I wait until he pulls himself away from me, before I sit up on the bed, my face red, and my body slick with sweat. As I collect my clothes from the floor, I glance into the mirror and see the faint outline of bruises ready to appear from where Joel's hands held me too tightly. They cover the slight muscles of my shoulders and the skin beneath my cheekbones where his hand pressed down against my mouth, his thumb leaving a red imprint on my face.
I dress quickly, suddenly ashamed of what we have done, while my best friend lies on the sofa in the living room in an alcohol-induced sleep, her boyfriend beside her, oblivious to us having sex, while unconscious thoughts of her deceased brother whirl around inside her head.
I avoid looking into the living room, as I dart past the half-open doorway, making my way into the bathroom with my hairbrush. As I look into the mirror, finding my parting with the brush, my cheeks blush with embarrassment. What kind of woman allows a man to act so forcefully toward her?
I ask myself this question again later, when I find myself unable to sleep, while Joel lies beside me, soundless. I look out the window at the full moon punctuating the midnight blue star-filled sky, and wonder how I could have gained pleasure from Joel's hurried movements at all.
I must have fallen back to sleep in the early hours of the morning, because I wake some time after dawn to find the bed empty and cold where Joel had been.
I shove the duvet aside, and make my way across the room toward the wardrobe, stopping short in front of the window. I gaze out across the street, wondering if there is anyone else up at this hour, catching the sound of a cat fight in the distance. I glance down automatically to where Pippa lies curled up at the foot of the bed. I don't know what I would do if anything were to happen to her.
JOEL
I bask in the peace that washes over me, as I leave the house. I'm glad to be out of the stinking hell-hole Erica calls a home. Rose was a weeping mess when I left, having woken up drunker than when she'd fallen asleep. I thought the heavy doses of vodka I'd poured for her would have knocked her out until noon, but there was no such luck. Jared was being his typical weak self, not really helpful in the slightest, but propping Rose's head up, while she threw up over the toilet bowl, as I walked out of the house.
As soon as I get home, I run the shower to wash away the grime I felt building up on my skin all the time I stayed in that flat, with the air saturated in dust. I'm not expected in the office for another two hours, so I pour myself a strong cup of coffee as soon as I've dressed, taking it into the living room.
I switch on the spotlights, and watch as each of them spark up, two at a time, as I take a seat in front of the television, switching through channels until I cannot bear another moment spent listening to the morning news reporters droning on about the devastating warfare continuing in Syria, and the upcoming loss of the UK’s EU membership. It bores the hell out of me.
I find my eyes surveying the shelf, where I keep the laptop, flipping it open to distract myself with visual metaphors of rape. I want to silence the growing need to inflict pain on myself just to ensure I can still feel; that I'm not completely dead inside.
As the adrenaline builds up inside me, it is almost intoxicating. I finally release myself of the mounting waves, which make my body shudder, feeling the familiar crescendo before the eventual catharsis takes hold of me, leaving me limp on the sofa.
When I'm done, I close the laptop, and place it back on the shelf, before collecting myself and my things together, ready for another long day in the office.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, as I make my way toward the car. I must have switched it onto vibrate, instead of switching it off. I curse myself, answering it.
'Joel, I just wanted to thank you for yesterday, for everything,' she says, allowing me to detect a certain amount of seduction in her voice.
'I did it for you, Erica.'
'I know, and I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you.'
'Thank you.'
'Make-up sex is the best,' she purrs.
'Well, you've still got some grovelling to do.'
'Excuse me?'
'I don't regret what I said, Erica. I always reason my actions.'
'Rose is my best friend, Joel. She's like a sister to me.'
'That doesn't mean you have to put her first all the time. What about what you want?' I grit my teeth.
'Right now, I want Rose to know I’m here for her.'
'Sure. Just don't forget to take care of yourself.'
'You always know the right thing to say. I like you Joel, a lot.'
