Beautiful Liar: a gripping suspense thriller

by Louise Mullins

  She used to tell me she was frightened of me. She used to cower in a corner, pretending I'd beaten her. But, I saw the bruises and the marks on her arms only when she left the bedroom. She caused them herself. I didn't hit her that hard. She made such a noise, I worried Lily had heard it through the ceiling. I had to run downstairs afterwards to console her, as she sat crouched behind the sofa, shaking.

  I told Lily her Mum wasn't well. The illness made her hurt herself, sometimes. I didn't know what else to say. I couldn't allow anyone in the house, and I didn't want to involve the community psychiatric team. I knew what they were like; I'd dealt with them for clients sometimes.

  Psychologists are nothing but social workers in drag. They want to delve into the entire roots of the family, twisting every life experience you've ever had, and trying to figure out what made you become the person you are. I couldn't allow that, so I decided I'd help Erica myself. That was probably the biggest mistake of my life.

  PAST

  Four Years Ago

  ERICA

  I stand on the pavement, overlooking the dock. I'm stunned. I don't know what to say. I stare down into his eyes, and see the kindness of his smile. I know I might not get a chance like this again; to make something of myself, to be this happy.

  'Yes. I'll marry you.'

  Joel takes hold of my hands, jumping to his feet. I’m immediately in his embrace, and can feel the thudding of his heart through the fabric of his shirt, unbuttoned slightly to reveal a few stray hairs, which poke up from his lightly tanned skin.

  My legs shake so much he has to hold me up, as we continue back down the dock.

  As soon as we arrive back at the hotel, I take a hot shower, and dress into the new lingerie Joel bought. He sits at the foot of the bed, waiting for me.

  I switch off the bathroom light, and make my way seductively toward him. He pulls me down onto him, lying back against the soft bed. I gently weave my fingers through his hair, leaning over him. He plants his hands on my hips, and angles his head away from my hair, which falls down into his face.

  'I'm going to pay for you to get your hair cut,' he says, stroking my waist.

  I smile, and allow him to run his hands up and down my narrow waist until he finds my breasts, stroking my nipple with his thumb through the laced bra.

  'Black doesn't suit you,' he says. 'Take it off.'

  For a second, I shudder, winded by his words, but drag myself out of it. It doesn't matter if he dislikes black. I wonder why he bought it for me, if he doesn't like the colour? And hadn't he made a big deal of me wearing a little black dress on one of our dates?

  His fingers begin to undo the strap of my bra from behind, allowing it to fall from my shoulders. He helps me to remove my knickers, and, once naked, he climbs on top of me, kissing my neck. He smiles down at me.

  'You don't look like a whore now.'

  I am completely gobsmacked. So much so I don't have a chance to respond, as he undoes his trousers, plunging himself inside me.

  I'm still stunned by his words, as he rolls off my body, disappearing in the bathroom to wash.

  I look across the room to where the television sits, and catch my reflection on the blank screen. I think I look rather sexy in the lingerie, but if he doesn't like the colour on me, and he thinks it makes me look like a whore, then I'd better not wear black underwear. I make a mental note to discard any black items I find in my suitcase, or at home when we get back from our holiday. It's only as I look away from my reflection I notice Joel must have taken his phone from the unit, because it's no longer there.

  He enters the bedroom looking impatient, and slightly troubled, so I don't say anything. I allow him to simmer, until he is ready to begin talking. After being asked to marry him, I thought he would be happy. But, he's no longer smiling. His brow is slightly creased with hidden annoyance.

  'What's the matter?'

  He shakes his head. 'Nothing. I'm just tired. Do you mind if we get an early night? We've got a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.'

  'Not at all. You go ahead, but I'm not tired yet. I might read another chapter of my book to help me sleep. I'll put the lamp on.'

  I'm expecting him to roll over and close his eyes, but he doesn't. Instead, he lies back, staring at the ceiling. I fetch the book from the bedside table, but I can't concentrate because Joel is lying awake beside me. His breaths are overly loud and irritating. He keeps shifting the pillow behind his head to try and find comfort.

