Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller

by AA Abbott

  There’s a whiff of lemons and sandalwood as he sits next to me. He’s casually dressed in jeans and a white shirt, its top button undone. I notice the Capricorn pendant I bought him for Christmas.

  “Are you wearing perfume?” I ask.

  “Don’t you like it? It’s aftershave, which I guess is men’s perfume. In my defence, it was a gift from Rachel.” He turns to peer into my eyes. “You missed her, I’m afraid. She left for Babington House an hour ago.”

  I’d forgotten Mum was having a weekend away with her friends. David booked it for her as a treat. He must sense my disappointment, because he says, “Shh. I won’t tell her you left your school things lying on the floor, as long as you tidy them away. And I’ve ordered pizza for later – your favourite. Fancy some painting first?”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got homework.”

  “It’s Friday. Homework can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll get changed.”

  He hasn’t had to try hard to persuade me. In the Christmas holidays, I produced several small pictures, but I’ve hardly been to the studio since then.

  “Bring your swimsuit,” David calls after me.

  “It’s in the laundry,” I yell back.

  “Borrow your mum’s. You can wash it tomorrow and she’ll be none the wiser.”

  In the studio, David suggests a drink before we start. “Get us in the Friday mood.” It’s a beer for him and a Woo Woo for me.

  “Ready for something new?” he asks. “How about we do each other’s portraits? We can give them to your mum for her birthday.”

  “I’m no good at portraits.” I’d rather not paint him at all than risk offending David with a poor likeness.

  He’s not going to take no for an answer. “Princess, I wish I’d had half your talent at fourteen. Just remember to start with the bone structure, at least for the face. If you’re looking at the torso, get the contours of the muscles as well.”

  He strips off his shirt. “Take a photo and I’ll show you.”

  I snap five or six images as he stands, thumbs in jeans pockets, against a white background. He’s been to Thailand again and still has the ghost of a tan. The photographs look amazing, which only increases the pressure on me.

  David checks them over and selects one. “That’ll do. The least worst, but still reminiscent of a gay calendar.”

  I blush.

  “Emily, I assure you I am not gay. Your mother is definitely no beard.”

  He prints the image in his office, then tacks it to the top of my easel with masking tape. “Right. When you’re ready, we’ll sketch the outline. I’ll guide your hand, okay?”

  “Okay.” It still seems a daunting task.

  David flashes a reassuring smile, then sets up his own equipment. I finish my drink before collecting a large primed canvas, brushes, paints, thinners and pen. Stealing a glance at him, I decide on a cream background, almost off-white. It will set off his tan.

  “I’m ready,” I tell him.

  “Great. Hold that paint pen.” His arm, warm and muscular, rests on mine as he grips my hand.

  The sensation of closeness sends a shiver surging through me, despite the warmth.

  “Steady.” His other hand clutches my waist as we begin with a rough outline: head, neck, torso, arms and hands. With a few deft strokes, David adds detail: firm jaw, slicked hair, rippling muscles.

  “Think you can do it by yourself now?” he asks.

  “I’ll try. The style is yours, though.”

  “It will be 100% yours once it’s done, I promise. You’re too nervous, Princess. Have another tinny.”

  He fetches two. I swig them while I sketch his facial features with the quick-drying pen.

  David easily outpaces me. I haven’t even opened the oils by the time he says, “We’ve been at work for hours. How about a dip?”

  “Maybe in thirty minutes?”

  “Well, I’m stopping. I’m desperate for a beer.”

  He disappears, and I hear the splashing of water into the tub. Returning, he stands by the easel, a bottle in his hand. His dark eyes watch my every move.

  “I can’t concentrate,” I complain.

  David’s mouth curves in triumph. “Come on then, the hot tub’s waiting.”

  I can see I’ll have to give in. “All right.” I pack away the paints and brushes, and take Mum’s bikini to the shower room. Folding my clothes carefully, I check my appearance in the mirror. I look gratifying grown up, even though Mum’s bigger than me and her things don’t really fit.

