Our Little Lies: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist

by Sue Watson

  ‘I like this one,’ I said, when she’d gone.

  ‘Darling, you are so much better than that trashy dress,’ he sighed, standing back and shaking his head.

  ‘Oh, but it’s lovely…’

  ‘Marianne, you look like a hooker with a weight problem,’ he snapped. I hadn’t imagined him ever saying something like this to me, and I could feel my chin trembling as I stood there like a hooker with a weight problem. He spotted the way my eyes were filling with tears and sighed. ‘I can’t say anything to you these days, you’re so touchy. I never expected you to be like this.’

  It’s a phrase I’ve heard often in the intervening years: ‘I never expected this, because I always thought you’d be a better wife/mother/lover.’

  I’m a disappointing woman.

  Anyway, in the end, my wedding dress was cool white, which the saleswoman warned me ‘drains colour out of you’. It had long sleeves and a high neck, which Simon remarked was, ‘Perfect. You look just how I’ve always imagined Mrs Wilson – my wife’.

  I was young and in love. I didn’t question anything, just couldn’t believe my luck, landing a husband like Simon. Jill, one of the few friends I’d kept in touch with, was amazed at my good fortune. ‘Well done, you jammy cow, you got yourself a doctor.’ But other friends weren’t so complimentary: they said he seemed a bit moody, that I didn’t really know him and I shouldn’t rush into it and rather wait until I was sure. I thought they were jealous. I didn’t want to listen. I’d never been so sure of anything in my life and I wasn’t prepared to risk the chance of losing him by hanging around. Despite being told I was pretty, I didn’t have much confidence, and I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to marry me, let alone Simon Wilson, confident, charming, middle-class surgeon-in-waiting. What did he see in me? Let’s face it, from a financial, familial and genetic perspective, I wasn’t exactly a catch. Joyless Joy saw this inequality and offered to finance a research trip in Europe for Simon, and suggested he take Sophie with him. But he refused, said he loved me and, against all the odds, he stood by me and married me. I was stunned and delighted by his loyalty – no one had ever chosen me before.

  It was now us against the world, and I was comforted to know he was even prepared to forego what was probably a great career opportunity and go against Joy’s wishes to be with me. I was a very lucky girl. Simon was offering himself to me along with the chance to make a life, a family together – it was all I’d ever wanted.

  He’d held me in his arms in our new house, with seven-year-old Sophie sleeping contentedly in her lilac bedroom next door, her soft, long hair on the pillow, her fluffy cat toy Muffin in her arms. We didn’t have much back then, but we had each other, Sophie and a baby on the way, which was everything to me. In those early days, I never had any doubts about me or Simon, and when our beautiful daughter Emily was born I felt like we were complete and we’d found our happy ending. But I was wrong.

  Chapter Ten

  I’d had a difficult birth so stayed in hospital for a week with Emily. Sophie was staying with Joy for a while, but Simon collected her every day and brought her to see me. They’d always bring lovely things – little dresses for the baby, flowers and little cakes – and he’d sprinkle us all with kisses. ‘My girls,’ he’d say, and I felt so loved.

  Emily and I came home from the hospital in a taxi to an empty house. Simon was back at work and, against my wishes, Sophie was still with Joy. As she wasn’t actually my daughter, I had no jurisdiction, even though she told me she didn’t want to go. I promised her I’d get her back as soon as I could – Sophie had already lost one mum, and was scared of losing another. I understood more than most how that felt.

  Arriving back at the house alone with my baby, I felt bereft. There’d been no heating on for days and it was the middle of winter. ‘Have you been saving money on the gas?’ I joked to Simon when he finally got home late that evening. It’s not something he’d even consider; when you come from a wealthy background like Simon’s, lavish heating is a God-given right. I turned to him and smiled, waiting for him to giggle at this, but he looked angry.

  ‘What are you trying to say, Marianne?’

  The colour of my first evening home with our baby went straight from pink to grey.

  ‘Are you accusing me of not staying here while you were in hospital?’ he pressed. ‘Are you insinuating I was somewhere else, Marianne?’ he said this slowly, deliberately.

