Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller

by AA Abbott

  While Mum has date nights twice a week, I’ve hardly seen David since the art exhibition where we first met. It’s a surprise when she says he’s suggested taking me shopping.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Tomorrow afternoon. It just seemed to fit. I mean, I know we usually spend time together on Saturday, but I actually managed to get an appointment to have my hair done. You remember Dave bought me vouchers for my birthday?”

  “So you won’t come with us?” I’m both excited and nervous at the thought of being alone with him.

  “No. Dave said he was going out to buy clothes for himself, and he’d get you a couple of bits too.” She pulls a face. “He’s generous, so please don’t take advantage.”

  “I won’t,” I promise.

  Later, as I prepare for bed, I catch Liam Payne’s eyes looking down on me from the wardrobe. His newest hairstyle is a quiff. He looks incredible.

  “You’re the only one I love, Liam,” I whisper to him.

  David picks me up in his Range Rover at two o’clock. Nerves overcome me at first. I sit in silence as we ride smoothly out of the village and past the farms beyond.

  “Let’s put on the radio,” David says. “What kind of music do you like?”

  “One Direction.”

  “We’ll try Radio 1, then. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Who’s your fave out of the 1D boys?”

  “Liam.”

  “He’s definitely the best-looking.”

  “He used to have the same hairstyle as you,” I say, shyly.

  “No way.”

  “Yes, but he has a quiff now.”

  “Think a quiff would suit me?” There is a twinkle in David’s eye.

  I stare at his profile. He could be even more handsome than Liam. “Definitely,” I say, ignoring a twinge of guilt.

  “I’ll have to experiment. Would you like a makeover too? You want to be a beautiful bridesmaid, don’t you?”

  “Yes, please.” A makeover sounds grown up. I’ve never had one and nor has Megan. She’ll want to hear all about it.

  “I’ll book it for you.” David stops the car and makes a phone call.

  I’m beginning to relax now. As we set off again, with the radio jangling, David talks about his art. I enjoy sitting in the passenger seat beside him, high above the road.

  This is the first lift I’ve had from anyone since his exhibition. Mum doesn’t have the money to run a car. Megan is lucky to have the Zafira and two parents to drive it. Even her older brother takes her out occasionally, when he’s on leave from the Army.

  We soon arrive in Bath. David puts the Range Rover in the underground carpark at Southgate. The first shop we visit is MAC, where he’s booked a make-up lesson.

  The only cosmetics I own are an eyeshadow palette, mascara, lipstick and two glosses from Superdrug. I bought them in the January sale, and nothing cost more than two pounds. Although MAC is stylish and shiny, I’m mortified when we walk in and I spot the price tags.

  “Are you sure about this?” I point to a row of powders costing twenty pounds each.

  “Let me splash out,” David says. “You won’t be a bridesmaid every week.”

  The staff find a chair for me, and my make-up artist introduces herself. She’s called Chloe. Like all the boys and girls working here, she has a black uniform, but her own distinctive style. Her short hair is spiky, coloured in dark shades of purple. In contrast, her face is fresh and natural. Trained by watching beauty vloggers with Megan, I spot pink sparkle on her lids and a hint of blusher on her cheeks.

  “What kind of look do you want to achieve?” she asks.

  I turn questioning eyes to David.

  “Maybe something a bit stronger than yours?” he suggests to her. “Say, a smoky eye and a nude lip? It’s for a wedding.”

  “How exciting. What will you be wearing?” Chloe beams at me.

  “We’re browsing later,” David says.

  That isn’t what Mum told me, but I’m not complaining.

  “Let’s do the smoky eye, then,” Chloe says. “It goes with everything. Your dad has good taste.”

  “Thanks.” David doesn’t seem to mind her guesswork. He seems completely at ease. I can’t imagine Mr Harris hanging around while Megan tries on make-up.

  Chloe gathers a host of products and brushes, arranging them on the surface in front of me. Directly ahead, there’s a mirror. I watch as she cleanses my skin and applies the products. The transformation is amazing.

  “You see how the brushes and sponges give a flawless result?” she asks, as she sprays a fine mist over my face to finish off.

