The Lies She Told: A wickedly twisted psychological thriller that you cannot put down!

by Paula Johnston

  He replied to my first message that I left on his picture almost instantly and we spoke for a little while in the comments section before we exchanged our instant messenger usernames so we could talk more freely and privately.

  By the end of the week, after messaging back and forth each night, I found myself racing home from work every night thereafter to check if he was online, desperate to get my fix. He was all I thought about and I was completely hooked on him like an addict to heroin, and although it’s been an ongoing saga for ten long years now, rehab has never been an option for me.

  Jacob

  Urgh, that fucking alarm. I groan grumpily as its angry siren forces me awake from a good night’s sleep. On a normal day I would press the snooze button on my phone and try and chase a few more minutes of sleep before I really needed to get up for work - but not today. The little calendar icon beneath my thumb tells me that it’s July 17th, but I already know what day it is, and I don’t need a reminder or an alert for this one, it’s deep-rooted in my memory.

  The fact that I remember what day it is, doesn't mean I’m proclaiming to be a hopeless romantic or anything. Far from it actually, I'm just a normal bloke. I definitely don’t remember every birthday or anniversary, especially ones I’m really supposed to, but I’ve just never been able to forget hers.

  In between all the flirtation and banter, she told me about her parents’ car accident which would have left her completely alone had it not been for her grandmother. However, from what I know of her, she didn’t care much for Karly; seen her as more of an inconvenience actually. A constant reminder of the daughter she had lost.

  Her birthday was never something that was acknowledged, just swept under the carpet, business as usual. How horrible that must have been for a kid; never receiving a present or even just blowing out candles on a bloody birthday cake. It made me feel sad, like really sad. My childhood was polar opposite to hers. It was warm and loving and every year I had a big fuss made over me despite the fact I had two older brothers, something else she never had. It stirred something unfamiliar inside of me, something beyond just sex chat and exposing pictures. Maybe that's where it changed for us. I began to feel protective of her, and when she finally caved and told me her date of birth, I made a promise to myself that I would always remember it, and I still do.

  I gently peel back the thick duvet and slowly dip my legs out of the bed, careful not to nudge Lauren as she sleeps soundly beside me. As I pad my way down the hall to the main bathroom, I check the time on my phone - 07:11. Perfect. I know her routine well and so she will be getting up for work shortly.

  I close the door quietly behind me and reach inside the glass cubicle to turn on the shower, switching the jets from medium to full power. Perching myself on the edge of the bath as I allow the steam to fill the room, I mull over what I’m about to do. It’s been a while since I last messaged her and she hasn’t bothered to try and get in touch with me either, but then again, she wouldn’t, not any more. She used to though, at the start. I had blocked her number in an attempt to get rid but almost every day a new email would arrive, begging me to talk to her. It was for the best that I didn’t reply to those and so I never did, even when I really wanted to.

  I think it’s been around three or four months since I last made a quick exit. A long time away from her, but not the longest I’ve ever cut contact for. I’m slightly annoyed at myself for relapsing, I was doing so well focusing on my job and spending time with Lauren, who has fairly recently become Mrs Cruthers, but I just can’t find it in me to ignore her; not today.

  My bare foot taps nervously as I run a hand through my hair, staring down at the empty text box on my screen, foolishly debating with myself if this will finally be the year where I don’t do it, where I stay away. A waste of time really because of course, I decide that it’s not, so fuck it, here we go.

  Happy Birthday Beautiful x

  Chapter 2

  Karly

  After spending a little extra time in bed this morning eagerly responding to his messages, I got up, went for a shower, dressed myself impeccably as always, and arrived at work with some time spare for me to grab a quick coffee from the pop-up Costa in Central Station before meeting my first client.

  On the train journey into the city this morning I blanked out all the grumpy and impatient commuters and allowed myself to drift into a soothing daydream of my ideal birthday morning; what it should be like.

  I pictured my breathtakingly handsome Jacob waltzing through our bedroom door, a tray full of all my favourite things balanced perfectly in his manly hands; a stack of warm fluffy pancakes with a little tub of melted chocolate for spreading, my favourite pink mug with beautifully painted eyelashes filled with a freshly brewed caramel latte from our household coffee machine, not forgetting the extra two shots of syrup, making it sickly sweet because of course, he knows that’s just how I like it.

  There might even be a single white rose delicately placed next to an envelope with my name on it, taken from a huge bouquet still waiting for me to discover elsewhere in our perfect little home. I guess it’s silly to call it a daydream really, because it’s much more than that. It’s an insight into our future, like a premonition. What a lovely morning this has turned out to be after all I think, as I check my lippy in the mirror before heading down to the shop floor.

  I think perhaps I spoke a bit too soon. My second client of the morning has been a bit of a handful to say the least. It’s so bloody frustrating when you get one like that: stuck up rich older women that think they know everything, but really don’t have a clue or else they wouldn't have hired me in the first place.