  My blood chilled. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he was anywhere but our home while I was away. I was too exhausted from the shock of a new baby and lack of sleep, to even think about what Simon had been doing. Despite my protestations and attempts at placation, he created a huge emotional scene and told me I was mad just like my mother. He stormed out of the flat, slamming the door like I’d done something terrible to him, and I was devastated, sitting for several hours clutching Emily and crying. This wasn’t the homecoming I’d envisaged and I blamed myself for not trusting him.

  Later, he returned in tears, said he hated himself for upsetting me and asked if I could forgive him. ‘I was just so worried about you and the baby,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed you so much while you were in the hospital. I don’t know what I’d do without you, you’re everything,’ he’d cried, and I stroked his hair and comforted him, happy to have him back. Although I was hurt and confused by his reaction to an innocent remark – who knows what happened while I was in hospital – all that mattered then was that he’d come home to me and I was everything to him, because he was everything to me.

  I think my return home marked the beginning of postnatal depression. I’d been fine in hospital, with the support and kindness of nurses, the short visits from Simon and the adoration of Sophie for her baby sister. But now I was unsure about my role, my future and what was expected of me as a wife and mother. Worse still, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Emily. I was her mother, I had to love her, it came with the territory – how could I not? And yet, I just didn’t feel it. I tried so hard to conjure up love for my baby daughter; I’d gaze at her for hours as she slept in my arms and wait… and wait. I desperately tried to breastfeed her despite having little milk and feeling more and more stressed at each abortive attempt. And sometimes, on those long, dark, lonely nights as I longed for her to sleep, and cried as I paced the bedroom with her in my arms, I wondered: was I like my mother after all? Was I destined to be the kind of mother she was, unable to cope, unable to love, forced to give up my child to someone who could?

  Simon must have observed me and despaired. All he wanted was a mother for his children, something that came naturally for most women – an instinct, a need. But not for me, not then, and when I think about what he’s doing now, I feel like we’re even. I let him down back then and now he’s letting me down, and when it’s over we’ll be straight and we can start with a clean slate. I wouldn’t be the first woman to forgive her partner for cheating because they want everything to stay as it is. And I’m not ready to give up this life, so she will have to go.

  I constantly wipe down kitchen surfaces with pure bleach to wipe the thoughts of them away. But as hard as I wipe, I can’t get away from them. I’m tormented by their closeness and what it will mean for me. I’m also fascinated by their intimacy, and as I clean the bath, I imagine them sitting there naked in steam, his hand slipping between her tanned, firm thighs. I bleach the sink and imagine her sitting on my kitchen counter, his long fingers gently pushing her legs apart and taking her there. I scrub the floor thinking of the emails she sends asking him to be rough, to tie her up, hurt her because she’s a bad girl.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tonight, the boys are both playing rugby for the school’s junior team – the baby team really, as they are the youngest. On Simon’s insistence, I enrolled them both in the extra-curricular training two nights a week. Apart from the fact Alfie didn’t want to join the team, I felt that along with all their other after-school activities this was a heavy schedule for them. I shared my concerns wit
h Simon, who was adamant and refused to listen to my plea for Alfie, who’s less competitive than Charlie. Simon’s in denial that Alfie hates sports and would rather do drama after school instead. His performance as Joseph at last year’s nativity brought the house down. I cried, and so did Sophie, he was so good, but Simon was working late so couldn’t attend. Some evenings, after a particularly vigorous game of what the sports teacher refers to as ‘The Rugger’, poor Alfie has emerged in tears. ‘Please don’t make me go again, Mum,’ he says, and sometimes, unbeknown to Simon, I’ve created a fictitious illness and spared him the pain of being under the weight of fourteen other overexcited boys.

  I can’t count how many late winter afternoons I’ve stood on the sidelines watching, feeling every triumph for Charlie, and every moment of pain for Alfie. Tonight is the fruit of all the hard work, a game against another private school a few miles away, and the atmosphere is tense with competitive dads lining the edges of the pitch, mums posing with flasks and full make-up.

