‘I guess I should go and speak to him.’
‘I think it’s probably best if we leave him to calm down with Mr Nichols for now. He did seem sorry after his outburst, but obviously we had to let you know what had happened.’
I’m relieved that Ryan has calmed down, and I’m also grateful that, for once, someone else is dealing with the fallout instead of me. Does that make me a bad parent? I don’t know. Maybe just an exhausted one. Mrs Lovatt’s face remains impassive. She’s new to the school and seems like a cold sort of person. There’s no warmth to her expression. No sympathy or understanding in her eyes. Just a kind of bland exasperation, as though this whole situation is an annoying inconvenience.
And all the while, I have this increasing background worry in my head that I’ve let a total stranger into our house. That she’s there right now doing goodness knows what. But then what kind of person would I be if turned away someone in such obvious distress? What if I’d sent her packing and she came to serious harm? I want to live in a world where people care, where people don’t turn away from helping others. But right this minute my son needs me more than anyone else.
‘So what happens now?’ I ask.
‘I’ve spoken to the head and she’s said we’ll let it go this time. You really need to speak to him when he comes home. Impress upon him that he can’t let this happen again. That there will be consequences next time. Obviously this is not the sort of behaviour we expect from Ashridge children.’
‘Of course.’ I’m a little miffed that she’s talking about Ashridge Academy like she knows the place inside out. She’s only worked here a few months, for goodness sake. My kids have been coming here since they were four, and I went here as a child too. But I squash down the uncharitable thought. She’s only doing her job, after all.
‘The thing is,’ she continues, ‘Miss Santani says that Ryan’s work has been well below average this year. He’s not at all engaged and he’s been much quieter than usual. The playground staff have noticed that he’s started sitting on his own at lunch and break times.’
This news surprises me. Although he’s never been overly sociable, he’s always had friends. ‘Do you think he’s being bullied?’ The thought makes my throat constrict.
She shakes her head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Well, that’s something.’ But teachers don’t always know everything that’s going on. I make a mental note to try and find out if he’s being picked on. It feels as though my eldest son is slipping away from me. He’s only eleven. He needs me. He needs his dad.
‘Has he had any violent outbursts at home?’ she asks.
My hackles go up and I take a breath to try to stay calm. I have to tell myself that she’s only trying to help. ‘No, nothing like that. He’s been quiet and maybe a little angry, but never violent.’ I sigh. ‘He’s just not interested in anything. He loves sailing, but he doesn’t even want to do that anymore. He’s refused to enter this year’s junior regatta, and that used to be the focal point of his life. He used to enter with his dad though, so…’
‘I understand that Ryan’s father died last year?’
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
‘Have you considered getting him some grief counselling?’
‘I did think about it, but we were doing okay. I didn’t think things had got that serious.’
‘If things don’t improve, it could be a good idea.’
‘I guess.’
There’s a brief, awkward pause.
The deputy head clears her throat. ‘Well, let’s hope that after today Ryan settles down.’ From her tone of voice, it sounds as though our meeting is coming to an end. It feels wrong not to go straight to my son right now and see if he’s okay, but I know from experience that when I ask him direct questions, I tend to make things worse. Ryan opens up in his own way, in his own time. At least, I hope he will. I hate having to walk on eggshells around him.
Mrs Lovatt is on her feet now, so I follow suit.
‘Thanks for coming in, Mrs Taylor.’ She thrusts out a hand and I reluctantly shake it.
‘Are you sure I shouldn’t see him now? I could just have a quick word…’
‘Best not. It may disrupt things further,’ she says. ‘Mr Nichols will make sure he’s calm before going back to class.’
I take a breath and debate whether or not to kick up a fuss. But, quite honestly, I don’t have the energy to push her on it. And she’s probably right. If I give him time to calm down, our chat later will probably end up going better. Plus, I need to get home and work out what I’m going to do about Sophie. That’s if she’s even still there.
