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

by Sue Watson

  Ah, I thought it was too good to be true.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling. I can cook you some more?’ I suggest brightly, suddenly wanting to ram his head into the plate with all my weight.

  ‘No, don’t put yourself out.’

  I won’t, but I’d like to put you out.

  I wander into the living room before I do or say something I’ll regret. I’m suddenly filed with such rage, my feelings fighting each other constantly. I hate that he loves someone else. I don’t think I want him any more, but I want to keep our life. I feel like she’s stealing my life from under me and he’s handing it to her – it makes me mad as hell. The kids are in bed and I tidy around a little, then read my book, a romantic comedy – I need some of that in my life.

  Eventually Simon comes in looking for something to criticise.

  ‘What’s that trash you’re reading?’ he says, right on cue.

  ‘It’s good actually, it’s funny – a love story about this couple who meet on holiday. They don’t speak the same language but they get married anyway. Jen lent it to me.’

  ‘Sounds like her kind of nonsense,’ he huffs as he picks up his Telegraph newspaper from the coffee table and turns to leave. I asked if the Guardian could also be delivered, but he said it was ‘for leftie luvvies’, so that was that.

  ‘Darling,’ I call brightly after him. He turns around, anger waiting in his face. ‘Congratulations… on the promotion. You make me so proud.’

  You will not get to me. I won’t give you an excuse to remove me. I’m here to stay.

  He shrugs and leaves the room – his celebrating will be done elsewhere, with another woman.

  Now I’m alone, I pick up one of the boys’ iPads lying on the coffee table and log in, thinking how nice it would be to have my own tablet or laptop. I was delighted when I got my iPhone, an old one of Simon’s, but he told me I had to share my password and he has some kind of tracking device so he knows where I am. I recently suggested I have my own iPad, but Simon says anything I want to do I can do on my phone. This is true, but he checks my history, the things I don’t delete, and I can’t see pictures of his mistress so well on the little phone screen. I want to scrutinise every detail and when I have to use my phone – sometimes I have to get my fix any way I can – I feel like I need a magnifying glass, which would be taking the Sherlock Holmes analogy a little too far. I remember the pin codes for the boys’ iPads because I set them up for them on their birthdays when they received one each and thank God they haven’t changed them. I can only do this when they are asleep because they spend their waking hours glued to the things, despite us putting restrictions on screen time. They are always smuggling them upstairs and protesting the usual defence when caught: ‘It’s for school!’

  Anyway, I now have peace, quiet, no interruptions from husband or children, and can lurk wantonly all over Caroline’s social media. I go to Facebook first, and the bigger screen shows even clearer skin, a face that’s never had sleepless nights over children, no worries, a shiny happy girl with a supermarket basket full of alcohol and a penchant for rough sex with my husband. This new photo isn’t a selfie. She’s glowing for the camera. The man she loves probably took it – clicking away, telling her how gorgeous she is. She’s clutching a glass of what might be G&T, and her face has that ‘just had sex’ flush. Her lipstick’s been reapplied though and her white teeth compete with dazzling lips. I feel an unwelcome lurch in my belly, a moment of recognition, recalling a time he made me feel like this. Glowing. Flushed. Dazzling.

  I pore over every detail of the picture – even the backdrop is beautiful. Expensive wallpaper, huge green fronds on navy blue. Stunning really. It gives her an exotic air, and I imagine, by the pile of terracotta pots and the forearm of bangles, that she’s travelled. She probably had a great gap year, no doubt funded by Mummy and Daddy.

  Even if my husband doesn’t love me any more, I refuse to allow some surgical slut to plan my destiny, thank you very much. I lurch between hating him and hating her; I don’t know who I hate the most. I know it should be him – he’s married, she’s single – but still I hate her more.