  “It’s lovely,” I gasp.

  “You look stunning, Princess.” David can’t seem to tear his eyes away from my face.

  I glow with pride.

  “I think you should try a brighter lipstick too, to stand out in the photos,” Chloe says. “Perhaps with a hint of blue. That would really make your eyes pop.”

  “Can I?” I ask David.

  “Of course.”

  She paints on a fuchsia shade.

  “It’s striking.” David sounds impressed. “But wipe it off before you get home, Emily. Your mum will think it’s too much.”

  “Can I wear it now, please, around the shops?” I’m unashamedly wheedling. If I can be the new, glamorous me for only an hour, I’ll be happy.

  David agrees. He insists on buying both lipsticks and all the other products.

  “I’d love to take you to an art supplies shop, but I promised Rachel I’d get you some clothes,” he says, as we leave.

  “That’s okay.” I already feel spoilt.

  We visit six different places and I end up with two pairs of jeans, tops, shoes and even underwear. “Your boyfriend’s generous,” one of the shop ladies laughs.

  “I…” I glance anxiously at David, thinking he’ll want to correct her, but he puts a finger to his lips. His gaze is strangely intense.

  He takes me to a coffee bar. A scone alone is £4. Mum and I would have lived on that for a day.

  We sit facing each other silently across the small table. David stares at me, his expression so serious that I begin to worry.

  “What?” I ask, twisting a tendril of blonde hair around my finger.

  His brown eyes never leaving my face, he says, “You won’t have to call me Dad, you know.”

  I start to giggle with relief.

  David reacts with mock horror. “Should I be concerned? I was about to suggest Dave, but you’ve obviously got an alternative in mind.”

  “Maybe David?” To my embarrassment, I’m blushing. Some of my friends argue all the time with their stepfathers. I can’t imagine having that problem with David. Mum’s not the only lucky one.

  He puts his hand on mine. “I’m so glad I found you,” he says. “There’s something special about you.”

  He squeezes my hand. I feel comforted and reassured. He’ll take care of us and everything will be all right.

  Mum gawps at all the bags when she opens the front door, especially as they’re not from Primark. They’re labelled as Next, Miss Selfridge and Topshop, plus an expensive boutique that David insisted we visit.

  “Where have you been?”

  “We went to Bath, Mum!” My excitement is bubbling over.

  “I thought you’d go to Bristol. It’s closer.”

  David seems puzzled. “It’s too crowded there. Anyway, Bath has better shopping.”

  “And prices to match. You shouldn’t have, Dave.” Her eyes glitter with tears.

  “Come on, Rachel, I wanted our little princess to look smart. By the way, your hair is sensational. It really frames your face.”

  “I’ve got a whole new wardrobe, Mum!” I can’t understand why she’s upset. Only last week she was worried I’d had a growth spurt and she couldn’t afford to replace my clothes. A warm glow of gratitude surges through me as I realise she must have confided in David, and that’s why he whisked me to the shops. All he’s bought for himself is a pair of sock
s.

  “Well…” Mum begins to smile. “It’s very kind of you, Dave. Come in and have a cup of tea.”

  “I have an even better idea.” He pulls a bottle of champagne from one of the bags. Where did that come from? I bet he sneaked away when I was in the changing rooms.

  Mum fetches glasses while David and I slump on the threadbare sofa. “Emily should have some too,” he says. “Clothes shopping for teenagers is hard work.”

  Mum beams, her face dimpling. David brings out her prettiness. “Emily’s not really a teenager. But I know what you mean. Twelve going on twenty.” She shakes her head. “I’ll get you a glass, young lady. But don’t imagine you’ll be drinking alcohol every day. Or wearing make-up.”

  “My fault.” David is quick to spring to my defence. “I wanted Emily to get used to the idea of scrubbing up for our big day. She tried on some nice dresses too. I’ll show you the photos.” He hands her his iPhone.

  They’re too childish. I wish he’d let me choose them myself, like the rest of my clothes. Anxiously, I watch her expression. I hope she doesn’t agree with him.

