ALSO BY JANELLE HARRIS
No Kiss Goodbye
See Me Not
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Janelle Harris
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542092630
ISBN-10: 1542092639
Cover design by Heike Schüssler
For Brian
x
CONTENTS
Start Reading
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’
– William Shakespeare
Prologue
THEN
You died on a Saturday afternoon. The weather was filthy. The kind you loved and I hated. All wet, windy and angry. Sheets of lightning illuminated the whole sky followed almost instantly by the angry rumble of thunder. It was beautifully terrifying. But I wasn’t scared. We were safe, together in our tiny student flat in Dublin. The weather forecast said the conditions were treacherous and people were urged to stay indoors. I suggested a movie marathon and a jammies day. You rolled your eyes, shook your head, and said the media were scaremongering. Scaremongering was your exact word. I remember because I had no idea what it meant, but I guessed it was something fancy you’d learned in your journalism class. You borrowed my umbrella and fetched your camera. You told me you were hoping to get some great shots of the lightning for your portfolio, but I knew you were after a story much darker and more sinister than the storm. You left our flat with a smile and wave. You promised you wouldn’t be long. You never came back.
Chapter One
NOW
The day everything changes doesn’t begin especially differently to any other day. My alarm goes off at 8.30 a.m., like always. With my eyes still closed I stretch my right arm over the edge of the bed and pat my hand around my bedside table until I hit the right spot on my phone to shut the alarm off. I roll into the middle of the bed and flop on to my belly. I expect to find my husband’s body heat clinging to the sheets on his side, but the white cotton under me is cool. I’m disappointed by Paul’s absence, but I’m not surprised. I suspect he got up early to get a run in before Amelia, our soon to be three-year-old daughter, wakes. I sit up, drag my hands around my face and try to wake up fully.
There’s a cup of coffee waiting for me beside my phone. The words World’s Best Mammy wrap around the cream ceramic mug in swirly, purple font. It instantly became my favourite mug when Paul and Amelia gave it to me on my first ever Mother’s Day. But before I dare to enjoy a sip, I tilt my ear towards the bedroom door. The house is blissfully silent. Amelia must still be asleep, I decide. Smiling, I take Paul’s pillow and stuff it between my back and the headboard. I take my coffee in one hand and my phone in the other and slouch back against the mound of pillow to enjoy a lazy Saturday morning in bed.
I sip lukewarm coffee as I scroll through recent photos on my phone, choosing the best ones to share on Facebook. There’s plenty of Amelia and me. At the park, out for a walk, in our garden. Our selfies are hilarious. Or at least I think so. We’re always pulling faces or trying to make each other laugh. Amelia almost always wins, and I giggle first. Unfortunately, I don’t have any shots of my husband. Paul always manages to duck out of shot just before the camera snaps. Which inevitably makes it impossible to get a family photo.
‘Ah Susan, the state of me,’ he says while running his hand through his floppy blond hair, which he’s overly aware is thinning on top. ‘Next time. Yeah? Get me next time. Let me get one of the two of you. My gorgeous girls.’
I’ve no doubt Paul’s phone is awash with photos of Amelia and me, among screenshots of his Fitbit app. His perfect family and his perfect hobby. Everything about Paul is perfect. Or at least to the people who don’t know him as well as I do it would seem to be.
Scrolling on, I find a shot of all of us in the park last week and I upload it as my new profile picture. My nagging wore Paul down and he actually stood for a photo. Unfortunately, my eyes are closed and Paul’s face is obscured by a large tree branch and a cluster of leaves, but Amelia is smiling brightly and there’s the unmistakable sparkle of childhood innocence in her eyes. I love it.
Gentle noise coming from downstairs hints that it’s time to get up. Paul’s voice like a gritty rainstorm and Amelia’s giggles like the rainbow that follows make their way up the stairs to wrap around me like a warm hug.
I set my empty coffee cup and phone down on the bedside table, throw back the duvet and dangle my legs over the edge of the bed. I pause for a moment, trying to get the bubbles of nervous excitement popping in my tummy under control as I think of the day ahead.
I can tell it’s a nice morning outside by the shapes and shadows the sun creates on my bedroom floor as it shines through the hideous floral curtains that came with our new home. I breathe a sigh of relief, confident in the knowledge that today is dry and warm; perfect barbecue weather.
‘Today is so important,’ I tell myself aloud as I slip my arms into the ivory silk dressing gown lying crinkled on the end of my bed. Standing up, I glance in the antique, full-length mirror that stands in the corner of my compact bedroom. My reflection stares back at me, smiling. My shoulder-length, mousy brown hair is messy and knotted but my eyes are sparkling and my skin is bright and fresh. All this sea air has been good for me, I think, my smile growing wider.
