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

by Lucy Dawson

  I’ve just got it in the oven when it all kicks off again in the sitting room. Teddy deliberately wallops Clara with a cushion for overruling his choice of film and the zip catches her cheek, making her cry. Teddy cries too, first with genuine regret when he sees the small line of blood on her face… then with fury when I have no choice but to sit him on the stairs again.

  ‘I hate you, Mummy!’ he bellows, then bursts back into the kitchen – where I have just sat down – grabs something and runs back out. I follow him out to discover it’s his harmonica. ‘I’m going to sit on the stairs and PLAY SAD SONGS!’ he announces dramatically.

  I manage not to both laugh and cry. Instead, I make him apologise to Clara, again, re-settle them and return to wash up the cheese-sauce pan and lay the table. As I walk back to the kitchen I consider texting Tris to tell him what Teddy has just said. Normally, that’s the kind of thing I would do, message him with the funny anecdotes, so he doesn’t miss out – but my phone is already lit up on the table when I pick it up.

  All OK? Just got back to hotel. Cold here. Miss you all. Back Wednesday xxx

  I place it back down carefully, sit down and put my elbows on the table, clasping my hands as if in prayer and rest my chin on my outstretched thumbs, thoughtfully. The lid on the broccoli is lifting and jiggling as the steam gathers in the pan beneath it. It’s ready to come off the hob. The water will boil dry otherwise, out of sight and start to burn, getting hotter and hotter.

  I sit and think for a moment, then find Mia on Facebook. Via Messenger, I tell her that, coincidentally, I am in London tomorrow and am available to meet her at 11.30 a.m. on the steps to St Martin-in-the-Fields, should that be helpful, and I’m very flattered she would like my advice.

  I do not regret it the second I’ve sent it.

  Quite the opposite, in fact.

  EIGHT

  MIA

  Charlotte stirs her tea slowly, tucked away at our table in the corner of the Crypt restaurant, her back against the wall.

  ‘I told you not to contact me.’ She places the spoon carefully on the saucer, reaches for a napkin and delicately wipes her fingers. ‘I shouldn’t even be here now given you pretty much failed at the first hurdle.’ She sits back, crosses her legs and rests her now-spotless hands lightly on her knee. ‘When my first serious boyfriend was at university,’ she lowers her voice, like she’s telling me a secret, and I find myself leaning in, ‘he applied for a graduate recruitment scheme in Customs and Excise, but a different department within the civil service contacted him instead, asking them to come to an interview with them. Could he report to London on such and such day, but with strict instructions not to discuss this request with anyone at this stage, please? He was very excited. Practically started referring to himself as 007.’ She picks up her tea and takes a small sip. ‘He dutifully turned up at the specified address and announced to the receptionist “I’m here for the MI5 interview”.’ Charlotte smiles brightly at me. ‘He did not get the job.’

  I let my gaze fall, chastened. ‘OK. I’m sorry,’ I stammer. ‘I just thought you might have forgotten what we discussed.’

  She gives a short, sharp sigh. ‘You can’t possibly think I’ve asked several girls if they want to pretend to be me? How long do you think that would take to get around?’

  I hesitate. She’s got a point.

  ‘If people start to gossip, this won’t work. You were my first choice. You are my only choice.’

  Brightening, I look up again.

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’ She isn’t smiling anymore. ‘I need you to make this work. So please don’t force me to have to walk away.’ She reaches for her cup again. In contrast to last week’s vintage glam, today she is more conservatively dressed. Her dark hair is in a sleek ponytail and her pale skin is accentuated by a black polo neck tucked into tailored trousers, over heels. She looks like she’s stepped out of a full day of board meetings to take an early lunch.

  ‘From now on, if you need to contact me, please do it via direct email only and make no mention of our arrangement whatsoever. We’ll have to carry on pretending any contact between us is simply about me offering you advice now, after what you put on Sunday night.’

  ‘Well at least that’s plausible, I guess?’ I try a smile.

