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

by Paula Johnston

  I take my make-up bag into the dimly lit bathroom and take out a cheap black Kohl eyeliner and mascara set that I found at the bottom of a drawer back home. I run the pencil along the inside of my bottom lid and gently smudge it with my index finger, creating a make-up artist's worst nightmare. I then apply four coats of mascara to each eye, making sure that there will be enough cheap product there for it to successfully melt and drip when appropriately lubricated. I opt for no foundation or concealer today, allowing my freckles and the dark purple bags under my eyes some freedom. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that I got such a shit night's sleep after all.

  A sharp laugh escapes my throat. I can’t believe just how awful I look. There is absolutely no way I would ever be seen in public like this back home. No dewy glow, no statement lip and definitely no contour, I am quite possibly horrific, and yet I can't help but smile because I know I’ve created a masterpiece.

  I head back into the bedroom and pull my straw bucket bag from the wardrobe and throw in my key card, a bottle of factor 15 sun cream and my phone. I also chuck in my headphones at the last minute. I don’t plan on using them because I want to be able to hear all their conversations, but I will take them down with me just in case.

  I tug a long white crochet kimono off one of the hangers and slide it on before grabbing my oversized black sunglasses from the bedside table. I push my feet into my flip flops and take one final glance in the mirror. It’s show time, baby.

  At pool level, I drop my bag onto the hot red concrete tiles and adjust the position of my sun bed so that it is lying completely flat. I take my spot cross legged in the middle of my towel, gently removing my kimono, careful not to poke any additional holes in the crochet.

  On the other side of the pool, the girls have returned from their morning walk and now occupy their spots. A skinny girl with fiery auburn hair tied up in a high ponytail applies thick cold splodges of cream to her friends back. She cackles brashly as the other girl squirms beneath her icy touch. My heart twitches slightly at the thought of my own red head back home. I guess I kind of miss her.

  Two of the other girls lie next to each other on their front, their bikini tops unclasped to avoid those pesky unwanted tan lines and I can see the remnants of freshly applied oil glistening on their skin. The last bed however remains empty - her bed, and I wonder where she is.

  An hour passes as I wait patiently for her to arrive. My skin has begun to soak up the beautiful morning sun and a drop of sweat trickles down my back. Even though she has not yet surfaced, I decide that enough time has passed for me to set the ball rolling. I retrieve my phone from my bag and slowly begin to scroll through my Instagram feed. My aim here is to create the illusion that I’m fixated on a rather long-winded message that I’ve just received. I feign confusion, disbelief, and pain as I start to hunch my shoulders and imitate quiet puppy like whimpering noises, forcing my chest to rise up and down. I drop my phone suddenly between my legs and theatrically throw my head into my hands. I push my fingertips under the rim of my glasses and drag my fingers over my eyes, smudging my black mascara that will now have started to dissolve in the heat. I pull my fingers down my face, painting black streaks across my cheeks like distressed war markings. I carry on with this façade of despair for a couple more minutes and then lift my head, positive that I will see someone from the group making their way over to me. To my horror, all I see is an elderly couple peering over in my direction and whispering to each other. They also don’t make any attempt to get their wrinkly old bodies up from their beds.

  Behind the privacy of my dark shades, I glare furiously at my targeted audience. Only one of them is looking over at me but she quickly turns her head, fearful that I might catch her. I am positively miffed. Why have none of the others shown any interest? I know they can hear me, there isn't that much distance between us, and they can definitely see me. What a bunch of bitches! I was so confident that this was going to work, I had every faith. It was simple. A fool proof plan. All I had to do was pretend to be visibly distressed and surely one of those girls would feel the urge to do something, want to help. Surely a poor girl sitting by herself, clearly upset would be enough to encourage anyone to make their way over. I was supposed to let them comfort me, let them befriend me and then I would have had an in - but nobody has budged. So much for fucking girl power.