  David’s already sitting in the tub, with bubbles up to his shoulders. A folding table stands within his reach. On it, he’s placed two wineglasses and an ice bucket.

  He follows my gaze. “I want to celebrate making an artist out of you. Champagne?”

  “Yes, please.” I’d prefer cocktails, but he’s been so kind, I don’t wish to upset him.

  “It’s true, then. You’re developing a taste for it.” David pops the cork and fills both glasses. He waits until I’ve slipped into the tub before handing one over.

  “Cheers,” he says, clinking glasses and gulping all of his. “Down in one!”

  I try to copy him. It takes two attempts, and I already feel a heady warmth stealing over me.

  David grasps my arm. “Wait. I’ll pour some more.”

  We repeat the process twice. I beam at him, elated as the champagne works its magic.

  “Better stop now, Princess,” David warns, replacing both empty glasses on the table.

  I giggle. “Do I have to?”

  “We can’t have you getting giddy and falling over.”

  “I won’t.” My protest is half-hearted, the words emerging with a titter.

  David puts his arm around my shoulder and draws me close. “I won’t let you fall, Princess.”

  “Thanks.” Gratefully, I allow myself to relax into his side.

  He reaches for my face, angling it so he can look into my eyes. His are luminous, like sunlight striking amber.

  “You’re too precious, Princess. I can’t believe the way I feel about you.”

  “I like you, too, David.” Why is he saying this? I can’t seem to think straight.

  “Have you ever kissed a boy?”

  “Only kiss-chase at primary school. Does that count?”

  “No, it doesn’t. I’ll show you what a real kiss is like.” Fire glitters in David’s eyes. He brings his lips to mine.

  Chapter 16 February 2016 - Emily

  It must be morning. I sense light through my eyelids, but I can’t open them. Rubbing carefully, I remove the gunk that stuck them together. Rosy sunshine is streaming through the pink voile curtains.

  Although I’ve hardly stirred, it’s enough to send a headache thumping through my temples. I feel queasy, too, and my crotch is stinging. My mind seems fuzzy. A distant inner voice tells me it’s Saturday. I hug a corner of the pillow, hoping to go back to sleep.

  A chime announces a text has arrived on my phone, the sharp sound causing my head to pound even more. I reach for the bedside table, but succeed only in dislodging the phone onto the floor.

  Groaning, I stumble from my haven, noticing I’m not wearing anything. My nightie, still folded, peeps from under the pillow. While this seems odd, I don’t have enough energy to wonder about it. It takes all my concentration to pick up the phone and snuggle back under the duvet.

  The message is from Mum, asking how I am. That’s weird too. She’s in the next room, so she need only pop round to ask.

  There’s a knock, then the bedroom door opens. Expecting Mum to walk in, I prepare to tell her I’m unwell. I could use some TLC.

  My jaw drops at the sight of David carrying a tray. The smell of toast wafts into the room with him. I almost gag.

  David’s face falls. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

  “I am, but…” Bleary-eyed, I gesture at myself, “…I feel ill.”

  “I was concerned you might, after all th
at champagne.” David places the tray next to the bed. “I’ve brought you ibuprofen and a few other pills.”

  “I don’t remember…” No sooner have the words slipped out of my mouth, than images float into my mind. They bring back aching sensations of pleasure and pain, of me and David together. This is more than a dream.

  I stare at him in dismay. “Did we…?”

  “Don’t be mad at me, Princess.” David sits beside me on my bed, his dark eyes pleading. “You came onto me, and suddenly I couldn’t stop.”

  Did I really do that? I wish I could recall. My head is still foggy.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you. My art is a hundred times better when you’re in the studio with me. I need you, Princess. You’re my muse.”

  Emotions whirl like knives through my head, intensifying the headache. I’m drawn to him, as if to a magnet. Yet― “You’re Mum’s husband,” I choke. “My stepdad.”

  “We can make this work. I’ve got enough love for both of you.” David offers me a glass of water and a handful of tablets. “Take these, and you’ll feel better. Then we’ll talk.”

  I gulp them down. “I can’t face toast as well.”