  ‘Not really, no,’ she says crushingly. ‘Normally at most I’d send a wannabe writer a brief email with some useful weblinks. I’d never offer to meet someone in person like this.’

  I can’t help but think all of this secrecy and trail covering is a bit over the top, but remind myself she’s a thriller writer. It’s probably an occupational hazard. I bet she sticks a plaster over her computer lens in case people are watching her remotely, too. ‘Would you like to get me a pay-as-you-go phone instead?’ I’m joking but she doesn’t react. ‘My point is, ‘I try again, ‘what we’re doing isn’t illegal, is it? If it all came out at some point, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It would probably result in more publicity.’

  ‘Not the kind that would help us,’ she replies. ‘It would wipe several zeros off the value of the deal for a kick off and, reputation-wise, you’d be OK, but I’d be ruined. At best I’d look desperate, pathetic – slightly mad, in fact – at worst I’d be shunned for barefaced lying and trying to cheat the system everyone else has to suffer. I’m risking a huge amount here, Mia.’ She clears her throat and holds her head high. ‘So, last chance. Take this seriously. There’s got to be nothing linking me to your book. We do this properly, or not at all.’ She reaches down into her handbag and pulls out a memory stick, pushing it across the table. ‘This is the manuscript. Are you in, or not?’

  I still want to giggle at the ‘Mission Impossible’ nature of it all, but I actually think it might be partly due to nerves. She’s not messing around.

  Have you met my daughter, the actress and published author?

  Dad’s words echo in my mind. He was so proud. I take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’m in.’

  ‘Well pick it up then.’ She gestures at the memory stick. ‘Have you got a computer?’

  ‘Yes, of course. At home. I’ll download it when I get back tonight.’ I slip it into my coat pocket.

  ‘That’s no good. We need to send this book out today.’ She chews her lip and thinks. ‘OK, in a minute, I want you to call Ruth.’

  I’m puzzled. ‘My agent’s assistant, Ruth?’

  ‘As opposed to my great-aunt Ruth who lives in the Cotswolds?’ She retorts. ‘Yes, of course your agent’s assistant.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need to be mean.’ My voice wavers slightly. ‘How do you know her name anyway?’

  She closes her eyes briefly, as if frustrated and trying to calm down, then continues evenly. ‘Because I’ve done my homework. I’m sorry if I upset you, Mia. I wasn’t trying to be “mean”. As I was saying, you’re going to need to call Ruth, because you don’t have a direct line through to your actual agent, Cary, do you? That treatment would be reserved for one of his major clients like Cate, Emily or Gillian. Not someone much lower down the pecking order, like you.’

  I flush, silenced by her humiliating accuracy.

  ‘Don’t feel badly about that.’ She sounds more kindly. ‘The point is, he is your agent and his name alone opens doors. For our purposes that’s all that matters. You need to tell Ruth you’ve written a book that an editor you know socially has offered to buy from you direct… but you thought you ought to run it past Cary first.’

  ‘I’m going to need to write this down if you want me to learn lines.’ I start to dig around in my bag, finding a biro, but no paper.

  Charlotte picks up her leather-bound notebook, rips out a page and pushes it across the table. ‘Here.’ She waits for me to start scribbling. ‘Tell Ruth you’re getting quite a lot of pressure from this editor friend of yours to sign. You need to make it sound like she really wants it. If Ruth asks for more detail, tell her you’d rather not say at this stage, but you’ll drop the book in on your way to work. Normally yo
u’d just email it, but let’s give them something to physically hold in their hands, make it all feel a bit more real.’ She pauses to think. ‘There’s a photocopy and print shop on Shaftesbury Avenue. Take the memory stick there and ask them to run off a copy for you. That’ll probably cost about forty quid. Here.’ She reaches into her bag again, pulls out a smart purse and holds out two crisp £20 notes.

  I stare at her, my mouth having fallen open. ‘I’m not a bloody intern! I actually do have to go to work today, thanks very much!’

  Her expression doesn’t change. ‘They’ll print it then and there, and your agent’s office is in Soho. That’s about ten minutes’ walk from the theatre at most. You’ve got all afternoon. If I can write the “bloody” thing,’ she mimics me, ‘the least you can do is deliver it.’