  I swing my legs off my bed and slide on my flip flops, pausing for a minute before springing to my feet and briskly making my way over to the pool bar.

  ‘Hi,’ I say to the barman with the crisp tight white t-shirt and slick jet-black hair. ‘One tequila sunrise’. He smiles at me despite my rudeness and then starts to flex his muscles by tossing some bottles in the air before pouring the ingredients into a gun metal cocktail shaker.

  ‘Oh, and don’t hold back on the tequila!’ I snap.

  I drum my fingers loudly on the bar as I wait for my drink, furious that things haven’t gone to plan. Why did nobody react? What has gone so wrong here? I just don't understand. I didn’t expect the full group to stand to attention like soldiers, but I at least hoped one or even two of them would have taken bait.

  When he's finished his little performance, I thank the bar man and take the cool plastic cup in my hand, reaching for a straw but then deciding against it. I take a few large gulps whilst standing at the bar and let the tangy liquid slide down my throat, wincing as I begin my walk back to my bed. Wow, as requested, he really didn’t hold back on the tequila. Another few large gulps and my drink is no more. I crush the plastic cup in my hands and crawl on to the bed, flopping down on my front and resting my head on my arms now folded at the top of the bed. I’m frustrated – yes; confused – most definitely; but beaten - not by any means. I decide to try again this afternoon. I close my eyes tightly and allow myself to drift off to the sound of Spanish music playing softly in the distance.

  Chapter 7

  A heavy splash wakens me; a couple of drops of water landing on my arm. I check the time – 4pm, shit! I’ve slept much longer than I intended to. I push on to my hands and force myself to kneel up. My arms ache from being left dormant in one position for too long and a hot itching sensation brews between my shoulder blades. Carrying on all the way down to the bottom of my back. I wince as I try to move, my skin feeling tight. I realise that I never applied sun cream before I fell asleep. I groan quietly, this has not been a good day.

  All four girls are sitting upright and chatting amongst themselves. They remind me of little plastic ducks you find at one of the stalls in a carnival; all of them lined up waiting to be hooked in an attempt to win a prize. I will hook one of you.

  For the second time today, I pick up my phone and pretend to study the screen. It burns in the palm of my hand. Like me, it's also fallen victim to overheating from lying carelessly in the sun and the instant sharpness of pain assists me in producing genuine tears. I spot a little red number one next to my message icon. It’s Hannah, asking how things are going whilst adding that it’s still not too late to change my mind and get a flight home. In the same message she seems to come to her senses, realising that there isn't much chance of that ever happening and so suggests that if I am adamant on staying then why not try and find a new man of my dreams while I’m here. Someone fresh and exciting; someone without so much baggage. Or even just a holiday romance she quips. This girl! Doesn’t she get it? This isn’t something I can just walk away from. I’ve never been able to. I ignore her message and take a long deep breath and pretend to cry once again. This time though, I'm a little louder, a little uglier and a little more desperate. I pause briefly between sobs, listening for movement, but I hear nothing. No scraping of beds as they’re quickly pushed to the side, no heavy footsteps as they rush towards me – nothing. It doesn't take long for my tears to become genuine, but not because I am sad. No, not sad at all. I am full of pure rage; it overpowers me causing my whole body to tremble. They are ruining everything, and I’ve had enough.

  I reach below my bed for
my bag, ready to pack up my things and head upstairs but I’m startled by a cool soft hand landing delicately on my shoulder. As I look up, she takes a seat on the empty bed beside me. She takes my hand in hers and gently clasps her other over the top, scooting in closer to me so that her knees are grazing mine.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be nosey’ she starts. Her voice was surprisingly delicate for a typical Essex accent. Not as raw as some of her friends' voices. ‘I’ve been pottering in and out of my balcony today, trying to catch whatever sun I can as I’ve not been feeling too good and I couldn’t help notice you’.

  I realise I’m holding my breath and force myself to exhale. She continues, ‘I couldn’t bear watching you any longer, and you don’t need to tell me what’s wrong, but are you OK?’

