Love, Lies and Immortal Ties: A young adult paranormal romance (Love, Lies and Ties Book 1)

by C. J. Laurence

  If you manage to live through it, I thought to myself.

  Sophie interrupted the tension, putting our starters in front of us. Perfectly arranged on a side plate, like something from a restaurant, I couldn’t wait to dig in. A bed of iceberg lettuce, only the crunchy parts, giant king prawns interspersed with small prawns, sliced cherry tomatoes, chopped spring onions, and drowning in Marie Rose sauce, I instantly started drooling.

  “This looks amazing,” I said to Sophie. “Anyone would think you’ve made it just for me.”

  She smirked and squeezed my shoulder gently. “I’ll start cooking the mains?”

  Dad nodded. “Thank you, Sophie.”

  She smiled and went back to the kitchen.

  I dug into my prawns and groaned in satisfaction. Absolute heaven. “What’s for mains?”

  “Your favourite of course,” Dad said. “Seafood stir fry.”

  I gasped. “No. Really? Sophie’s homemade one?”

  “Well of course. Only the best for my baby girl,” Dad replied, grinning wildly.

  Seeing him smile so broadly almost made him look like his old self again, a man full of life and laughter. The heavy bags under his eyes said otherwise though. I just wanted to wrap him up in cotton wool and force him to sleep for a month.

  “What’s sparked this?” I said, cramming more prawns in my mouth.

  “Nothing,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He kept his eyes on his plate though. “I just thought it would be nice and cosy.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me that then.”

  Dad could never look anyone in the eye and lie. His lack of eye contact was his only giveaway to when things weren’t right.

  He froze. “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s not fair if you’re lying to me,” I said, crunching on some lettuce.

  Letting out a big sigh, he finally looked up and said, “Finish your food first. Then we’ll talk.”

  I knew it. Part of me felt relieved there was a reason behind this over the top lunch but another part of me felt disappointed it wasn’t just for the sake of it. Why was he buttering me up with my favourite dishes?

  As I rushed through my food, my mind raced with what he could possibly be wanting to tell me. I stabbed four giant prawns onto my fork, a piece of lettuce, and a slice of tomato.

  Dad glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “It’s not that exciting, Cat, trust me.”

  I grinned. “It might be to me.”

  He sighed and sat back. “For the sake of saving you indigestion, I'll tell you now. Just slow down and eat like a normal person. Not like a rabid dog. Please.”

  As a compromise, I used my knife to scrape the tomato and two of the prawns off my fork. Battle; won. The sizzling from the wok as Sophie put the ingredients in almost deafened me.

  “Sorry,” she shouted.

  I grinned. I didn’t care. She could deafen me. Her stir fry was to die for, I'd gladly take being deaf.

  Dad cleared his throat. That wasn’t a good sign. It was a habit he had when he was nervous. “I wanted to talk to you about showing you how to do the books. I mean, the accountant will do the worst of it, but I need to show you how to keep receipts, invoice, pay, and sort wages. It's not that complicated.” He laughed. “I mean if I can do it, I'm sure you can.”

  I couldn’t help but feel annoyed. I don’t know whether emotions from this morning were still leftover or if I just felt incredibly sensitive about the whole thing, but this felt horribly hypocritical right now.

  I licked my lips and narrowed my eyes at him. “And why do you need to show me how to do that?”

  His forehead creased in confusion. “You know why, Caitlyn. Because of what’s going on.”

  “I’m sorry. What?” I put my fork down and put my arms on the table, pushing my plate forwards.

  He stilled, his grey eyes roving over my face at a rate of knots. “I...I don’t understand.”

  “Are you talking about the same thing that you put in Austria no less than five minutes ago? Just because I wanted to ask if you’re ok. Now suddenly, it’s good to talk about because it suits you. I didn’t realise the terms of our relationship changed to be completely one sided.”

  The clunking of the wooden spatula against the wok stopped. Dad opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Other than the hissing from the wok, not a noise could be heard. The atmosphere became more fraught with each second that passed.