  Simon has arranged to finish early at the hospital and is meeting us here; even Sophie offered to come along, for which I am grateful. The boys know Dad’s on his way and I’m aware Alfie is trying extra hard not to cry because his leg has just been stood on deliberately by a bigger boy before the game has even begun. My heart goes out to him as the whistle is blown and the game starts. I watch them, while every now and then looking anxiously towards the car park, for Simon’s car.

  * * *

  Simon should have been here almost an hour ago. But he isn’t. The game kicked off at 5 p.m. and it’s now 5.45 – the teams have stopped for a break and are drinking hot Bovril or something equally disgusting. Alfie’s face tells me all I need to know: he hates every moment and longs to be safely home in the warm. I feel just the same.

  Anxiety fluttering in my stomach, I check my phone – nothing from Simon – and I wonder if perhaps he’s been called in to an emergency? And if so, what kind of emergency… and does it involve Caroline?

  I push unwelcome thoughts away and watch the rest of the match in a blur, upset for the boys who wanted to show Dad their game. Even Alfie’s putting everything into it, thinking Simon’s here.

  ‘Dad not coming then?’ Sophie asks, as she bangs her hands together and moves her feet to keep warm.

  ‘Probably an emergency,’ I suggest, slightly resenting the way I have to explain his absence.

  ‘Or a better offer,’ she mutters and I pretend not to hear, but what she says cuts deep.

  Half an hour later, after showering and changing, the boys finally join Sophie and I. They are both looking behind me, around me, for their dad.

  ‘Dad’s sooo sorry but someone has been really badly hurt and they almost died, but Dad saved them,’ I add, my heart breaking slightly at the disappointment on their faces. The boys are too young to be impressed, but at least this feels like a justifiable excuse and I hope it will mean their father’s absence is less painful. I avoid looking at Sophie, who lets out a big sigh as I tell lies to my boys. But as we walk together to the car park I convince myself that sometimes a lie is the kindest way of explaining something.

  ‘So… I was thinking…’ I start, as I put the car into reverse and turn it around quickly in the car park, causing it to veer across the frosty ground and create much excitement and whooping in the back. I laugh along with the kids – it’s fun to be naughty now and then, take a few risks.

  ‘So… you were thinking…?’ Charlie says.

  ‘Was I?’ I joke and the boys laugh and shout ‘Mum? Tell us,’ in various degrees of loud.

  ‘Okay, okay, I was thinking we might go… to… McDonald’s!’

  If I’d suggested Disneyland, I doubt the joy would have been any more rapturous. Nothing says ‘sorry’ like a Happy Meal, and in my own, small way, I just want them to have a good time and be happy. I want to erase for them the fact that their dad never turned up. I want them to laugh and let go, because in spite of my constant smoothing over, I know they are affected by the tension at home.

  So we head for McDonald’s on strict instructions that we don’t mention it to Dad, ‘because he will be really sad that we went without him,’ I lie, as we pull into the car park of The Golden Arches, the boys singing songs about burgers all the way.

  Ten minutes later, my children’s faith in parenting and the world is restored as they tuck into what is regarded by Simon as the most toxic food on the planet. The boys have a Happy Meal and even Sophie deigns to pick at a vegetarian wrap. I’ve also ordered myself a quarter-pounder with cheese and, as we sit in the fluorescent light of the place whose name we dare not speak (in front of Simon), I watch them. The kids are all absorbed – the boys with their meals and toys, Sophie with her own phone. My babies, all safe. All happy. And with me. I log on to Instagram. Don’t ask me why; perhaps it’s the headiness of being alone with my kids and eating the devil’s own Happy Meal together, but I suddenly feel brave. As long as the four of us are together, nothing else matters and their father’s absence can be compensated for with a burger, a free toy and a Coke. So, with this new-found courage, I decide to go deeper into the tunnel, not knowing how dark it will be, but knowing my kids are here in this brightly lit fast-food restaurant to pull me out should I need it.