  I fall silent, reach out and rather sulkily take the money.

  ‘That’s better. Now listen, because this bit is important. You need to start reading this book tonight when you get home. Yes, tonight!’ she repeats, exasperated, when I start to protest again. ‘You’re telling me you wouldn’t read a script overnight if it was attached to a role worth half a million? Because that’s what this is. Your script – and if I’m right, whoever reads it in the books department will be coming back to you within a day or two. Cary is royalty. So read it.’ She picks up her phone and checks it. ‘Any questions?’

  I scan everything I’ve noted down. ‘This is why you wanted me then?’ I say eventually. ‘Just because Cary is my agent?’

  She looks at me sympathetically. ‘Not just that. I told you, I remembered you from Edinburgh. I knew you were the right sort of age and I also knew I needed someone who, for whatever reason, hasn’t quite had the professional luck she probably deserves.’

  I suppose I should be pleased. Being a bit shit has never got me a job before. I try to smile.

  ‘Come on, chin up!’ she says briskly. ‘You have a really good agent, Mia. Let’s use him. Make him kick down some doors for you, hey?’ She leans forward and smiles properly for the first time, like we’re in this together. I feel better immediately. She’s very good at making people feel special when she wants to.

  ‘I read your first book,’ I blurt. ‘Your first published one, I mean. The one you told me about last Thursday in the bar. I enjoyed it.’

  She glances at me as she stands up. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did someone cheat on you in real life? It read like it did… my fiancé ran off with my best friend.’ I add on the last bit by way of explanation but, instead, it just sounds like a very lame teenage attempt at bonding.

  Charlotte stops, frowns, sits back down slowly and puts her coat across her lap.

  I clear my throat awkwardly. ‘I recognised a lot of the feelings of grief when a relationship ends and there’s nothing you can do to stop it happening, however hard you try. That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Aren’t you a bit young to have been engaged?’

  I shrug. ‘By today’s standards, maybe, I guess? My mum was married and had my sister by the time she was my age though. She’s still happily married to my dad.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear you had a rough time. That must have been very difficult for you.’

  Out of nowhere, like a prat, I feel a lump rise up in my throat. One day it’ll all stop having an actual physical effect on me. ‘It was a bit,’ I admit. ‘I didn’t handle it very well. I didn’t pull any of the tricks in your book,’ I add quickly. ‘I just mean I was unhappy and it sort of triggered some stuff that made me a bit ill for a while. I’m adopted,’ I confess. ‘In fact in Edinburgh, I was…’ I hesitate, look at her and change my mind about continuing. ‘Actually never mind that.’ I cough and start again. ‘When my fiancé dumped me for my best friend, I was devastated. I thought we were going to do the whole thing: wedding, children… be a family – I was really shocked. He was basically saying I wasn’t enough. I was sort of coping with that in the normal way but I’d also started trying to get in contact with my birth parents when I thought I was getting married. It had stirred up a lot of stuff about not knowing who I really was, them not being at the wedding when this huge thing was happening to me…. Anyway about a week after we split, I discovered my birth father wasn’t alive anymore and all of it just exploded in my head.’ I take a sip of my now-lukewarm tea and wish I hadn’t. ‘I couldn’t cope with that much loss. My birth parents weren’t ever together, it’s not like they were ever out there being a family without me, but it still felt… hard. Then I started going through this period where I found it really difficult to be around my adoptive family. Basically I felt guilty for being so upset about my birth father when he wasn’t the one who’d done so much for me. It got messy.’ I stop to take a breath.