  In the end, after reading the same paragraph four times and still being unable to remember what it says, I give up, put the book back on the bedside cabinet, and switch off the lamp. As I turn away from him, I hear Joel turn his head, and feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck. He twists his body toward me, and places his hand on my stomach before eventually falling asleep.

  I close my eyes, but I'm not tired. It's not yet 9:00pm. I decide to crawl out of bed, and take the book into the bathroom, closing the door behind me, and switching on the small light above the mirror to read. I've not even got past the second paragraph, when I hear movement beyond the door. I stand up from the toilet lid, and find Joel standing at the foot of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

  'I couldn't sleep.'

  'Me neither,' he says. 'Let's go down to the restaurant, and get a drink from the bar.'

  I nod my head to agree, wondering why he bothered to attempt to sleep so early in the first place. I dress, while he readjusts himself in the mirror.

  We take the stairs down to the bar. He orders a glass of Prosecco for me and a double whisky for himself. We take a seat outside on the patio, where the cold isn't as penetrating as it was earlier. The back door is left slightly ajar, and the warmth pulsing from the iron radiators inside the restaurant keep our backs warm, as we gaze out across the sky. A sprinkling of stars has formed above our heads.

  'You're too good for me,' he says, as if this is something he's been thinking for some time, and the words have simply slipped from his mouth by accident.

  'Don't be silly.'

  'You're beautiful and clever. You're wasted in that place.'

  'What place?'

  'Where you work. I think you should have continued studying; you might have got something better.'

  'I didn't get the grade I needed to do what I wanted to. Besides, I enjoy my job.'

  He laughs.

  'I'm serious. I still get to complete psychological assessments, personality inventories. I still work with employees who're experiencing difficulties in work, such as stress and anxiety. I coach and counsel people. I just don't have the expensive doctorate to prove my worth.’

  'Why don't you do it, then?'

  'I can't. It's too late.'

  'It's never too late. You know what your problem is? You give up too easily.'

  'No, I don't.'

  'You have the opportunity to pursue your dreams, and you're still making up excuses not to have to fulfil them.'

  'No, I'm not.'

  'Give up work.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'If you're moving in with me, at some point in the future, and you've agreed to marry me, then you could give up work. I don't mean now, but soon.'

  'And how will I support myself?'

  'You don't need to. I've got enough money to support us both.'

  'Do you expect me to stay at home all day, cook, clean, and play house?'

  'I'm not saying that.'

  'Being in a relationship doesn't mean you have to stop trying.'

  'That's exactly what I'm saying. Please, listen to me.'

  He grabs for my hands across the shiny round oak table. His palms are warm and damp. I notice how they almost cover mine entirely.

  'You could take three years out of work to complete your course. I'll pay for it. That way, you can concentrate on your studies, without work interfering.'

  'And be your paid slave?'

  'If you have the time to do housework, you have the time to study.'

  What does that even me
an? 'I'll think about it.'

  'I'll get you some prospectuses. You might even be able to study some of it from home.'

  'I said, I'll think about it. Now, shut up, and drink your whisky.’

  He smiles, but I know he's hurt. He's not used to me standing up for myself.

  It's not that I am, or ever have been, a pushover, but since the day we met, I seem to have slipped into the role of submissive girlfriend all too easily. I've always been known as 'the mouthy one,' or 'the over-confident one,' who sometimes says the wrong thing, and then, has to do a lot of grovelling afterwards to be forgiven. But, with Joel, I'm different. I seem to try harder to please him; to be the graceful woman I think he wants me to be. All without his knowledge.

  Well, that's about to change. I need to show him I'm no pushover, and I'm not the kind of woman to take things lying down. I'm strong and determined. And I'm not going to allow another man to bully me. Not like Matt did.

  When Joel takes my hand to lead me away from the table and back to our room after his third whisky, I decide to stay, and finish my second glass of wine.