  I spent a copious amount of time rummaging through the busy rails for a suitable pair of tailored trousers that were described to me as bright fuchsia pink - but not too pink. She tried on five extremely similar pairs, that were all completely wrong in her opinion, before finally settling on the very first pair I had presented to her that she had now decided were perfect after all.

  Despite any difficult clients I get, I absolutely love my job. I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to be when I was growing up. The other kids at school all seemed to have big dreams, especially the girls. Optimistic ambitions of becoming a pop star or an actress with only a few with more realistic options like a vet or a doctor. Me, though, I didn’t have a clue. Granny didn’t work, and I suppose she didn’t need to because she was already filthy rich thanks to the money my grandad left her when he died. I never met him as he died before I was born but from what I know about him, money was never a problem. Mum and dad weren't dependent on anyone else though, at least not that I know of. They both worked long hours every day so we weren't poor by any means but there was no snobbery in our house. We were just a normal little family and had they still been around I might have been more career driven, but not having a hard-working role model to look up to left me a little lost in terms of career prospects.

  One thing I did know though was that I always enjoyed fashion, and for as long as I can remember I’ve had a strong eye for finding the perfect outfit to suit any occasion - probably because I had a lot of practice of choosing my own whilst growing up since granny wasn't in the least bit interested. She bought me new items when I took a stretch or my shoes were looking a little bit scuffed but there was never anything special about them. With the little I had, I taught myself how to pair the same top with different bottoms or the same dress but with the sleeves chopped off. It gave me peace in a dark place, proof that I could be independent too by doing something I was actually good at.

  I started working in a busy department store on Argyle Street on the weekends when I was just sixteen and desperate to leave school. It wasn’t because I was bad at school, far from it, but I didn’t have many friends there and wanted to reinvent myself. I no longer wanted to be known as the girl whose parents died, the girl who never had someone show up to plays, the girl who ate her lunch in the corner by herself.

  I worked hard in my firs
t job, replenishing stock, chatting to customers in the fitting rooms and in general showing a fresh eagerness to learn and so it wasn’t long before I was offered full time hours. I was over the moon and could finally leave school once and for all. No more bunking off and wandering around the shops in the cold. I loved working, I felt so grown up and nobody looked at me with pity.

  I did everything I could to climb my way up the career ladder, proudly bagging promotion after promotion. It was only when granny passed away that I decided to try my hand at something else. I could work in any concession department you put me in but now that I had a taste for it, I craved more and more independence.

  I applied for a Personal Shopper position within the same department store and was offered the job on the spot during my interview, naturally of course. Although I still worked inside the same store, it was not for one specific company and instead of a healthy managerial wage, I only earned the big bucks if my own client base was high. Minimum wage was all I received as a base which sucked to begin with, but the right person could earn a shit load more with the commission structure, which I inevitably did.

  It wasn’t a massive risk really though. If things hadn’t worked out in my new venture and I wasn’t making much money it didn’t matter now that I had inherited plenty of Granny's money to fall back on. Even though she had no other living relatives and I was her only grandchild, I was still positively stunned to find that she had left me that lavishly oversized house of hers, which I sold instantly to buy something of my own. Something much smaller, better suited to just one person, less pretentious, less hollow. I settled on a little flat just outside the city centre that was close enough to everything I would ever need without having to drive a car - a life decision I made at an early age.

  My little flat only cost a fraction of the money her house was worth and so I squandered some of what was left over on designer clothes and expensive jewellery, paired with plenty of shoes and chic handbags of course. Any girl in my position would have. I wasn’t entirely reckless though. I still have a healthy bundle tucked away for when Jacob finally asks me to move to London to be with him. I will need to be able to pay my own way; I don’t expect anyone to look after me, I never have.

  Fortunately, but not surprisingly, things worked out in my favour, which meant I had both granny’s money and plenty of my own. I'm extremely successful and I have a constant flow of social media influencers and local celebrities requesting my services. My diary is full to the brim for at least the next four months and I also have a healthy waiting list for any rare cancelled appointments which means most of my days are exactly like this one - jam packed with barely any time to grab something to eat throughout the day.

  I usually enjoy being so busy, I thrive off my popularity but now that I have Jacobs attention again, I really wish I wasn’t at work today at all. Maybe I should have taken a holiday so I had more time to speak to him, but then again how could I have known he would message me so early? His message might not have arrived until later tonight.

  As always, he is his usual charming and cock-sure self that I have to admit, I absolutely adore. He mocks some of the words I use; Scottish slang that is foreign to a Londoner, and it makes me laugh. It’s comforting to know that he’s missed me just as much as I’ve missed him. Not that he’s told me, but I can tell for myself by how quickly he’s replying to each message.

  The thing I don’t tell most people, not that there is much to tell anyway, is that I’ve never met Jacob in the flesh. I try not to let it bother me too much. It’s a little bit annoying of course, but not enough to stop this thing between us.