  Charlotte doesn’t say a word. Just waits for me to continue. I can’t work out what she’s thinking, which makes me more nervous and like I need to carry on talking. She’d be a good counsellor. ‘I kind of did go a bit mad after that, if I’m honest. I ended up sort of transferring my grief onto what had happened with Hugo and my best friend, which gave it a disproportional power over me, you know? Plus, my real name is Amy, but I dropped it completely. I didn’t know how to be her anymore, or who she even was, so I kind of made myself into Mia full time, instead. This probably does sound mental, doesn’t it? I should shut up. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t at all. I knew a little girl called Tara when she was born and for various reasons her name was changed when she was six months old. She wouldn’t have remembered, but I’ve often wondered if it made any difference to her, subconsciously. If she ever felt like someone she wasn’t.’ Charlotte shrugs. ‘From what you say, perhaps it did.’

  ‘For me it was about taking back some control, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘That’s really important after something that shakes you to your core. I had an absent parent for a large chunk of my life and that was bad enough. I told all of my friends he was a spy and wasn’t allowed to tell us where he was.’ She briefly smiles. ‘I’m sorry for your troubles.’

  ‘Thanks. You too.’

  ‘Do you have any contact with your birth mother now?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t want to.’ I shrug. ‘It’s cool. I’m grateful to her for putting me up for adoption and wanting a better life for me, but my mum, dad, brother and sister are the ones that have been there my whole life. They’re my family.’

  Charlotte nods silently, which is fair enough. What can you say really? As usual, I’ve said too much. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to end up talking about my ex.’

  She half-smiles. ‘It’s OK. How did you meet your current boyfriend?’

  Oh, she’s really good; the classic counsellor trick of closing a negative experience by asking about a positive one instead. But I’m happy to share. I could talk about Seth all day long. ‘On a train station,’ I say shyly. ‘I was going through London Bridge at the same time every morning while we were in rehearsals for the play I’m in now. On the last day in that location – I wouldn’t have been there the morning after that, he’d have missed me – he came up and said he’d noticed me. He didn’t want me to think he was a weirdo perv, or something.’ I laugh. ‘We had a coffee and just clicked, although Seth would probably tell you I talked too much and he just listened. He’s very kind. Last night he just turned up after work with flowers for me, even though it was really late and he’d had to hang around after work for ages waiting for me to finish.’

  She smiles. ‘That’s sweet. He sounds nice. Well, as we’re exchanging confidences… sealing the deal, as it were… I’ll tell you something no one else knows. In answer to your original question, yes, my first serious boyfriend – the wannabe 007 – who became my fiancé, did the dirty on me.’ She sits back, reaches into her bag and pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

  For a mad moment I think she’s actually going to light it in here, but she doesn’t, just pulls one out and holds it between her fingers. ‘I found out about it but I didn’t tell him. I wai
ted to see if it would finish and lo and behold – it did.’ She gestures with her hands, holding them wide as if something has vanished into thin air. ‘I don’t think it was actually anything more than a two or three night stand in reality, but everything in that book you read is the hurt I felt, turned into words.’ She peers in her bag and pulls out a lighter.

  ‘At the time I thought I was getting it out of my system, but now I think my real motivation was wanting to show Daniel that I knew. I’d known all along and I wanted him to see how it made me feel.’ She shrugs. ‘It didn’t hurt anyone else. I exorcised a few demons and I got a book published into the bargain. All of the characters were made-up, of course, and no one else knew about his affair apart from my sister. However,’ she points the unlit cigarette at me, ‘he had the final word, after all, because he never actually bothered to read it and was totally oblivious to my silent protest. So there we are.’ She laughs.

  ‘Why didn’t you just leave him?’

  ‘I was also pregnant, very young and very frightened. He was my childhood sweetheart. We’d been together since we were fifteen. I loved him very much. I was very stupid. Take your pick.’

  ‘What happened then? You just stayed with him?’

  She clears her throat. ‘Well, I lost the baby.’ She rubs her forehead, briefly touches the cigarette to her lips and pulls it away again. She’s obviously completely desperate to light it. ‘And two years after that, Daniel sadly died.’ She turns her unflinching gaze back to me.

  ‘How?’ I whisper, spellbound, before I even realise how inappropriate a question that is.

  ‘He fell from a balcony while we were on holiday in Tenerife of all places. He was very drunk.’

  I gasp. ‘I’m so sorry!’