  “You must. Trust me on this. It’s God’s own hangover cure. I didn’t burn it, either. There’s a pot of tea there, too.”

  I nod. “I’ll try.”

  “Good girl.”

  He brushes his lips against mine, and a thrill races through me. My face flushes.

  “I’ll be back in a bit. Meanwhile, not a word to anyone, okay?”

  “Okay.” I manage a weak smile for him, but it disappears when he leaves the room. Guilt overpowers me as I think of Mum. She loves me, and David too. What have I done? My stomach churns and a tear splashes my cheek.

  After a mouthful of toast, I give up. I manage to crawl out of bed, though, and pull on yesterday’s clothes. The headache eases and so does the soreness down below. A treacherous twinge of pleasure sparks as I think of David.

  Sitting at my desk, I take a sip of tea. Although my mind is a mess, I need to send a quick text to Mum. She’ll worry if she doesn’t hear from me.

  ‘I’m fine, hope u r pampered xx’ is the best I can manage.

  The phone’s little bell rings out within seconds. I’m dreading a ping-pong of texts with Mum, but it’s a message from Megan.

  ‘1st date with Adam. Saw strange magic with him. Held hands all night.’ She adds two hearts and ‘PS we are official.’

  Excited for Megan and pleased to hear from her at last, I tap out a reply. ‘Who is Adam??? Pix, please.’

  David knocks on the door. “May I come in?”

  “Okay,” I call, both wanting to see him and dreading it.

  “Better now?” He spots the phone in my hand and leans over my shoulder. “What’s your chav friend up to?”

  “Megan’s got a new boyfriend. And she’s not a chav.”

  David shakes his head. “She’s a pleasant enough girl, but there’s nothing exceptional about her. You, on the other hand,” he lifts my hair and strokes the back of my neck, “are a talented artist. I sensed you were special on the day we first met.”

  “At your exhibition?”

  “Exactly.” His voice darkens. “You don’t need friends like Megan. I should be enough for you. I don’t want to have to share you with anyone. You didn’t tell her anything about us, did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well done, Princess. This has to be our little secret, because it would break your mum’s heart. I’ve got enough love for both of you to share, haven’t I?”

  I shrug uneasily.

  “We’ll find a way to make it okay with your mum, and tell the world, when you’re just a little older. When you’re legal.”

  David smiles and kneels to kiss me again, slowly. He tastes of mint. A rush of energy helps my limbs move, but it still feels like a dream as David gently pulls the phone from my fingers and leads me back to bed.

  Chapter 17 February 2016 – Emily

  David knocks on my bedroom door at five o’clock on Sunday afternoon.

  “Your mum’s phoned. She’ll be here at seven - she had lunch at Babington House and then went to one of her friends for Netflix and Prosecco.”

  “I don’t want to see her.” Last night, I barely dozed, kept awake by guilt at betraying Mum. My emotions are a muddle, and I dread looking her in the eye. I have no choice but to avoid her for as long as possible.

  David nods. “I understand, Princess. I’ll tell her you’re doing homework. Don’t forget.” He places a finger on his lips.

  I sigh, and tackle French verbs. It’s slow going, even though David found a YouTube video to help. He’s mostly kept out of my way today, to let me sleep.

  I’ve just finished when I hear a car engine outside and a key in the lock downstairs.

  “I’m back,” Mum shouts.

  “Rachel, how about a glass of white with me?” David says.

  “I’ve had quite enough, Dave, thanks. Where’s Emily?”

  “Finishing her homework.”

  Her footsteps sound on the stairs. She opens my door.

  “You’ve left it to the last minute, young lady.”

  I force myself to stare back at her, attempting a smile.

  Mum isn’t fooled. “Are you all right? Did Dave feed you properly?”

  “We had a big fry-up for lunch. I don’t need anything else.” I can say that, at least, with confidence.

  Mum raises an eyebrow. “Dave can cook a fry-up?”

  “He made the toast.”

  She laughs. I sense she’s had a lot to drink. Surely she didn’t drive back?

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve stumbled across something that Dave can cook, Emily. Is everything all right between the two of you?”