I leave the school wondering if I should have pushed to see Ryan. I know Mrs Lovatt said that he’ll be fine, but I can’t bear to think of him sad and angry without friends. It takes all of my willpower not to march back into her office and demand to see him. But I guess it’s only a few hours until home time. My mind boomerangs back to the Sophie predicament. Part of me hopes that she’s gone when I return. At least that would solve that problem. I really shouldn’t have agreed to help her, not while my own family is having troubles. But I suppose I’ve always found it easier to focus on other people’s problems than on my own.
Seven
FIONA
I fall asleep literally minutes before the alarm on my phone burrows into my consciousness. The soft tinkling alarm is one of those where the volume gradually increases, supposedly to gently ease the person awake, but, let’s face it, there is no good sound for a wake-up alarm. They’re all brutal. Even more so, as the events of yesterday come crashing back to me.
I open my eyes to see my husband Nathan on the other side of the bedroom, already suited and booted, moments away from heading out to the city, where he works in finance as a trader. He was late back last night. I didn’t – and still don’t – have the words to tell him about the tax audit.
Nathan and I have always prided ourselves on being this super-successful couple. The type of people who have a handle on life. It might sound arrogant, pompous even. But it’s not like that. It’s about being in control of things. Nathan always talks about staying ahead of the game. If you’re ahead, then a few knockbacks can’t send you spiralling into the gutter. But, with Nathan, even the knockbacks are theoretical. They’re something that happen to other people. Not to us. Not to Fiona and Nathan Salinger. Sometimes it’s exhausting trying to be perfect.
‘Hey, sleepyhead.’ Nathan bends down to kiss me, his brown waves held back with wax, his Nautica cologne evoking all kinds of emotions.
‘Morning.’ I sit up, attempting to banish the anxiety in my gut. ‘You’re up early.’
‘We can’t all lie in bed all day.’ He fiddles with his cufflinks. ‘I’ll try to get back earlier tonight, but I can’t promise anything. Things are crazy at work right now.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s pretty busy at the showroom too. I’ll be working quite late.’
‘It’s a good thing we don’t have kids,’ he comments.
‘Yeah. We barely have time for ourselves these days.’
‘Tell me about it. I’m looking forward to Saturday though.’
‘Saturday?’
His face darkens and I desperately try to remember what’s happening on Saturday, but my mind has gone blank.
‘The regatta,’ he says coldly.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, I’m still half asleep.’
Thankfully, his earlier good mood hasn’t been dampened by my memory lapse. ‘Okay, well, we’ll take a picnic, yeah? Champagne and strawberries, the works.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’
He rubs his hands together. ‘I’m planning on whipping Ed’s butt.’ Nathan and Ed are both entered in one of the races.
‘Remember, Ed’s only been sailing for a year or so. You might want to go easy.’
Nathan grins. ‘Nah, he’s getting pretty good. You should have seen him at the trials.’
I smile. ‘Worrying
about the competition?’
He sits on the bed and grabs me around the waist. ‘Never!’
I laugh, my mind temporarily taken from my worries as he kisses me.
‘Anyway, stop distracting me, Fi. I need to get going.’ His hand slides beneath the covers.
‘Me? You’re the one getting all handsy.’
He laughs and gets to his feet. ‘I’ll have to save the “handsy” stuff for later.’
I lean back into the pillows and close my eyes. If only we could be like this all the time, without the stresses of work and… well, all the other stuff.
‘See you later, Fi.’
‘Have a good day.’
‘Love you.’ He blows me a kiss and leaves the bedroom. His feet clatter down the wooden staircase and his keys jangle as he picks them up off the hall shelf. The door slams. I close my eyes and listen to the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel drive. The sound of his car engine starting up. The hiss of tyres. And finally the sound of him driving away.
Exhaling, my heart rate slows. I have a day’s reprieve. A day to work out what I’m going to do. What I’m going to say.
A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s not quite 7 a.m. The tax inspectors said they’d be back this morning at nine. Apparently their investigation could take weeks. Weeks! I’ll never be able to keep it quiet. Nathan is bound to find out. Scratch that – everyone will find out. I’ll be the subject of speculation and gossip, and that could seriously hurt my business. I feel a stress headache coming on at the thought of it. Why is this happening to me?