  Looking at her photos makes me anxious, so I pop into the kitchen and take a pill after all, as Simon suggested – just to get me through the night. I can’t trust myself without them. If I slip up once, then Simon will be straight on to my therapist, who’ll be straight on to my psychiatrist and before I know it I’ll be back in hospital – and I don’t want to give him or his bloody solicitor any more ammunition. People listen to a surgeon when he says his wife is sick, that she needs more medication, that she has to be in hospital. Doctors listen because he’s one of them; he speaks their language. He can come up with all kinds of jargon, translate the simplest most sane act into madness, and because of the medication I don’t always remember what I did or said so find it impossible to challenge him. Not knowing reality from fantasy is a scary place to be and you need to be able to trust the one who holds your hand as you walk together. I used to trust Simon, but not any more.

  I go to bed, but I can’t sleep and find myself sitting on the toilet at 3 a.m., my phone providing all the light I need as I move on from Facebook to investigate her pretty Instagram account. I can only imagine how I look, my phone up in my face, eyes screwed up so I can see every detail, capture every moment, every visual nuance. I’m like a crazed drug addict – exhausted, scared, but unable to tear myself away from her curated online life, only satisfied when I’m looking at her photos, checking where she is. I have become obsessed, from her smiling face, to the jangly bangles and shiny lipstick. I look at her again, framed by the tropical wallpaper and clutching the same glass of G&T. She must like this photo a lot to put it on all her social media accounts. I don’t. I hate it. I think she looks smug, like she stole something precious and got away with it.

  The cat that got the cream.

  I’m tired. The medication has knocked me out, but not enough, and I’m overwrought. I’m my own worst enemy. This addiction, like all addictions, is never sated. It’s always ‘just one more click’, and it leaves me empty, more desperate for a hit than before. I should never have gone on her Facebook page before bedtime. I do one more click, see another photo and remember how Simon went out last Saturday night to play tennis. He’s never gone out on a Saturday before. Always said we should spend time together as a family. In spite of everything, we’ve stuck to that and most Saturdays we’ll take the kids to the park and after their tea the boys go to bed, Sophie disappears into her room and we binge on box sets. I usually make a light supper, bake warm bread to dunk in a piping hot shared bowl of home-made broccoli and stilton soup. But thinking about it, the last time we did that was weeks ago, and he said my soup was ‘too rich’.

  I see the photo now on her Instagram: white, tight shorts, a little T shirt, a racquet in one hand a bottle of Peroni in the other after a sweaty, vigorous session with my husband. #Tennis #TennisDrinks #TennisAlmostAsGoodAsSex.

  I wish I could add my own hashtag – #WithSomeoneElsesHusband.

  I’m trying to click off. I have to stop this agony of a front-row seat on my husband’s other, better relationship. But unable to leave, I take one last glance at her page, and then I see in the last few seconds she’s added a new photo…

  And there it is, the tiny phone screen framing the room in an eerie cold light. Grey amorphous limbs, an almost face, blurry lines made blurrier by the tears springing to my eyes. A baby scan photo.

  ‘Look who we met today!’ #BabyScan #Pregnant #NewMum #LoveIs #MyBaby.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I don’t know how I’ve got through the past few days. I’ve wanted to say something so many times, but resisted, and it’s making me so anxious and tearful, I have to keep disappearing to the loo to cry when anyone’s home. I wonder how Simon feels? Is he happy, worried, angry? He’s so keen on his privacy. I know he would hate that she’s put it on Instagram, but he wouldn’t know because he doesn’t have Instagram. Maybe th
at’s why she puts these pictures on there – a secret life she’s desperate to share but can’t because he’s married. Or maybe she wants me to know?

  You could have anyone, so why take my husband?

  I can’t sleep at night, and my fists are permanently clenched. I imagine a staged suicide pact, pushing them both under a moving train and feigning distress and surprise when the police arrive to tell me.

  What have they done to me? What have I become?

  I must try and think of nice things, so I think of kittens and bunnies, then wonder if she has any. No, I’m not a cliché – her bunny is safe. But her cosy future with Simon and their new baby isn’t – it’s about to hit a few roadblocks.

  * * *

  This morning, I woke up and felt okay for the first time in days. I’m coming to terms with the situation, but that doesn’t mean I will accept it and lie in the road waiting for their truck to go over me. She’s pregnant with my husband’s child, my children’s half-sibling, and they think I’ll be the last to know.