  I began to wonder if I'd crossed a line, but I felt completely justified in what I'd said. Why was it only ok to talk about it when it suited him? This terrible disease affected everyone around Dad as well as Dad himself. Why couldn’t he see that?

  “You’re right, Caitlyn. I'm sorry,” he said. “Let’s bring it out of Austria.”

  I hesitated for a moment. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “If it helps our relationship, then yes.”

  I reached across the table and grabbed one his hands. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  He placed his other hand on top of mine and patted it gently. “Will you be a little diamond and go and fetch my diary from my room please? It’s on my desk. I want to schedule proper times so we can go through all of this.”

  “Of course,” I said, smiling. I felt like him asking me to do something for him was a massive step forwards, even if it was something as pathetic as fetching a diary. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  I scraped my chair back and jogged down the hallway to his room. His bed sat on the right-hand side of the room, next to the window. The back wall had been lined with a giant bookcase from floor to ceiling, crammed full of old classics, Dad’s favourite. To the left sat his dark wooden desk, a proper old school type made of thick wood and decorated with brass hinges and handles.

  Walking over to it, my eyes were already looking across its smooth surface. His forest green leather desk pad dominated the majority of the work surface. However, nothing else sat on it. It was completely clear of any clutter. Very unusual for Dad.

  Maybe he’d tidied it all away and forgotten. I opened the drawers on the right of the desk, rummaging through looking for his black leather diary. The first drawer had heaps of pens and post it notes. The second drawer had a handful of boiled sweets in. Deeper than the other two drawers, the third had enough space for hanging files so I figured his diary must be in there.

  Bits of paper stuck out from all the files; an endless mound of wasted tree stuffed inside a tree. The irony made me chuckle. His A5 sized diary I soon found placed in the middle of a file, surrounded by more paper. As I pulled it out, a piece of paper came with it, trapped in between a couple of the pages of the diary.

  I yanked it out and went to slip it back inside the file. But then I saw the logo for the NHS. Curiosity won me over and I couldn’t help but turn the letter over to read it. I scanned over the words, my brain not really registering anything. All I managed to focus on was ‘pleural mesothelioma’ and ‘prognosis of six to twelve months’.

  That was nothing new, after all, I’d moved up here because his cancer was terminal. Seeing it in writing though just hit it home even harder. I sighed and bit back the tears. Wishing I’d never turned the damn thing over in the first place, I went to put it back in the hanging file, until my eyes caught something.

  The date of the letter.

  19th November 2018.

  Eight months ago.

  Chapter 10

  I started shaking. He told me nothing of it until after my visit at Easter. He dropped the bombshell of being terminal only two weeks ago but according to this letter, he knew it before Christmas. Had he really been lying to me all these months?

  “Have you found it?” Dad shouted.

  I sucked in a deep breath and yelled back, “Yes, coming!”

  Stuffing the letter back in its file, I told myself to get it together and marched out of his room, pushing my latest discovery to the back of my mind. I didn’t want to fall out with him again when things were already tense between us.


  As soon as I saw him sat in his chair, smiling and enjoying himself, I realised that now was definitely not the time to bring it up. He was happy and temporarily free from his illness whilst he laughed and joked with Sophie.

  “Here you go,” I said, putting his diary down in front of him. “I found it in your bottom draw, not on your desk.”

  “Thanks, pumpkin.” He motioned to my plate which still had food on it and said, “Sophie is nearly ready with the mains so eat up.”

  I really didn’t feel like eating. Nausea swirled about inside me like a ship in a storm. I felt like any moment I might be sick, but I couldn’t ruin his happy bubble right now. Not after I'd already had a go at him no less than ten minutes ago.

  Smiling and pretending everything was ok, I picked up my fork and started eating the remaining prawns and lettuce. It all tasted like cardboard, mushy, tasteless cardboard. I forced myself to swallow it and as it slid down my throat towards my stomach, I struggled not to gag. The more I thought about how much I loved prawns, the worse the retching became.

