have their kids in pretty much every, single picture they post. I guess Charlotte is just very private. Maybe that’s her problem and why this page has no identity whatsoever but, given how striking she is in real life, it’s also a strange decision. Who wouldn’t want to look at her? She’s fabulous.

  I turn over in bed again and switch to her Twitter, which is even worse. Just a pinned tweet saying she hardly ever tweets and redirecting potential followers to her Facebook page, which in turn is much of the same as her Insta. Fifty Shades of Beige. Wow.

  Well, I get why she wants a new public persona, that’s for sure, but approaching me to be her is a pretty extreme way of going about it. In fact, it feels even more outlandish the morning after the night before. What makes someone proposition a virtual stranger like that? She’s either completely convinced that this new book she’s written is SO good she’s not messing, and bringing in the big guns from the outset to do whatever it takes to make it work… or she’s completely mad.

  I hesitate – but she didn’t seem mental. I’ve both been one, and had my share of, crazies… mostly at the stage door. Everyone has. The super-keen fan who is convinced you should be best friends. The dodgy bloke following you on Twitter; the pushy mum who pretends to want to ask your advice about how to get her daughter into stage school, but is really hoping you know the producer and will introduce her. Charlotte was none of those. She was very – poised.

  She spoke about life-changing sums of money so calmly, like it was normal. I chew my lip. I mean, it happens. People make a lot of money from films, books and music. Millions and millions of pounds. Obscene amounts of money… and she’s obviously an established writer, that’s not in doubt. I completely remember speaking to her at the Edinburgh book festival. She looked so different then – and getting to ten books doesn’t happen overnight. If it were to all work out as she promised… I jump up suddenly, throwing back the covers. Did I keep the book she signed or actually give it to Kirsty? I scan the extensive shelves in the sitting room, mostly full of my parent’s books – but there’s nothing. Instead, I look her up on Amazon. It turns out she’s got quite a few decent reader reviews… although one of the top ones for her first book, about the crazy lady, is a one star total takedown that baldly states: ‘The writer has either never been in a relationship or has only been in dysfunctional ones.’ Ouch… But it’s a novel, right? So fair to assume Charlotte made the story up and didn’t, in fact, base it on real life, as this person is obviously suggesting? I buy it with one click. And just like that, it’s on the way to me, all set for delivery in the morning.