I'm shocked, and a little pissed off, she's saying this now; declaring her feelings toward me after pushing me away.
'Erica, I have to go now. I'll speak to you soon.'
'Okay.' I can hear the smile in her voice.
I might not be so lenient with her the next time she speaks without thinking. If I let her stew a while, acting cold toward her, she'll think I'm letting her go. She'll come running into my arms, begging me to give her another chance to prove her worth, and when she does, I'll be ready and waiting.
ERICA
I place my phone down onto the bedside table, and leave the room to meet the cool chill of the hall. I find Jared sitting up in the chair he fell asleep in last night beside Rose, who stares vacantly at the grubby carpet with misted eyes. She only stirs as I pass her a warm, sugary cup of tea, five minutes later.
'I'll call in sick'
Rose's glazed eyes zoom into focus, as I rest my hand on her shoulder.
'You don't have to do that. I've got Jared. And, I suppose, a funeral to arrange.'
Jared straightens his t-shirt. 'They won't release the body until the autopsy is completed. The toxicology report . . .'
I dart Jared a look that says, 'dare to continue,' and he sits back in his chair. I feel anger building, warming my skin.
I shake my head at myself. This isn't me. I'm not the kind of person to lose my temper with people. I have to be strong for Rose. I have to stay in control.
Rose's face is frozen. Her eyes look sore and watery, but I know the tears won't fall now. This is Rose's hardened exterior—the one she uses to keep herself going when times are rough. Things are going to get a whole lot tougher if Jared is right, and the police start investigating his death, dragging up their awful childhoods, their pasts spoken and written about in files of paperwork, just as they had been all those years ago, when Rose was only a small, frightened, six-year-old girl.
She takes her hand, and places it on top of mine which still rests over her shoulder. She lifts the mug of tea from the coffee table in slow, jerky movements, and forces herself to swig back the contents in one long gulp.
Rose seems to come out of the trance she's been in since hearing of her brother's death, and moves to stand up from the sofa, gently swaying, as the rush of last night's alcohol floods through her body.
'I'd better go home, and have a wash. I stink,' she says, offering me a faint smile.
'Yes, you've been wearing those clothes for two days,' I say. 'Is there anything I can do?'
'No,' she says, shaking her head. 'You've been fab. And Joel, too, of course. I don't know what I would have done without him.'
Jared looks slightly perplexed at this, then says what I'd thought when we argued. 'He's the one who got you drunk.'
I press my lips together, and nod quickly in his direction, hoping Rose hasn't seen my agreement.
'I'm a big girl,' she says. 'I needed it.'
'So, you approve?' I walk her out of the living room after she's collected herself together, and combed her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tidy it.
'I approve,' she repeats, without a hint of emotion. Following it by stating she's tired and woozy.
'You don't have to leave,' I say, noticing her hesitate, as she makes her way to the front door ahead of us, with Jared at her side.
'I can't mope around here all day,' she says.
As I close the door behind them, I notice
the stale air inside the quiet, dismal flat. Joel is right. It is a lonely place to be. But, no lonelier than where Rose is right now. Grief is one of the loneliest emotions.
Patrick is dead.
I still can't quite get my head around it. It's as though he's just disappeared in a vacuum. During our university days, Rose, Patrick, myself, and a few others used to hang out with each other all the time. Patrick was the joker of our little clan, and in a way, he was like a bad smell we never seemed able to get rid of. Though none of us ever asked him to join us, he'd always show up. He was one of those people who you never really imagined would one day be stolen from you. I naively assumed he'd always be there; a part of our past, and our future. Now, he's gone, and the world suddenly seems fragile. I remember the days after my mother's passing, and the emptiness I felt. I can't imagine what Rose must be feeling right now.
I've wasted too much time sitting here, over-thinking, just as Joel says I do. I make my way down the hall, snapping myself out of rumination. It doesn't help.