  I busy myself by cleaning rooms that don’t need cleaning, scrubbing and spritzing and wiping away the unborn baby. But I see them all in my shiny, scrubbed surfaces, my glistening windows, and when I look at my beautifully painted walls in my favourite shade, there they are.

  She’s even taken away my Borrowed Light.

  Like an old-fashioned projector, they are on my walls, a moving video of her and Simon cooing over their baby. The tableau widens in my head and I start to cry as I see Sophie and the boys are there too, all simpering over their newborn sibling.

  Daddy’s little bastard.

  I look closely at the image on the wall… or is it in my head? I look into her baby’s face and my heart misses a beat. She looks just like Emily.

  But Caroline won’t let her baby die like I did. She will give birth quietly, her milk will flow and she will calm and soothe. She will be the perfect mother that I could never be.

  I am so hurt, so bruised, so empty; my breasts ache and the emptiness in my belly is fresh and raw. I turn away from the tableau, the perfect family – and remind myself this is my family, and she can’t have it. She can keep her bastard, but she’s not having my children.

  I have to do something to stop this. Her email suggestions to get me the ‘help’ I apparently need (no doubt in a long-term psychiatric ward) will now be fast-tracked. Who knows what she’ll be prepared to do to get what she wants and have one big happy family now? Yes, I need to do something. Quick.

  I tried the nice way, tried to win him over with my delicious cooking. I made his home life more perfect than ever. But clearly my lemon roast poussin wasn’t enough to pull him away from her firm young thighs. Extreme times call for extreme measures, so plan B will now take shape. I’m quite breathless with excitement as I make a call to the hospital. I dial the number I know so well, and when a woman’s voice answers I say, ‘Could I possibly speak to Caroline Harker – she’s a surgeon in Cardiology?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m now on hold after speaking briefly to a bouncy-sounding receptionist who is, apparently, ‘Katie speaking.’

  A moment later, Katie is back on the line, and I’m devastated to be told that Caroline is not currently available. I express my disappointment and Katie’s now on script, telling me some rubbish about how I need to email the department and someone, one day, might get back to me, if there’s a fucking ‘r’ in the month or something like that. I don’t hear Katie’s stupid words; I’m formulating my own.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have explained. I’m Simon Wilson’s wife… Dr Simon Wilson, Cardio… Senior Consultant?’ I add in a you-may-have-heard-of-him voice.

  ‘Oh… Mrs Wilson…’ That changes Katie Jobsworth’s tone – suddenly she’s all melted chocolate.

  ‘Obviously, I have Caroline’s mobile number already. We’re good friends,’ I cut in before she can continue the fake fawn. ‘But, silly me, I changed phones and now I don’t seem to have it on my new one. Between us, Katie, I’m trying to organise Simon… my husband’s… promotion party. He’s just been made Senior Consultant and I’m throwing a surprise party to celebrate… Thing is I’m trying to get hold of all his colleagues. Top-secret stuff!’ I add in my surgeon’s wife voice.

  ‘Oh… oh… well, I’m not supposed to give out staff mobile numbers, Mrs Wilson.’ I hear the wavering in her voice – she doesn’t want to break the rules, nor does she want to disrespect a senior surgeon’s wife.

  ‘Oh dear… of course, I understand. The last thing I would want is to get you into trouble, but it’s just that I’m at a loss because Caz – I mean Caroline – promised to help me out. I have to admit, I do need her help…’ I giggle girlishly, while wanting to puke. ‘It would be such a shame to let Simon down…’ I add.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it will be fine on this occasion…’ she says. I wonder if not wanting to upset Simon is what persuades Katie; is she yet another one under his spell? I will never know, but suddenly it’s ‘open sesame’ and Katie gives me Caroline’s mobile number.

  I thank her profusely and am really over the top, grateful the rumours about me haven’t yet started yet, because at the last hospital the sodding ‘Katies’ used to cut me off.

  No sooner am I profligate at Katie’s feet, I’m straight back on my mobile and this time I’m licking my lips. It only takes two rings for our worlds to collide.