  I make no move to follow him, so he stands there, with a solemn face and his shoulders slightly raised, waiting. I down the Prosecco, and take my time to gather my things. He snaps up my hand, and tugs me away from the table.

  He's half dragging me up the stairs, and I have to snatch my hand away from him. I stand rooted to the bottom step.

  'Why are you being difficult?'

  'I don't like being told what to do.'

  'I can see that.'

  'I'm not a child, you know. I'm a grown woman. I can make my own way up a bloody staircase.'

  'You're embarrassing yourself,' he says, nodding his head at the door of the restaurant, where an older couple stand, holding hands, afraid to venture any further up the staircase, in case they've entered a domestic row.

  'No.' I shake my head. 'I'm embarrassing you.'

  I follow him up the stairs, slowly, deliberately. It isn't until we've reached the top, having lost the couple on the second-floor, he spins round, quickens his pace and opens the door to our room, holding it, and waiting for me to enter.

  Once inside, I strut to the bed, where I sit, and slip off my shoes. He doesn't move. I can feel his eyes on me, as I turn my head.

  He stands, fully-clothed, waiting for me to undress, before he walks slowly to me, and stands in front of me so I have no option but to stare up into his piercing brown eyes.

  'Don't ever act like that again.'

  I'm stunned. I have absolutely no idea where this change of attitude comes from, and for a split second, I'm scared.

  His face is blank, and his eyes have darkened. It’s as if he’s not physically present. But, then, his gaze deepens, and he blinks, as if momentarily forgetting why he's staring at me. He drops his shoulders, and relaxes his set features. He moves, and I want to step back. He sits down beside me, folds his arms around my waist, and strokes the skin barely covered by the thin fabric of my top.

  'I'm sorry. I can be a bit over-sensitive sometimes. I don't want us to fall out. It's just, shit, look, for a moment, you reminded me of Jessica. She used to speak to me like that. I was hurt.'

  'It's okay. I forgive you.' I am not exactly sure what I'm apologising for.

  He places his hand on my cheek, planting a kiss to the top of my head.

  I offer to make us both a cup of tea. Once the kettle has boiled, I sit beside him on the bed, my eyes trained on the television documentary about the housing crisis in London and other parts of the country, but not really listening.

  I can't concentrate on the programme; my mind keeps drifting back to what Joel said, only a few minutes ago. I mentally scrutinise the intensity of Joel's instruction to not ever act like that again. I shuffle down beneath the duvet, leaving my head on Joel's shoulder, as we slip into a hazy sleep. Even as I fall asleep, I'm wondering if his words were a threat.

  Morning arrives, and I'm awoken by the memory of the harsh words Joel spoke to me the night before, I've already decided to forget about our near argument, and instead, focus on nearing our fourth week together. After such a short time, I've already agreed to marry him. All my lingering doubts have vanished, and I’m content in the knowledge I’ve met someone as wonderful as Joel.

  Dappled sunlight filters through the uncurtained window, leaving a trail of white lines across the bed as I make it up, and tidy the room, hoping to leave it presentable for when the housekeeper comes in later. I don't want her to think we're the slovenly couple we've become since we arrived on this trip.

  I wince at the thought of what I'll be returning home to. For the first time since Joel asked me to move in with him, I'm actually considering not sleeping in the flat another night.

  'Joel?' I run the hairbrush through my knotted locks, before stuffing it in my bag, and zipping it up. 'When can I move in with you?'

  He looks surprised. 'Whenever you're ready.'

  'I'm ready now.'

  'We'll pick your things up on the way.'

  'What about Pippa?'

  'She can come, too, but why don't we leave her with Rose and Jared another night? I'm sure she's enjoying the company while Jared's at work.'

  'She returned to work a few days ago.'

  'Oh, well, maybe the therapeutic properties of having the dog around is good for her. Leave it for a few more days, and wait until you've settled in yourself. She'll be more receptive to her new surroundings then.'