  I study her face. Up close, she really is quite simply beautiful. The bridge of her nose has started to freckle from the kiss of the sun and even without a hint of makeup she has a natural radiance about her. She doesn't look sick to me. With my free hand placed between my legs, I discreetly pinch a bit of loose flesh from the inside of my thigh, coaxing fresh tears to my eyes. I gently slide my hand out from under hers and slowly push my dark glasses up onto the top of my head. I hope my eyes look puffy.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you!’ I stammer. ‘It’s my boyfriend. He, eh, he told me he didn’t want to be with me any more - a day before we were due to come on this holiday. I've tried to speak to him today but he doesn't want to know'.

  I let a few loud sobs escape my throat for good measure before continuing. ‘I didn’t know what to do, so I came on this stupid holiday by myself and now everything is just a mess’.

  Who would have thought that she would have been the most decent of the pack? I hadn't planned for things to go this way. This is what I planned to tell one of her friends, hoping they would take pity on me and invite me to join them, but she has gifted me a new opportunity - an even better one.

  She looks at me thoughtfully with kind blue eyes. ‘Oh, you poor thing!’ she gasps. ‘Don’t worry babe, you won’t be spending another day here alone. I’ll look after you. Oh – and I’m Lauren by the way.’

  Jacob

  Lauren phoned a day later than expected to say she had arrived at her hotel safely. I asked why I hadn’t heard from her when she landed, or even at all for the entire first day, and she told me that she hasn’t been feeling very well spent her first day cooped up in her apartment. I don’t think it’s anything serious, it’s probably been travel sickness; she suffers quite badly from that. A shiver runs through me. Whatever it is, I just hope she’s not fucking pregnant.

  I’ve only just become a husband, I’m not ready to become a dad for fuck sake.

  I was a little bit surprised when she told me about the new friend she’s made, it's not like her group of friends to welcome a stray. Doesn't matter either way to me mind you, as long as she is able to get out and about and start enjoying herself.

  Since that phone call I’ve barely heard from her, and in all honesty, it's been peaceful as fuck. Sometimes I just need some space to myself. There's nothing wrong with me, it’s just this whole marriage thing is still new to me; I no longer have the freedom that I was so accustomed to.

  I’d say I am what most girls call their type. What is it they say? Tall, dark and handsome. At 6ft 2, with thick dark hair, subtle olive toned skin – due to my Italian heritage – and a wide cheeky smile, I had my pick of girls at any pub or club I went to. They were as disposable to me as the rubber I used with them; I had no use for the same one twice. That all changed when I met Lauren though. I decided to try my hand at a serious relationship, and even remained – what do they call it – monogamous. Well, kind of. A few slip ups here and there don’t really count. Not if they don't mean anything. Lauren was something special though, someone worth investing my time in, trying my best to be a good guy for.

  Strangely, I also haven’t heard much from Karly. She sent me a quick snap yesterday of what looked like an airport, but she didn’t reply when I asked her where she was off to. I’m slightly pissed off at the lack of communication from her. This is the perfect time for us to talk without having to worry if anyone might see my phone. She would usually beg for my undivided attention so it's weird that she's missing out.

  She’s likely to be on one of her work trips, I know she sometimes needs to travel to different parts of the country for fashion events and brand promotions. On one occasion she flew to London to help style some models or something for the launch of a new boutique store. She was only about an hour’s drive from me. I knew what was coming. She ever so gently, bless her heart, broached the subject of going for a coffee at the hotel she was staying at. No strings attached she said, nothing will happen between us she said. As if I believed that. She might have believed that she was dangling the carrot ever so delicately but nothing about Karly’s approaches were delicate. Her hints were always as subtle as being whacked with a sledgehammer.