  “Mum, you’re the bride. I thought we’d go and try things on together.”

  “Of course, sweetheart,” she promises.

  David chuckles. “She’s twisting you round her little finger, Rachel. She does it to me, too. Let’s get that fizz poured for our princess, shall we?”

  It’s a few centimetres at the bottom of one of those thin, tulip-shaped glasses. Most of it is a layer of the creamy bubbles that rush out of the green glass bottle. The drink catches the light enticingly. Eager to sample it, I take a gulp.

  “Emily, your face!” Mum laughs as I cough and splutter.

  “Don’t give up, Emily. Have another sip. You’ll soon find you enjoy it.” David’s dark eyes are earnest and his smile winning.

  “I suppose I could.” I make a show of holding my nose, afraid that otherwise I’ll gag on the sour taste. Then, magically, happiness fills me. I can’t stop giggling.

  “I knew you’d like it,” he says.

  “No more for her, Dave. She’ll get drunk.”

  “You finish it, Rachel.” He tops up her glass. “Have you told her yet, by the way?”

  “No, I thought you would. That’s why you took her shopping…”

  “What’s going on? Tell me what?” Despite the golden feeling, I’m uneasy. They have a secret, and it can’t be good, or they would have shared it before.

  David pats my knee. “Well, since your mum amazingly agreed to become my wife, we’ve been talking about where to live. I want you both to move in with me. My house is plenty big enough.”

  There’s no doubt about that. David owns a mansion outside Bath. Our cottage could fit into his drawing room, with space left over.

  All the same, my lip trembles. My gaze sweeps over our lounge, at the scabby paintwork and swirly red carpet. The furniture is older than me and the landlord never fixes anything, but it’s home.

  “All my friends are here,” I protest, aware I sound sulky.

  “You’ll make new ones.” Mum glances at David.

  He watches my reaction intensely when he speaks. “I’ve found the perfect school for you. Marvellous academic results, a nice uniform, good for sport. They offer riding lessons, even.”

  “It’s a private girls’ school,” Mum adds.

  “No spotty boys distracting you,” David says.

  “Good. I don’t like boys.”

  The statement draws a chuckle from him. “You’re a scream, Princess.”

  “I’d like a pony, though.”

  Mum gasps, clearly appalled, but David roars with laughter.

  He winks at me. “Whatever you say, Princess.”

  Chapter 5 August 2014 - Emily

  The gates are at least ten feet high, wrought iron twists gleaming with black paint. They’re firmly shut. David parks in front of them. “Hold on. There will be someone in the gatehouse. I’ll get them to let us in.”

  “Is that a gatehouse?” Mum asks. “It’s the size of a cottage. That’s the same stone as your house, isn’t it?”

  “Bath stone,” I say, to prove I listen to David sometimes.

  It’s a pretty colour, golden and almost glowing in the August sun. The school’s boundary walls are made of higgledy-piggledy lumps of it, too. They stretch either side of us, next to the long, straight country road. Behind them are tall trees, leaves rustling in a summer breeze. There’s a placard in gold and red announcing this is Marston Manor school. I’d have no idea we were in the right place otherwise.

  Once David steps down from the car, a man emerges from the building inside the gates. He’s thin, bald and wrinkled, wearing a white shirt and khaki trousers. “We’re closed, sir. It’s August.”

  David nods. “We know. Miss Broadstone has arranged a tour for us.”

  “She doesn’t usually do that in the holidays… Let me call her, sir.” He vanishes back into the gatehouse. Moments later, the gates open inwards with a quiet mechanical hum. Their guardian reappears, telling David to drive down the avenue.

  There’s only one direction he can go anyway: a single track into the woods. The trees thin out abruptly as we turn a corner to see a building that looks like a stately home. It’s much grander, even, than David’s house. In front of it, there are rolling lawns, tennis courts and flower beds.

  “Isn’t it dreamy?” Mum is gawping.

  I’m so overwhelmed, too, I can barely gasp, “Yes.”