  'That's a great idea. You always think of everything.'

  He presses his lips together into a tight smile, and focuses on collecting the suitcase from the floor, standing to attention at the door, and waiting for me to ready myself. I give him the nod and we descend the staircase, check out, and leave the hotel.

  Joel is singing to himself, as we reach the car. I think he's happy I've finally agreed to move in with him.

  I smile, too.

  In a month, I've met, fallen in love with, and agreed to marry a kind, handsome man. Who says dreams don't come true?

  JOEL

  Though I wanted them to, I wasn't expecting things to move forward so quickly. In a matter of two months, Erica has agreed to marry me, and moved in, making herself at home.

  I'm sure she was in shock the first time she walked through the door to be met with a sterile clean hallway, a large staircase and the wide, open-plan rooms, which don't resemble any part of her old flat.

  It took a lot of planning to get the architectural designs for the house correct, but it was made possible by the large sum of money I inherited from Jessica's estate. Her demise is not something I wish to re-live, but for the purpose of explanation, the autopsy report ruled suicide as cause of death. The toxicology report showed she'd drunk a vast amount of alcohol, and taken over forty over-the-counter sleeping pills, the night she died.

  I shake my head, stopping myself from contemplating what might have happened had she lived, trying not to allow such thoughts to enter my mind.

  I should be happy. I'm not. And I'm not sure why. It isn't so much the realisation I'm going to have to share my space with Erica, but the mess she leaves in her wake. She bulldozed the place the moment she stepped through the door, and despite the many times I've told her not to, she leaves dishes lying in the sink for hours, and her clothes on the bedroom floor every time she takes a shower. She smiles, and pretends to become moody when I ask her to tidy up after herself, thinking it's a joke, accusing me of being pedantic, but she doesn't note the hint of annoyance in my voice.

  I press my shirt, ready for the morning, before leaving my suit on hangers applied to the hook on the back of the bedroom door. Erica offers me a weak smile, as she sits on the end of the bed, taking off her earrings–the ones I bought her on our shopping trip at the weekend.

  'I'm thinking of hiring back my housekeeper.'

  'Why?' she says.

  'Well, you're too busy to keep the house looking respectable, and I have a lot of work on at the moment. She'
ll come in twice a week, and spruce the place up a bit.'

  'Do you think I'm incompetent?'

  'I think it will help you. Somebody has to do it.'

  Her face turns crimson.

  'Have you thought any more about giving up work?'

  She looks over to the bedside table, where I've left a pile of university brochures. I can see the thoughts clambering through her head, trying to rush out, but she just shakes her head.

  'You might be right,' she says, surprising us both.

  I hear someone knocking on the door.

  'Have a think about it, and let me know. And about me hiring back my housekeeper, Demelza. I think you'll like her.'

  I leave her to contemplate my idea, heading down to answer the door. It's a little late for deliveries, and I'm not expecting any visitors, so I walk into the living room to check the CCTV monitor before deciding not to.

  What is a salesman doing here anyway, and how did he get through the security gate?

  I fetch the remote control from the cupboard beneath the television, and click through the security footage. Erica must have forgotten to close the gate again. I sift through each room, until I find Erica, sitting back on the bed with her left hand in front of her face. I'm sure she's wondering what her finger will look like with a wedding ring attached to it, but I try not to be too positive. Women only ever let you down. You think you know them, but it isn't until you live with one then bam—they become a bitch.

  Erica's gaze moves up to the ceiling, where the camera is pointing down from a needle hole in the light fitting. For a moment, I suspect she might be able to see the camera, but then, she turns her head away.

  I watch, as she tucks herself into the duvet with her back to the camera. Images cloud my vision of what I could do to her from that position. I imagine myself walking up behind her, and slamming myself hard into her arse.

  I pull my cock out of my trousers, and begin to rub myself furiously in an attempt to still the unwholesome thoughts which creep up on me for the first time since Erica moved in.