  Now I'm not gonna lie to you, I did consider it. It was tempting of course, fuck, everything about her is tempting, but I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it. I sent her a brief and blunt text about twenty minutes before I was due to arrive, turned the car around and went back home to Lauren. I ain’t stupid, and neither is she. We both know deep down that it might start with coffee but would indefinitely end up somewhere much more dangerous. The chemistry between us is electric, I know it would only intensify in person and I would absolutely cave to my primal instincts. It's women like her that are the downfall of men like me; men who want to be decent, but she's not the only one. I've encountered many manipulative women in my time.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I reach behind to retrieve it. I check the name that pops up on my screen and my lip curves upwards in smug satisfaction.

  Ah, there you are.

  Chapter 8

  Karly

  I’m waiting for Lauren to arrive at the pool bar when I get another text from Jacob. I completely forgot to reply to his previous message with everything that has been going on. I usually reply to his messages instantly, I can’t help myself, but recently I’ve been slower than usual. I realise that without actually meaning to, I’m giving him a taste of his own medicine by keeping him waiting. A little bit of well-deserved pay back I'd say. I smile down at the screen. He’s so not used to this, it’s new to him and now he’s shamelessly double texting. He knows fine well that I won’t be able to resist a second message though. He is very clever; I’ll give him that.

  I didn’t know what to wear tonight, a struggle that is extremely foreign to me. I know how to dress myself well. I mean, it is my job, so I know what suits me and what doesn’t. It pained me to abandon that skill even if it was only for one week. Tonight though, all my usual instincts were thrown right out the window. I had to think differently; look at myself as merely an understudy rather than the leading lady. I needed to look fragile - a damsel in distress as they say, therefore bold colours and heavy accessories just wouldn’t do. No girl who was at her lowest ebb would dress so flamboyantly and so I opted for a simple pair of light blue skinny jeans, a white chiffon camisole and a pair of flat white sandals with brown tweed straps. Very demure; a stereotypical plain Jane, and God, I fucking hate it.

  When doing my makeup, I applied a thin layer of nude lipstick and a quick whip of mascara, leaving the rest of my face completely bare. I also washed my hair and straightened it within an inch of its life so that it looked limp and lifeless, but was at least clean. I pray that the humidity gives me a wide berth and doesn't attack until after dinner if it really needs to.

  She told me to meet her here at 7pm and much to my annoyance she’s now ten minutes late. I was hesitant at first when she earlier suggested that we go for some dinner together tonight, just me and her, after all I didn’t expect to engage in a dance with the devil right away.

  ‘What about your friends?’ I asked her, but she told me not to worry about them. I did fi
nd it a bit peculiar that she chose to break away from her group instead of simply inviting me out with all of them. Maybe she didn’t want to add to my angst by introducing me to a large group of fresh faces when I was quite clearly already very distraught. Kind of sweet, I guess.

  I hear the click of her solid wedge heels as they approach me from behind.

  ‘So sorry I’m late!’ she exclaims. ‘Had a ‘mare with my hair tonight.’

  I stare at her bemused because she’s obviously lying. It doesn’t look like she's had any sort of nightmare whatsoever.

  She’s dressed in a striking blood red jumpsuit with a thin black belt wrapped around her tiny waist and her hair sits voluptuously around her smooth shoulders in thick loose curls. She has a full face of makeup on, including a matte red lipstick that compliments her outfit perfectly.

  I glare at her some more, completely bewildered. She looks fucking amazing, there is no doubt about that, but something doesn’t sit right with me. I wrack my brain trying to pluck the answer from my memory when it hits me. That outfit, that hairstyle; it all looks far too similar to a picture of myself I recently posted on my Instagram. I think the only difference between that picture and Lauren standing in front of me right now is that she isn’t wearing any earrings. She may as well have. She could be my doppelgänger. I let a sharp snort escape me. I've gathered by now that Jacob has a type, but could he be taking things a little bit further? Could he be suggesting outfits to Lauren that resemble mine? I wonder if he is trying to mould her into a second-rate version of me. I can't understand why though, especially when he knows he could have the real thing.