  I mustn’t blush, I tell myself. The nails-in-palms trick works again. “We’re fine, Mum. He did some of my homework with me.”

  “He should have made you start earlier. I’ll have words.”

  “No, don’t.” I look away. It’s a struggle maintaining eye contact, and I don’t want her to see the tears about to fall.

  Once she’s gone, I sob quietly. Mum looked so happy. I can’t bear to take that away from her.

  Social media doesn’t help. Megan’s sending clips of Adam to everyone. He looks all right, but not amazingly handsome like David. David isn’t mine, though.

  Mum comes back. “I’ve told Dave to open up the den and take you to the hot tub. You need a treat.”

  She can’t be serious. “Are you coming?” I ask, knowing I couldn’t stand that.

  “No, I’m blissed out already. I’ll make you both hot chocolate. You can take it with you.”

  I find my swimsuit. It has been cleaned, dried and put away, like Mum’s bikini. I managed to do that, somehow.

  Reluctantly, I meet David and Mum in the kitchen. She gives me the tray of hot drinks, and opens the back door for us.

  David unlocks the den, and deals with the hot tub while I get changed. To my surprise, he’s placed tea lights on tables next to the tub, and switched off the electric bulb overhead.

  “Wow. The room looks magical.”

  “Romantic, huh? I thought you’d like it, Princess.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “We can’t give in to passion, I’m afraid. It’s too risky with your mum around. No cocktails either. But I’ve smuggled some brandy in. Want a slug in your chocolate?”

  He tops up both mugs with generous measures. We sit together in the swirling bubbles, sipping the drinks. David’s gaze fixes on mine.

  As tenderness flows from his dark eyes, I’m dizzy with love for him. Being with a man who cares about me feels grown up and exciting. The warm glow doesn’t banish my edginess, though.

  David senses it. He puts a hand on my knee and squeezes gently. “Are you okay?”

  “No. I don’t like having to lie to Mum.”

  “It isn’t lying, Princess, it’s just our secret. You’ve been keeping secrets from he
r for a long time, admit it.”

  “Yes, but―”

  He fondles my knee, then strokes upwards along the inside of my thigh.

  “Neither of us want to hurt her. That’s the truth. Maybe it would help if she found someone else. Are there any nice single men teaching at your school?”

  “They’re all old,” I protest.

  “Oh, Princess, everyone is old to you.”

  “I’ll find out,” I promise.

  “That’s my girl. Before you know it, I’ll be able to put a ring on your finger, when it’s all legal. Until then, let’s keep this special to us. Just for now.”

  Chapter 18 March 2016 – Emily

  I finish my painting and watch as Mr Mustow helps the class stragglers. He’s teaching pointillism, getting everyone to paint using little dots of colour. It’s an old-fashioned style, so he’s bringing it up to date by asking for images of iPhones and Fitbits. I prefer bold brushstrokes myself, but I’m impressed by the way he helps each member of the class individually.

  Like David, Marston Manor’s Head of Art has a gift for making little tweaks that lift a picture. I always listen to his advice. A minute with him is enough to make your work twice as good.

  Despite his specs and floppy black moustache, Mr Mustow is handsome, too. He could be a suitable husband for Mum. The school grapevine has already told me he’s single.

  A bell rings stridently to signal the session’s end. Mr Mustow insists all pictures are placed on a shelf to dry and equipment is packed away before he allows anyone to leave the art room. I join the other girls in tidying up, but hang back as they race out to lunch.

  “What’s up, Emily?” Mr Mustow peers at me through his glasses.

  “I wanted to ask if you thought I should do Art GCSE.”

  “Definitely.” Mr Mustow’s brown eyes shine with enthusiasm. “You’ve come on amazingly in your six months at this school.”

  “Your lessons are awesome.” It’s true, although David deserves equal credit for my improvement.

  “You’d likely get an A at GCSE, maybe an A star. Tell your mother I said so. She can call me any time to talk about it.” He looks pointedly at the door.

  Desperately, I turn to the real reason for the conversation. “Do you have a girlfriend?”