  I've heard all the theatrical horror stories of people pretending to be someone they’re not; using fake pictures to lure naïve people into their dark lair, all the while having an ulterior motive. Those stories are scary, I've watched the TV show Catfish just like the rest of us, but that would never happen to me, I’m much too smart to fall for anything like that. And anyway, I’ve seen plenty of pictures of him over the years to know that he is who he says he is. He would never lie to me.

  The fact that we’ve never met and still have such a strong connection speaks for itself. It's beautiful really, and I believe that I know him on a more intimate level than anyone else because of this. I'm not blinded by a touch of his hand or the taste of his kiss. What I feel is pure and authentic.

  I understand that some people might have an unsavoury opinion on our relationship if they knew, and I know what they would say - that I can’t possibly love someone I’ve never met - but I assure you that you can, and I do. I tell Jacob everything; stories from my shitty childhood, my likes and dislike, my bad habits – I even tell him about my nightmares. All the normal types of things you would discuss with a partner, no different to anyone else, and by confiding in someone for as many years as we have about all these personal things, it’s inevitable you grow close. The only possible way we could get any closer, is if it were in person.

  The main reason we have never met properly is that we live at opposite ends of the country; me being Scotland and him being London. Not that it’s ever been an issue for me, nothing as minor as postcodes could convince me not to be with him. It really isn’t even that far either. People have successful long-distance relationships all the time. I would drop everything quicker than a hot curling iron to catch that flight to London if he asked me to.

  I might have even broken my own rule and learned to drive for him. It would only have been a matter of waiting for the word go and I would have readily drove the 8 – 9 hours if he had asked me to. Thinking about it, I probably still would.

  The thing with him though is that there has always been some sort of heavy resistance. A dead weight that you just can't seem to budge no matter how hard you push or pull. Each time I urged him to set a date for us to meet up, the more he would pull away and serve me up another lame excuse.

  A problem with his kidneys - that’s what he told me the very first time. He had a job lined up in Glasgow at some fancy hotel doing electrical work before he went AWOL. It was perfect really, we wanted to be together and he happened to have this amazing opportunity to work in the city of Glasgow with me set in motion and ready to go. When he came back to me after those six long months, he couldn't apologise more. Apparently, he was taken into hospital as a matter of urgency and kept in for some time, resulting in him missing his opportunity to work in Scotland – and in return be with me. That was just the first time though. I don’t know if I believe all of the excuses that followed after that as some were a bit far-fetched, but I do think that one was genuine.

  There have been times where we’ve almost come close. I’ve travelled to London for work on several occasions and it could have been so easy for us to meet, but even then, he had an excuse for every failed attempt.

  After a few years of the same, he met her and I upped the ante, desperately needing to get to him before things went too far between them and so I pushed harder than ever before. I even pretended that there was a possibility of me moving to London for work permanently, meaning there would be no further issues with distance, no more excuses to be made. I know I shouldn’t have lied but he needed to realise that he didn’t have a future with another girl, I was his future. Job or no job, I would have moved down south anyway and then found new employment. He would have been none the wiser. It really doesn’t matter that I told a little white lie now though, he disappeared into another one of his episodes shortly after I told him and never mentioned it again when he returned.

  As I’m twirling a strand of my freshly coloured mocha hair around my finger, waiting patiently for my customer to emerge from the brightly lit changing room, my phone starts to buzz in the back pocket of my favourite figure hugging black skinny jeans. I pull it out to see Hannah’s name lighting up my screen. I quickly silence the call and type a quick text.

  Can’t talk right now, at work. What’s up? X

  I could have taken the call, but I’m slightly pissed that it�
��s taken her this long to message me. She replies almost instantly.

  Your Birthday is what’s up! Happy Birthday Bestie! See you at 7 for some tequila! X

  I check the time – 15:13. Just under three hours till I’m out of here. I consider messaging her back and telling her I already have plans and that she was far too late to spring a visit on me, but that would have been a lie, and she would have known that I wouldn't be keen to spend my birthday evening with anyone else. Besides, I don’t fancy sitting in by myself tonight now, not after the fun day I've had with Jacob. I'm in relatively good spirits but she deserves to stew for a little while. I choose not to reply just quite yet and slide my phone back in my pocket, painting a bright smile on my face as my clients dressing room curtain swishes open.

  Chapter 3

  I try my best to pander to my highly intoxicated best friend, but she seems to be enjoying my birthday more than I am.

  ‘Come on Karly! Just one more shot! I promise it will be the last one!’ she wails at the top of her lungs. Her speech is slurred, and she bangs her lanky pale leg off the corner of my white oak coffee table at least a handful of times. I say lanky, but she's only about 5ft 3, not much more than myself at just over 5ft but she's always had these beautiful thin long legs that people would absolutely kill for. Maybe not tall enough to be a professional model but definitely photo worthy.

  She's recently had her long fiery red hair chopped from her waist to shoulder length. A bold move from her, but one that definitely paid off as it highlights her milky skin and bright blue eyes.