I take a quick shower, dress, and tidy up the flat before leaving for work. I'm prepared for another gloomy day, thick with clouds, and the ever-present reminder life is a fleeting moment to be treasured and held onto, for as long as possible.
As I make my way toward the bus stop, I make the decision to live each and every day in the moment, taking advantage of everything positive life throws at me.
***
I return home from work nine hours later, after grabbing some milk from Tesco. My clothes are soaked through. The leggings I chose to wear, stupidly thinking it couldn't possibly rain any harder than it had this morning, cling to me like latex.
I step through the front door, and immediately peel the clothes away from my damp skin. I collect the post from the mat beside the front door, opening the first envelope, as I make my way into the kitchen. Inside is a letter from my landlord, telling me he’s returning to England to carry out an inspection on the property, and would like me to be home on the 22nd to enable the heating engineer to check the boiler.
I place the letter down on top of the others, which I'll read later with a steaming cup of coffee. I switch the kettle on to boil, hoping the caffeine will give me the energy I'm going to need to deal with the phone call I have to make.
Five minutes later, I sit on the sofa, wearing jogging trousers and a tank top. I place the half-drunk, steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of me, with the phone pressed to my ear.
'Rose, how have you been?'
JOEL
It's been almost a week since I've spoken to Erica. I called her earlier to ask her to come away with me for the weekend, thinking the change of scenery would do her good, especially after Rose's recent news over her stupid brother's death. Erica was surprised to hear my voice, and said she'd expected to hear from me sooner. I told her I'd been busy working on a case, and I couldn't leave my phone on. I'm not sure if she believed me, or not, but she didn't sound pissed off. If anything—as I'd predicted—she fell for my excuses, hook, line, and sinker.
On the appointed day, I head over to her flat with a rucksack packed inside the boot and a smile on my face, thinking of the sea air and sandy beaches of Cornwall.
I've booked us a double room in the Falmouth Hotel, overlooking the harbour. The late summer air is cool on my face, and the wind rustles the trees on the opposite side of the road, as I progress down the narrow path.
As I raise my fist to knock, the door opens. Her hair is still light from the sun, and her fading tan makes her look radiant. Her jeans hug the curves of her slim thighs, as she lugs a heavy suitcase onto the path.
'Have you got everything?' I say jokingly.
'Everything but the kitchen sink.'
'Do you need all that?'
'I wasn't sure what the weather would be like. I've heard talk of rain.'
'Right.'
'It's not a problem, is it?'
'No. How's Rose?' I ask only for my own peace of mind. I don't want Erica disturbed by dramatic phone calls while we're away.
'She's fine. Jared is looking after her. I think she's returning to work on Monday.'
'So soon?'
'She thinks it would be a good idea to try to move on.'
'And how's the police investigation going?'
'They won't release his body until they have a suspect, or trial. I think that's keeping her stuck.'
'So, they haven't found out who did it yet?'
'They don't have any leads. And the CCTV camera only caught the side of the car he hit. The driver just drove off.'
'Let's get going. We don't want to hit the rush-hour traffic.'
Erica follows me down the path, as I drag her bag along the pavement ahead of her.
'I had to park around the corner.'
She nods her head, but I can tell she isn't really listening. I shouldn't have mentioned Rose. Now, she'll be brooding about her friend for the rest of the journey.
I haul the suitcase into the boot, stacking it beside my rucksack, containing only two changes of clothes. I don't intend on having to wear any for much of the time we're away. I slam the door of the boot down hard, and jump inside the car.
The journey out of Bristol is quiet. Too quiet. I can tell Erica is thinking of Rose and Patrick, so I switch the radio on to drown out the noise in my head. The constant buzzing begins the moment my knuckles tense and flashes of anger threaten to rob me of my usually well-controlled temper.
'He must have been a good guy.'
She turns to me with a confused expression on her face, wondering why I'm talking aloud the end of a conversation I'd only begun in my head. Several lines crease on her forehead, and her eyes narrow. She can't hide anything from me; her facial expressions give her thoughts away too easily.