  It’s nothing like any school I’ve ever seen. I’m used to plain brick boxes and portacabins spilling onto the playing fields. Here, there’s so much space. Mum’s right, too. Marston Manor is dreamy, almost unreal. Its mellow stone is sculpted into towers, arches and balconies. I half expect Harry Potter to fly out of a chimney.

  A woman opens the front door and steps out onto a sweep of gravel, next to the only other car in sight, a Mini with a new 2014 number plate. David waves to her and parks his Range Rover beside it.

  She’s neatly dressed in a black trouser suit and heels, her hair swept back in a tidy bun. I wasn’t nervous before, but now, the elegant surroundings are intimidating me. Suppose Miss Broadstone decides I’m not good enough? I begin to understand why David insisted that Mum and I wore dresses. He’s smart in a jacket and tie, and he’s styled his fringe in a quiff. It suits him.

  Heat envelops me the instant we leave the car’s icy flow of aircon, causing me to sweat. I hope no one notices. Meanwhile, I prepare to be on my best behaviour.

  The woman’s gaze flicks over all of us, before settling on David. “Good morning. I’m Tania Broadstone, headmistress of Marston Manor. And you must be the charming Mr Anderson?” She grips his right hand in both of hers.

  “David. And this is my fiancée, Rachel, and our daughter, Emily.”

  “Welcome.”

  I flush with pride at the words ‘our daughter’. Meanwhile, Mum glares at Miss Broadstone, who still hasn’t let go of David’s hand.

  Finally, David wriggles from her clutches, leaving Miss Broadstone to shake hands with Mum, then me. The teacher is pretty. Her eyes, an unusual deep turquoise, are outlined with smoky shades like the ones they used on me at MAC.

  She smiles at me. “Your dad is very persuasive. I had instructed my secretary to keep this month completely free, and here I am showing you around.”

  “Oh, good.” That sounds feeble, but I don’t know what else to say. After a pause, I add politely, “I’m looking forward to it.”

  A flicker of disdain crosses Miss Broadstone’s face so quickly I’m not sure anyone else spots it.

  “We’ll have to work on those rolling ‘r’s,” she says in her high-class accent.

  David immediately says, “Your PA told me you had a place available, Tania.”

  “Yes, one of our girls has moved to London.” Miss Broadstone’s pursed lips suggest she doesn’t think much of London. She gestures inside. “Let’s begin.”

  The hallway is wood-panel
led. Miss Broadstone’s stilettos echo on the black and white floor tiles. Beyond, the corridors are still lined with dark wood, but the floors are lino. This feels more familiar. I start to relax.

  “Here’s the science block.”

  We walk into the first laboratory. At once, my eyes are drawn to the workstations, about a dozen of them. Each is like a mini high-tech kitchen: a cupboard with a worktop and sink above.

  “They look new,” Mum says, and then, “I presume the pupils double up?”

  Miss Broadstone flashes her a sidelong glance, no doubt clocking another rolling ‘r’. “Yes, they are new, but there’s no doubling up,” she says. “Our classes are a maximum of twelve.”

  She runs through the kind of experiments the girls will do here. Thankfully, none of them involve cutting up live animals. I couldn’t bear that. Soon, my eyes glaze over. Science isn’t my subject.

  We march at a brisk pace through more classrooms, and the dining hall. Miss Broadstone calls it a refectory. With its vaulted stone ceiling and stained-glass windows, it’s as splendid as our local church. I’ve only been there for weddings and christenings, and I hope next time it will be when Mum and David get married. We’ll stand outside together, smiling for the photographer.

  “We have a Michelin-trained chef cooking nutritionally balanced meals,” Miss Broadstone trills. “No Turkey Twizzlers for our girls.”

  I don’t even know what a Turkey Twizzler is.

  “We’re vegetarians,” I say, although it’s not quite true. I’m sure Mum would cook steak every night if we could afford it. Cheese omelettes are cheaper.

  “There’s a vegetarian option too. We grow a lot of fruit and vegetables in our grounds. The girls are encouraged to learn gardening and cookery. And floristry, using our own flowers.”

  Mum looks wistful. I pat her arm. She enjoys flower arranging and would have liked to make a career out of it, but she doesn’t have the time or money for training.