I push the covers back and get out of bed, heading to the bathroom. Okay, I need to think about this. I need to find a way to speed up their investigation and get them out. Maybe I should just be breezy and helpful. Make them see I’ve nothing to hide. It’ll be fine. I can charm them. Win them over. Become their friend. But as I picture Cathleen’s blank face, the word friendly doesn’t exactly spring to mind. I suppose I could concentrate my efforts on John, but what if those two are an item? I can’t see it, but knowing my luck, Cathleen probably has a crush on him. If that’s the case, then if I started flirting with him, she’ll have it in for me. No, I need to keep this professional. I’ll be open and friendly. Breezy it is.
I shower, dress and go downstairs. Our open-plan kitchen-diner leads onto a wooden deck overlooking the lake. It’s a stunning view by anyone’s standards. A view that should make me happy to be alive. Everything outside is green and blue and sparkling. There are already people out on the water, rowing, swimming, sailing, canoeing – enjoying life. White sails billowing and distant dots of colour clipping along. How can I live in such a beautiful and idyllic place and yet feel so much anxiety?
I open the fridge and pull out a few vegetables to toss into the blender, adding a third of a banana for sweetness and energy. I don’t fancy it at all – I’d kill for some Nutella on toast, but I’m watching my weight, plus I need to keep my strength up and stay focused today. Aside from the fact that Nathan doesn’t like us keeping junk food in the house – far too tempting. So I pour the disgusting snot-green smoothie into a glass and force it down before leaving for work.
I’ll leave the car at home today. The walk will do me good and hopefully clear my head. I should still get to the showroom an hour or so before the tax officers, which will give me time to have a nose around and see what they were doing yesterday. Maybe it will give me some clues as to what they’re looking for. Yet again, I wonder what prompted the investigation. Did they find something suspicious in my tax returns, or was it a random spot check? Or were my earlier thoughts correct? Did someone report me? If they did, who might it have been? I suppose the most obvious culprit would be a professional rival. Someone who wants my business to fail. I’m good at what I do, and I have a lot of loyal clients. But I don’t know my competition well enough to know who might be capable of such a horrible thing.
Nathan isn’t going to be happy. He’s suggested a couple of times that I might want to use an accountant, but I reassured him that I’m more than capable of doing my own books. He seemed okay with it. Respected my decision. But maybe Nathan was right. A professional might have prevented this distress. There’s also another reason why I haven’t used an accountant, but I push that thought away. It’ll be fine, I tell myself for the millionth time.
The streets are busier at this time of the morning, with commuters heading to work on foot and by bike and car, people walking their dogs, and parents on the school run, pushing prams and calling after kids on scooters. I pass Kelly’s road and have a sudden yearning to call in on her unannounced. To sit in her tatty but welcoming kitchen and have a gossip about everyday things. To forget all about my current situation. To have a laugh like back when we were kids. Before life got in the way. I wish I could turn back the clock…
I realise that wishing and moping aren’t going to get me anywhere, so I pick up my pace, square my shoulders and try to be positive. Nothing bad has actually happened yet. I might be stressing over nothing.
Normally, when I reach the main road and see the name Salinger’s above my showroom windows, my heart lifts and I can’t wait to start my day. However, this morning it inspires a renewed feeling of dread. A sinking stone in my stomach. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. I say the words over and over again in my head. Willing them to be true.
I cross the road and take the keys out of my handbag. At least I’ll have a short while on my own before Molly and the tax inspectors arrive. I’m looking forward to firing up the coffee machine and sitting in my office.
As I reach the pavement, from the corner of my eye I notice two people get out of a silver Volkswagen Passat that’s parked further up the road in one of the parking bays. It’s a man and woman. They’re dressed in grey suits, and my whole body tightens in frustration. It’s Cathleen bloody Docherty and John Whatshisface from the tax office. I check my watch and see that the time is only ten past eight. They said they’d be back in at nine. Nine. It’s not nine.
They’re heading my way. I try to calm down. Maybe they’re going to go for breakfast first. Act friendly, breezy. I can’t let them see my annoyance.