  ‘Hello… hello, is that Caroline?’ I ask, confident, breezy.

  ‘Yes, this is Caroline, who’s this?’

  I savour the moment. I’ve caught her off guard. I’m in control. And that’s how it’s going to stay.

  ‘It’s Marianne…’ I say after a pause, then give it another couple of seconds for my name to sink in, for her to fear the reason for my call.

  ‘Marianne…’ I can hear the shock in her voice. She wasn’t expecting this. I love it.

  Then before she can say anything else I’m straight in: ‘We met a while ago, in Waitrose of all places – you work with my husband. Simon?’ This is said in the voice of a woman who’s happily married to the Senior Consultant Surgeon.

  ‘I know this is completely out of the blue…’ I continue. ‘I got your number from Katie… you know, at the hospital,’ I say, like the receptionist is a mutual friend.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know a Katie… ’

  No, but you know a Marianne, don’t you? You’re shagging her husband, you shameless cow.

  ‘She kindly passed your number on because I didn’t want Simon to know but I need to speak to you about something quite urgently,’ I say, talking over her. Then I stop, and hold this for a beat. I want her to think, if only for a few seconds, that she is about to be questioned regarding the contents of her rumpled sheets.

  ‘Oh… okay.’

  Worried are we?

  ‘You may be aware that Simon now has a more senior surgical role.’ My voice is all excited. ‘And I want to do something special for him, so I’m going to throw him a surprise party.’ This is not something at this stage that I intend on doing. I’m hoping my plan to get rid of Caroline will mean she’s running away with her tail between her legs long before I need to throw any promotion parties. No, the party is a backup if Caroline is still around after I’ve fed her all my info over lunch.

  She doesn’t answer, so I channel Jen and just keep talking. ‘Thing is, to celebrate anything big, we usually like to do our own “private” thing, if you get my meaning,’ I say in my sexiest drawl, which probably sounds like I’m having a stroke, but I keep going. I need to drop in a few little intimate hints to entice her. If I can give Caroline the impression that we’re a blissfully happy couple, she’ll be horrified and intrigued and want to know more. I’m hoping this will entice her to agree to meet me – so she can find out if Simon’s telling the truth about the state of his marriage. I don’t care how secure a mistress is, she always suspects there’s something he’s not telling, because if he’s lying to his wife, the mother of his kids with who
m he’s shared a whole life, then why wouldn’t he lie to the woman with whom he’s only shared a bottle of Merlot and a pile of creased bed linen? I’m counting on her not to tell him I’ve been in touch, because if she’s as bright as I think she is, she’ll want to know about the marriage from my perspective, without him shutting it down. That’s why the party has to be ‘a surprise’.

  ‘Anyway, thing is, I want to make sure all his friends are there, but I also want to invite some new blood. Especially women – as you know, it can get a little “old boys club” down in Cardio.’ I introduce some tinkling laughter now to hint at female camaraderie. I have to be careful because my ‘tinkling’ laughter can sometimes sound manic. I press on: ‘It was the same at his last hospital – crusty old things they are –… and I don’t want a party full of old men. Simon’s talked about a few female colleagues,’ I say, sticking in a little sharp point of the knife, ‘but I can only remember your name.’

  ‘Oh?’ she asks. A little twinkle of hope laces her voice; she’s hoping I’ll say it’s because he talks about her all the time.

  ‘Yes… from when we met before in Waitrose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ I can taste the disappointment in her voice. It tastes good.

  ‘Anyway, Caroline, I was keen to touch base with one of the women he works with because I’d like to get the lay of the land.’

  ‘In what way?’ she asks coldly, but I skate across her ice.

  ‘I just think women are better at people – we know who’s friendly with whom and who’ll be good in the mix. I don’t want to invite someone if it’s going to be awkward for anyone else, if you get my drift.’ I giggle, knowing the irony will be lost on her.

  Oh, Caroline, with your brilliant mind and flexible pelvis – you don’t have a clue. While you were riding your pony at your private school, I was learning to survive. How dare you fill your womb with something that doesn’t belong to you and expect no consequences. I will shut you down.