  “Are you ok?” Dad asked, peering at me from across the table.

  I nodded and pushed my chair back, covering my mouth with my hand. I rushed to the sink just as all my food came back up, streaming through my fingers in a gooey mess.

  Sophie rushed to my side and started rubbing my back gently. She held my hair back and said, “Are you ok, Cat?”

  I nodded and leaned my forearms on the sink. Trembling, as I always did after being sick, I reached for the tap and turned the cold water on, washing my hands, my face, and then rinsing my mouth out.

  “Pumpkin?” Dad said, the waiver in his voice hard to miss.

  “I’m ok, Dad,” I replied, trying to gauge whether I was done being ill.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded as Sophie passed me an empty glass. I filled it with water and sipped at it slowly, expecting the coldness to shock yet more food out of me.

  “Hey, you ok?” Luke said.

  I turned my head to the right to see him striding into the kitchen, concern creasing his handsome face with worry lines. I really wanted to tell him what I'd found but I couldn’t, not in front of Dad at least.

  “She’s just thrown up her favourite food,” Sophie said, still rubbing my back. “Very out of character.”

  Luke raised an eyebrow as his eyes drifted down to my stomach.

  “No,” I said, my voice cracking because I said it so firmly.

  He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “I know a good remedy for sickness.” He made his way to one of the kitchen cupboards, rustled around inside for a few seconds, then pulled out a packet of biscuits. “Ginger. Cures nausea like that,” he said, clicking his fingers together.

  When he passed me the orange packet, I eyed them warily. This sounded like an old wife's tale, an old-fashioned cure that worked back in the sixties or something.

  “Just trust me,” he said, tweaking his lips up into a smile.

  “If this makes me throw up again, I’m doing it all over you,” I said, picking a biscuit out from the open end.

  He chuckled. “It’s a good job I believe in my remedies then.”

  I nibbled at the biscuit tentatively, literally taking no more than a few crumbs.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “That’s pathetic. Take a decent bite. I promise it will work.”

  I knew my body though. After I'd been sick, it would reject any food or liquid for at least twelve hours, every time. Still, I did as he said, more to humour him than anything. I wasn’t a fan of ginger at the best of times. In this biscuit form, all I could taste was a weird mix of spice and sugar.

  He stood to my right, his arms folded over his chest, and a stupid annoying grin all over his face.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” I said.

  “This is just my victory face, nothing more.”

  Dad chuckled as Sophie slapped his shoulder. “Stop it,” she said, telling Luke off. “You’d better hope this works or I'll be coming after you too.”

  “No faith,” Luke said, feigning hurt as he slapped a hand over his chest. “I’m deeply offended.”

  I took another sip of water and waited for the biscuit to come back up, but it didn’t. I finished the biscuit off and over the next few minutes, ate another two and drank all the water. My stomach felt less cramped and painful and the nausea seemed to be subsiding.

  “Can I say I told you so yet?” Luke said, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  Sophie whipped his leg with a tea towel. “You’re an insufferable beast, Luke Freeman.”

  He laughed. “I save the day and that’s my reward? At least give me Cat’s plate of stir fry seeing as she won’t be eating it.”

  “I will not,” Sophie said, all but scoffing at him. “I’m putting it in the fridge so she can have it later on or tomorrow. It better be there when she wants it, Luke Freeman, or so help me God, I will strike you down with lightning myself.”

  “I’m genuinely hurt you think I would steal food from a lady,” he replied, smirking at her.

  “Ooooo,” she said, frowning. “You are nothing but a wind-up merchant. Get out of my kitchen.” Sophie chased him out with the tea towel, her cheeks becoming more and more flushed as he laughed his way back upstairs.

  “I best go help him finish the rooms,” I said, looking at Dad.

  “Nonsense. You’re going to rest. Go and have a nap, relax.”