It was Paul’s idea to sell our two-bedroomed apartment in Dublin and move to a quaint cottage in West Cork. I protested at first. Not just because I didn’t want to leave the convenience of the capital city behind me. I mean, sure, that was part of it, but I also didn’t want to move to the bac
k arse of nowhere where I didn’t know a single person and start my life all over again at thirty-five. But as soon as I saw our cottage with the little red gate that hangs slightly crooked, and the flower baskets dotted above every windowsill like pots of rainbow-coloured treasure, I fell in love.
Six months later, I’ve adjusted better than my husband to the move. Paul says he loves life in the country, and he swears the change of pace has been good for him, but I see nostalgia and regret in his eyes when we talk about our old lives. There is one thing we agree on, however – life on the Atlantic coast is good for Amelia. She loves the freedom of country lanes where she can run ahead without me shouting at her to get back and hold my hand, the way I did in Dublin. She loves the fresh air, and most of all she loves the ducks that swim in the stream behind our cottage. I’m quite fond of the ducks too. Maybe we can feed the ducks later this morning, I think, picking up the hairbrush from my dresser and dragging it through the stubborn knots on my head. My naturally ebony hair objects to being dyed several shades lighter and tangles like wire.
Today is the first Saturday in July. The weekend is defined clearly on the calendar hanging next to my dresser by messy red circles around all the dates that fall on a Saturday and Sunday this month. Paul took a red pen to my calendar a few weeks ago while we were mid-argument. I was on his case about how little time he spends at home since we moved. Between trying to get his accountancy business off the ground here in Cork and adhering to his strict running schedule, there are some evenings when he barely sees Amelia for ten minutes before she falls asleep. Other nights she just can’t keep her little eyes open any longer and she asks me to give her daddy a goodnight kiss for her. In fairness, when I told Paul what Amelia said he looked broken-hearted and promised to make time for family. The days with red circles are Paul’s attempt at an apology.
‘The weekends are family time from now on,’ he promised. ‘You, me and Millie.’
So far, Paul has been as good as his word. Granted this is only the third weekend in his turned-over leaf but we’ve enjoyed walks in the countryside, picnics in the park and I’ve indulged in some much-needed lie-ins. This morning included.
I toss my hairbrush on to the bed I haven’t bothered to tidy up and make my way to the landing. I curse when I bang my head, for the second time this week, against a solid timber beam holding up the low roof just outside my bedroom door. I rub my head and laugh at my silliness before carefully walking down the steep stairs. The cottage wasn’t built with an upstairs in mind, but the previous owners have done a wonderful job opening up the attic and managing to create two small but comfortable bedrooms in the space. The original master bedroom was downstairs, but neither Paul nor I were comfortable sleeping on a different floor to Amelia, so we’ve made do with the much smaller upstairs space.
The smell of eggs and toast greets me from halfway up the stairs and my tummy rumbles excitedly in response. I pause on the bottom step and savour my view of domestic bliss. Paul is still in his running gear as he works hard in the kitchen. He doesn’t notice me. I watch his slender arm stir eggs in a pan over the old-school stove and I smile at my idea to open up the entire ground floor. It had meant we lost two months in the building process because of complications with load-bearing walls and planning permission, but it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed, much to Paul’s disappointment. The idea of gutting an old cottage until it was unrecognisable didn’t sit well with my conventional husband. But even Paul had to admit that the results of the renovation were spectacular. The stuff of magazines, he admitted recently.
Stepping off the bottom step and making my way across the highly glazed cream floor tiles leading into the kitchen area, I spot my daughter perched on a stool much too high for her, tucked against the kitchen island. Amelia sits with her back straight, her golden curls cascading over her shoulders as she watches her father cook.
‘Good morning, little miss,’ I say, waiting until I’m standing directly behind her before I speak.
‘Mammy,’ Amelia chirps, spinning round on the stool and almost falling off, just as I suspected she would.
I catch her.
‘What are you doing up here?’ I say sternly. ‘You know these stools are way too high for you.’ I’m speaking to my daughter but my eyes are on my husband.
Paul twists his head over his shoulder and looks at me while still stirring the eggs in the pan.
‘You’re a big girl now, aren’t you, Millie?’ he says.
Amelia looks at me, unsure, and I hate that Paul has confused her.
‘You are getting so big, sweetheart,’ I smile, clasping her waist as I swing her down. Her delicate, cheery lips turn downwards as the cold of the floor tiles hits her bare feet. ‘But you’re still not big enough for these high stools, okay? Soon though, I promise.’
‘Okay, Mammy,’ Amelia smiles and scurries over to sit at the table in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks our pretty little garden and the shallow stream running behind it.
‘You can’t keep her a baby forever,’ Paul says, waiting until Amelia is sitting at the table and out of earshot.