  I punch ‘Caroline Harker’ into the search box for about the millionth time, and there she is again, looking right at me, daring me to reopen the window into her life… the life that’s intruding into mine.

  ‘Mum, look how high it goes,’ Charlie’s saying about his Star Wars spacecraft, as he swoops it into Alfie’s face, knocking his drink everywhere.

  I wipe the table with bits of napkin and say ‘Eat your burger,’ and ‘Don’t hurt Alfie,’ while clicking on Caroline Harker’s photos. She’s looking right back at me in close-up, a glass of wine in hand, perfect smile on her face – shiny lips, very white teeth. I expect she has them whitened, and that tan has to be fake. It’s not like she’s been away all summer; too busy hanging around my husband. And then I see it, posted ten minutes ago: rumpled bed sheets, a stocking on the floor, two glasses, a bottle of Merlot, his favourite. #LoveInTheAfternoon.

  My heart is thudding in my head. How could he? I know he’s hurting me, but now he’s hurting my children. He’s put her before his kids and that’s unforgivable. My hurt and anger explodes like meteors all through my body and for a moment I don’t know where I am. I feel a mist coming over me. Everything’s dark and I’m fighting my way out of a nightmare. And then it’s bright again; the kids are laughing at something.

  ‘Mum’s so old she can’t see,’ Sophie giggles, and I realise I have my phone right up to my face, trying to get inside the picture, to see who’s there, behind the camera. I’m looking for clues, anything that will confirm for me that he’s there now, with her. I try very hard not to imagine strangling her with that silk stocking. But the kids are still laughing and the sheets, the glasses and the stocking wipe from my mind. My children bring me back and I cross my eyes, which is always a favourite with the boys who can’t yet do this. They roar with laughter while making their own eyes do everything except cross, and Sophie and I laugh along too. These snatched moments are precious and looking across the table at my beautiful children makes me even more determined not to let Caroline have them.

  * * *

  Later, when we arrive home, Simon’s car’s in the drive. I see him at the window, standing there, guiltily clutching a million excuses, ready to throw like confetti. I feel so sad as I open the door and the boys charge ahead, Dad’s absence at the match either forgiven or forgotten. He’s in the hallway now, catching them as they run, hugging them and offering placatory pizza tomorrow to make up for not being there tonight.

  I say nothing, just walk into the kitchen where he follows and opens a bottle of Merlot. His second today. I listen to some long-winded lie about a patient walking the line between life and death and how he saved yet another life. I don’t respond, just go to my default and blindly wipe down kit
chen surfaces as he speaks.

  ‘The boys were disappointed you weren’t there,’ I say simply, after he’s finished his ‘story’.

  ‘Disappointed? Not as disappointed as the family would have been if my patient had died tonight.’

  ‘That’s hardly a comparison.’ Even if it were I doubt he was even at the fucking hospital judging by his lover’s Instagram.

  ‘No, of course it isn’t a comparison,’ he sneers, ‘because apparently me being at some school rugby match is far more important than saving someone’s life.’

  ‘I’m not saying…’ Why is it he can always twist my words, make me feel like I’m in the wrong? ‘It wasn’t “some” rugby match, it was your boys’ first rugby match, with the team you were so eager for them to join.’

  ‘I’ve apologised to the boys, and after the day I’ve had I don’t need you sulking…’ he says, turning my anger into something petty and trivial.

  ‘It’s one thing hurting me, Simon,’ I say, speaking over him, ‘but it’s another hurting the kids.’ It hangs in the air like a thick cloud, and I hold my breath and keep wiping with the antibacterial cloth, wishing I could clean his slut away like dirt.

  ‘How dare you of all people have the audacity to say I would hurt our kids?’ he says.

  Bullseye!

  And back I go, down, down, down, plummeting to the ground.

  He will always win.

  I want to tell him I know where he was; it’s on the tip of my tongue, but what proof do I have? A photo of two empty glasses of Merlot? I can hardly accuse him of choosing her over our children with that flimsy evidence. She could have taken that photo any time, and he may not have been the fellow drinker, the one she’d just rolled around on those rumpled sheets with.