  “Dad—”

  “Less of it, Caitlyn. I'm the boss and your father. You do as I say,” he said, breaking out into a wide grin. “Luke can manage the top floor on his own. He's a big boy.”

  I really wanted to talk to Luke about what I'd found. Then I remembered I had him on Facebook. “Ok, Daddy,” I said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  I ambled out of the kitchen and outside to my door. As I opened it and wandered down the corridor to my apartment, I pulled out my phone and found Luke on Messenger.

  Me: I need to talk to you. There is a reason I was sick. I’m in my apartment. Can you come see me when you’re done please?

  I sat on my bed and watched, waiting, for the grey tick to turn to his tiny profile picture to show he’d read it. The more I stared at it, the longer it seemed to take for him to reply. After a couple of minutes, he finally read it. Then I had to wait as the three little dots at the bottom danced around as he replied.

  Luke: *baby emoji* I'll bring the ginger biscuits

  Me: Not funny. I’m not pregnant. Please bring vodka.

  Luke: Anything is possible *wink face* I prefer Bacardi personally

  Me: Last time I checked my name wasn’t Mary and I don’t care for your preferences lol

  Luke: Ouch. That burned.

  Me: That’s what happens when you play with fire

  Luke: I don’t play with fire I am the fire *flame emoji*

  Me: LMAO

  Propping my pillows up behind me, I leaned back against the headboard and flicked the TV into life, still absolutely amazed that it came out of the end of my bed. I doubted that trick would ever get old.

  I surfed through the channels, finally settling on re-runs of Judge Judy. I loved her. She was savage with some people and very kind to others. Her ability to read people though never seemed to fail. I wondered what her observational talents would make of Marcus.

  My heart stilled. Marcus. What was I supposed to do about tonight? Did I risk going or not? If he took me out somewhere and I ended up throwing up, it would be so embarrassing. I didn’t have that much faith in Luke’s home remedy to risk it.

  I made a mental note to call him after I'd seen Luke. Letting out a sigh, I moved the pillows and laid out across the bed on my side, watching Judge Judy annihilate some dead-beat dad who hadn’t paid child support for six years.

  My eyes soon felt heavy and sore and I closed them briefly to stop the stinging.

  “Caitlyn.”

  I fluttered my eyes open, my brain spinning trying to make sense of where I
was. Judge Judy’s angry face stared at me.

  “Caitlyn.”

  The male voice finally registered in my head and I sat up to see Luke sitting next to my legs.

  “Earth to Caitlyn,” he said, snapping his fingers and grinning. “Do you not lay the conventional way in bed?”

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and yawned. “I lay however its comfortable, thank you.”

  “Come on,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me into a sitting up position. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  My stomach lurched again. At least asleep I had no conscious memory of it. I crossed my legs and then picked up a pillow and cuddled it into my lap.

  “When did Dad tell you about his cancer?”

  “Diagnosis or the terminal part?”

  “Either.”

  “I think it was Easter time for the diagnosis and the terminal part only a couple of weeks ago. Why?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and dug my fingers into my pillow. “I found a letter in his office. It was a copy of a letter that his consultant from the hospital sent to his GP about his cancer.”

  Luke frowned. “Right. Ok. That's quite normal, for patients to receive a copy of the correspondence between the hospital and their doctor.”

  I nodded. “I know, but this was a letter stating he only had between six and twelve months to live. It was basically his terminal cancer declaration.”

  “You knew that, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to force back the tears. “But this letter was dated November last year.”

  He gasped. “You must be mistaken.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not. I know what I saw. He's known for eight months that this was it, the end of the road. No wonder he was so determined not to have treatment—he’d already shut them down on it.”

  Luke scrubbed his giant hands over his face and let out a groan. “Now it all makes sense with all the renovations he’s been wanting me to do. I don’t even know what to say, Caitlyn. That’s a hell of a twist.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” I said. “I’m so angry but I don’t want to fall out with him over it. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, is it really that important?”