‘Morning!’ I call out through a fake smile. I insert the key in the lock and open the door, stepping inside to disable the alarm, then turning back to them.
‘Good morning,’ John says.
Cathleen gives a perfunctory nod.
‘You’re nice and early.’ My voice is chirpy, like a children’s TV presenter.
‘We like to beat the traffic,’ John replies. ‘We didn’t think you’d be in until nine. But we may as well get started now you’re here.’
‘Sure, sure. Come in.’ They follow me through to the showroom. ‘I woke up early myself, so thought I may as well get to work. You’ll want the office again, right?’
‘Please.’ John nods.
‘Or…’ I try to sound nonchalant. ‘There’s a great breakfast place down the road if you’d rather come back at nine. Their full English is legendary.’
‘That’s okay,’ Cathleen says. ‘We have a lot of work to get through, so we’d rather make a start.’
‘Of course.’ I’m suddenly embarrassed by my crass attempt to get rid of them for a while. They’ve probably seen it all before. I need to try to accept that they’re going to be in my face for the foreseeable future. The sooner I get used to it, the easier it will be, right? I should have stayed at home for longer. I could have sat and stared at the lake. Tried to get into a better frame of mind. Now it’s going to be an even longer day than usual. And I get the feeling that John and Cathleen aren’t the type to knock off early. They’ll be here for as long as I am.
‘We’ll head on into the office,’ John says, following Cathleen, who’s already through the office door.
I should have come back late last night to take a look when there was no chance of them being around. I should have checked that there’s nothing lurking in the files and drawers to land me in trouble. Too late now. I’ll
do it tonight though. I’ll come back later and see what they’ve been up to.
‘Can I make either of you a drink?’
‘One black coffee, one black tea, no sugar, thanks.’
‘No problem.’ I head over to the oak dresser in the showroom that I upcycled into a drinks station. The countertop is covered in tea stains and cake crumbs. Molly’s supposed to keep it clean, but she’s been getting very lax about everything lately. I’ll have to have a word.
Before I put the kettle on, I nip down the road to Ida’s Bakery to pick up some pastries. I’m determined to get on Cathleen and John’s good side, and if that means bribing them with freshly baked flaky pastry and apple custard, then that’s what I’ll do. Ten minutes later I walk into the office bearing hot beverages and an assortment of pastries.
Cathleen is sitting in my ergonomic office chair at my desk, while John is crouched over the open filing cabinet, pulling out a folder. I risk a quick peek over his shoulder but frustratingly I can’t read what’s written on the label, so I cross the room to lay the tray down on the desk. Before I do so, Cathleen takes her mug of tea and sets it straight down on my marble-topped desk, ignoring the coaster. It takes every inch of willpower I possess not to say anything about it. She then takes John’s mug and does the same. I can already see a ring of brown coffee seeping into the Carrara.
‘No cakes for me, thanks,’ she says, getting straight back to her note taking.
‘What about John? Would he li—’
‘No thank you.’ Cathleen replies on his behalf, which I feel is a little out of order, so I turn to him and show him the tray.
‘Oh, no. No thanks.’ Neither of them has cracked a smile yet. So much for me winning them over.
As I leave the office, Cathleen adds, ‘Can you please close the door behind you, and would you mind knocking if you need to come back in.’
‘Uh, sure.’ I close the door, walk back into the showroom and set the tray down on the drinks station, feeling almost on the verge of tears. The two of them are so abrupt. Not rude, exactly – it’s as though they’re only as polite as they need to be. I know it must be the nature of the job. They can’t allow themselves to get friendly in case they find something untoward in the books. They can’t afford to be personal. But this is my space. The place I come to be me. And now it doesn’t feel like mine any more. I glance back through the Crittall windows. Cathleen and John appear to be deep in conversation and I wonder what they’re talking about. I wonder if their tone with one another is any different to their tone with me. But I can’t hear anything through the glass. Maybe I should learn to lip read. On second thoughts, they’d see the payment for the classes and grill me for that too.
One of Us Is Lying: A totally gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist Page 5