'Who?'
'Patrick.'
'Oh, yes. He was.'
I try to remain neutral, but the nagging certainty something happened between them claws at my skin. As we meet the junction where the M32 roundabout meets the M5 leading south, I navigate my thoughts, before repeating the question she didn't answer the first time I asked her, several days ago.
'Did something happen between you two?'
'Between me and who?'
'Don't play dumb. Patrick and you.'
Her eyes crease into slits, but I can't tell if she's genuinely perplexed, or trying to hide the discomfort of knowing I've worked her out already.
'No,' she says. 'Why would you even think that?'
'You seem distant since his death.'
'He was a very good friend of mine. My best friend’s brother,' she says, as if that answers my question.
But, it doesn't, and I notice my hands clench the steering wheel tighter. 'I was only asking.'
'I was only answering you.' She looks out the window, as we pass the sign directing us toward Taunton.
We reach Exeter an hour later. The sun peeps out from behind a gathering of clouds over the red brick prison. Erica hasn't spoken to me since we left Taunton, so I leave my foot on the pedal taking the sharp turning, hoping the sudden movement of the car will jolt Erica out of her sulky mood, but she merely takes a sharp intake of breath, and resumes her silence.
We hit Plymouth, leaving the motorway behind us to follow the A38 for the rest of our journey. I glance over to Erica to find she's fallen asleep. I apply the brakes a little too quickly, and the car jerks to a stop, forcing her body to shunt forward. Her eyes spark open, and she panics, holding my arm.
'What was that?'
'Just a hare running into the road.'
'Did you hit it?'
'No, I drove around it,' I say, wondering if she believes me.
'I must have fallen asleep.'
'We're nearly there now. Try and stay awake to take in the scenery. You'll be able to see the ocean in a minute.'
We cross the Tamar Bridge, and the rest of the drive takes us through country lanes, with a hilltop view of the wide expanse of water below. Erica's breath is cut sh
ort by the beauty. She looks like a child being shown a Christmas tree for the first time.
'Where's the furthest you've been?' I say, not really paying attention, more concerned with making it around the bend without scratching the car up on the overgrown nettles and tree branches cascading out into the road.
'Devon. Me, Mum, and Dad used to holiday in Bude, when I was small.'
Another hour passes, before we make it to the small town of Falmouth. I park the car up on a hill, lined with Victorian-style houses all crammed together. The sky has turned a bleak grey, and the tight humid air is unbearable, as I hoist the rucksack up onto my shoulder and carry Erica's suitcase into the hotel to check-in.
I follow Erica to the lift, taking us to the third floor, where our spacious room sits at the end of a corridor. Once we're inside, I dump the suitcase onto the floor, and sink back onto the bed. Erica climbs on top, straddling me, still fully clothed. She rests her head against my chest, stroking my face with her fingers.
Holding her chin in my hand, I bring her face toward mine. She doesn't resist when I gently push her head down. She opens the zip of my jeans, pulls my cock free, and begins to tease me with her tongue.
***
Afterward, heading down to the restaurant to find ourselves some mediocre food, we return to the hotel room. I switch on the television, leaving it turned down to a low hum. Once I've poured us both a cup of coffee from the adequate kettle on the corner unit, we begin to swap memories of our childhood. At some point, Erica begins to wind her hair around one finger, mimicking the movement I've grown to understand to mean she is in deep concentration. Or, as I suspect, over-thinking.
'What's wrong?' I turn her face so she looks down into my eyes, as I lie below her on the plush bed.
She has her back pressed straight against the headboard. From here, I can see the curve of her spine and the subtle accentuation of her breasts, which threaten to leap out of her camisole.
'Nothing. Everything is perfect.'
'Then, why do I sense that you're anxious about something?'
Beautiful Liar: a gripping suspense thriller Page 11