‘She is a baby, Paul. Still a baby. She won’t be three for another couple of months.’ I swallow hard, hoping to avoid another conversation about trying for a new baby. I shake my head and put the thought out of my mind. ‘Breakfast smells good.’
‘Millie is starving. Aren’t you, honey?’ Paul says, raising his voice enough to catch our daughter’s attention.
‘I like eggs.’ Amelia smiles brightly, but her concentration is drawn to a colouring book and some crayons she’s found on the table. ‘I like blue. The sky is blue.’
‘It sure is, sweetheart,’ I say, making my way to stand beside her. ‘And the sky is very blue today, isn’t it?’
She twists on her chair and looks out the window. ‘The duckies are sad, Mammy.’
I pull out the heavy oak chair next to Amelia from under the table, and no matter how much care I take not to scrape the tiles the legs squeak and protest against the floor.
‘Why are the ducks sad?’ I ask softly, sitting down and stroking my hand over Amelia’s curls, but my attention is less on my daughter and more on the floor and the damage I’ve probably caused.
‘Duckies like rain,’ she explains, shaking her head to toss my hand away. She spins round and seeks out a green crayon. She swirls the bright colour around the entire page of her colouring book, ignoring all lines. ‘Today is too sunny.’
‘Ducks do like rain,’ I smile. ‘But they like sunny days too, you know.’
I pick up a pink crayon and begin to colour in the wings of a fairy on the page in front of Amelia, attempting to add some reasoning to the masterpiece.
She switches her green crayon for a yellow one and continues her haphazard style. ‘Lellow is my favourite,’ she explains.
‘Ducks are yellow,’ I say.
‘Eggs are yellow too,’ Paul adds, arriving next to us with a plate of scrambled egg and toast cut into triangles.
He places the yellow plastic plate with steam swirling from it in front of her.
‘It’s hot, Millie. You have to blow on it,’ Paul says, walking back to the kitchen.
‘Hot, hot, hot,’ Amelia says, pressing her lips together as she attempts to blow away the steam.
I try not to laugh as I watch my daughter’s technique for cooling her food, which involves spraying saliva all over her plate.
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ I say, taking the crayon from her hand. ‘I think it’s cool enough. You can eat up now.’
‘We’re fierce lucky with the weather today,’ Paul says, placing a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs in front of me. ‘It’s going to be a scorcher. I was sweating to death on this morning’s run.’
‘Warmest day for five years, or something like that, according to the forecast,’ I say, swapping the crayon in my hand for the cup of coffee. I turn towards the window and inhale the sight of the beautiful babbling stream, which looks as if
it’s jumped straight out of a Monet painting and positioned itself at the end of my back garden.
‘It’s global warming, that’s what it is,’ Paul says. ‘We’re not used to this heat.’
‘Well, I’m delighted,’ I say. ‘I had visions of it lashing rain and the whole day being ruined. I couldn’t sleep for ages last night worrying about it.’
‘Ah Susan.’ Paul bends in the middle to kiss the top of my head. ‘You’re working yourself into a tizzy over a silly barbecue.’
‘It’s not silly. Not to me. We’re here six months now and I still don’t really know anyone. Today is important,’ I say, pushing some egg around my plate with the back of my fork. ‘I want them to like me. To like us.’
‘What time is everyone coming?’ he asks, taking a seat opposite me with his eggs and a pint glass full of ice water. He gave up coffee six months ago when he began training for the Dublin marathon. He tried to encourage me to do the same. I wasn’t having any of it.
‘The invites said any time from three, with food around four. I hope no one arrives early,’ I say.
Paul rolls his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘C’mon.’ I shake my head. ‘There’s no point inviting all our neighbours around for a barbecue if you’re going to be like that.’
‘Be like what?’ He shrugs. ‘They’re not my kind of people. That’s all.’
‘Paul, please,’ I sigh, trying to ignore the fact that Amelia is spilling far more egg on the floor than she is getting in her mouth. ‘You promised. You said you’d make an effort. If not for me, then do it for Amelia. I want her to have friends here. Please?’
He shoves a forkful of egg into his mouth. ‘Fine.’
Chapter Two
NOW
Paul’s floppy hair dangles into his eyes and I grin when he tries to subtly blow it out of his way as he stands in our neat garden with his hands folded across his chest. I watch out of my kitchen window as my husband chats to a man and woman we don’t know. I recognise the woman from my walks with Amelia but the man standing next to her is a complete stranger. He’s her husband, obviously, and they’re the couple who live a few houses and a couple of fields down from us, but I really don’t know them. Of the fifteen to twenty people littered around my garden right now, I only know two of them. One is my husband and the other is our daughter. But I plan to get to know them today. All of them. I want them to like me. I need them to.
Under Lying Page 1