Beautiful Liar: a gripping suspense thriller

by Louise Mullins

  'Come here.'

  Something propels me into action. I think it's a mixture of shock, alcohol, and the realisation this is how mine and Matt's relationship could have gone, had I stayed. I find myself on the other side of the room, stuffing my clothes into a suitcase.

  'What are you doing?' he says, surprised.

  'I'm leaving.'

  'You can't. I mean, it's late. Where are you going?'

  'I'm leaving you. You have no right to hit me. I'm your wife.'

  'Where will you go?'

  'Home.'

  I stop with the zip of the suitcase between my fingers. I don’t have a home anymore. A swathe of heat rises up into my cheeks, when I think of how stupid I've been to trust Joel. Stupid and naïve.

  'Erica, sit down. Let's talk about this.'

  'I'll get the marriage annulled. It won't be too difficult. We haven't even been married twelve hours.' The words leave my mouth, without the chance to register what I'm saying.

  'I'm not going to let you walk away from me.'

  'There's nothing more to say, Joel. I'm not going to stand for that.'

  He takes a deep breath, and moves toward me, but I recoil, and end up walking into the bedpost, swiping my leg on the heavy wooden frame.

  'Erica. Please, look at me.'

  I force my eyes up from where they stare at the suitcase, ready loaded. If I just walk out of here, and don't look back, I'll be able to leave, without seeing his face. But, something makes me want to meet his eyes, see his expression, and note the apology in his words. And, I don't know why. Perhaps because I know Joel is a wonderful man. Attentive, warm, and thoughtful. I slowly lift my chin. His features are set, but his eyes have watered.

  'I'm sorry, I don't know why I did it. I've never hit anyone before. I love you. Please don't hold one mistake against me. It will never happen again.'

  He sounds sincere. I can detect the sadness in his voice. A part of me wants to tell him to fuck off, but the other part of me is still holding on to the belief he truly means what he is saying; he will never raise his hand to me again.

  He must notice me grappling to make a decision, unable to think what to do, because he steps toward me, and his shoulders drop, making him look defeated.

  'Come here,' he says.

  I'm not sure why my feet move of their own accord. But, like an abused puppy, I return to my master, without a word, standing in front of him awaiting further instruction.

  I catch my reflection in the mirror. There is a pink imprint of his hand on the pale skin of my cheek.

  Joel brings me to him. His lips pressed firmly against my burning cheek. 'I love you, Erica.'

  'I know.' I don't know what else to say.

  Time seems to still, and race, all at the same time.

  Joel retreats, and folds down the duvet, waiting for me to undress. I do so methodically, as though I have become an automaton. The building excitement I felt earlier has gone. I feel numb.

  I slip beside him, but cannot bear the thought of making love to him. As his fingers find me, his other hand tugs the duvet over my exposed neck. I jump, startled. I needn't have worried, though, because his touch is gentle. His fingers wind their way through my hair, and his hand brushes against the skin of my chin, turning my face toward his. I notice his eyes settle on the red mark his palm has left, as he presses his lips against mine. It takes a moment for me to reciprocate, but I do.

  We make love without a word. All the while, I'm wondering if rewarding his behaviour with my body is the wrong thing to do, but his caress is so well-employed, I can't say no. Afterwards, he kisses me gently, and I stifle the tears threatening to fall down my face from the humiliation of the violence he had inflicted previously.

  I stupidly believed our wedding night would be perfectly romantic. We would make love, and celebrate the end to a beautiful day. But, it was all lies.

  I want to escape, but I'm trapped beneath the weight of his arm, as his body collapses at my side. I turn my back to him, and shudder when I feel the hardness of him, pressing against my spine. I want to fight him off me, pound his head in with my fists. I want to scream and shout, and ask him why he hit me, but I don't. Instead, I keep very still, and try to take small shallow breaths, so he thinks I'm drifting to sleep.

  A raging war is continuing in my head, as I try not to think about what I've done. No matter how pleasant the experience of our love-making, the day has been tarred.

  I thought I was marrying a gentleman, but he seems to be the devil in disguise. And I'm not sure who's at fault. Is he really the evil man I've pictured him to be, or are my thoughts so horrid because I'm less annoyed by the slap to my face, and more so by my decision not to walk out of the door, and never look back? I'm not sure, but exhaustion eventually allows me to fall asleep beside him.

  ***

  A light glimmer of sunlight flits across the bed through the lower hem of the thick black-out curtains, signifying the arrival of morning. My eyes widen, when I see Joel sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me, with the phone in his hand.

  A while later, there is a knock at the door. Joel silently leaves the bed, greeting the waiter who enters with a small trolley, carrying two trays containing a breakfast feast, a small bottle of champagne, and a huge bunch of red roses, the stems of which have been cut to force them to fit inside the dwarfed glass vase.

  I was expecting an apology, but I take the lavish breakfast and fresh flowers to mean he is sorry, and offer him a smile, tucking into the food.

  Joel must have eaten already, because he watches me stuff my face, making no move for the tray. I finish chewing mixed fruit-covered pancakes, drizzled with honey. I've already decided to forgive him. Once I've finished eating, I head into the ensuite bathroom to wash my hands. I watch Joel perched on the edge of the bed, gazing out of the window.

  As I dry my hands, I snag the bright white towel on the large diamond of my wedding ring. Re-entering the bedroom, I breathe in the scent of freshly mown grass and spring blooms, breezing in through the open window.

  Joel looks twice at me, as if the first time I wasn't there at all, before standing and turning toward the bathroom.

  'I'm taking a shower. When you're dressed, we'll drive back to the estate, and take a walk around the grounds.'

  They are the first words he's spoken to me since his almost apology last night, and I fight the urge to say something, but I don't want to ruin the moment. He's trying to make everything better, and prove how disappointed in himself he is. I hold my tongue, and nod my head, not trusting myself to say anything less than hurtful. It's a new day, a fresh beginning, and I have to try to make it work.

  ***

  We leave the hotel. The sky has grown steel grey, and the ominous thick clouds above chill me to my bones. I've only packed a couple of dresses and a cardigan. I don't really have any walking shoes with me, either, and all I have to protect myself from the rain is a thin summer coat, so Joel offers me his suit jacket, still carrying the smell of whisky and male sweat, reminding me of the bitter end to our perfect day. I swallow the bile which sits lodged in my throat, and force a smile, as Joel catches my drawn face in his gaze.

  'It suits you better when you smile,' he says, and winks.

  We begin our walk of the estate, every so often looking up to the sky for confirmation it won't spit rain at us. At one particularly steep slope, where the rolling hills incline down toward a field, the words I've been trying hard not to speak all morning race through my mind. I want ask him what possessed him to lash out and hit me, but when his steps fall in line with mine, I decide not to spoil the slowly forming bright afternoon, and don't say anything.

  We return to the hotel around midday, and once we're back inside our hotel room, we reluctantly pack away our belongings. I follow Joel to the car, and we leave the wedding, and the fact my husband hit me behind, or so I hope.

  As Joel drives the car up the gravel path, and onto the drive I notice—for probably the first time—perhaps
Joel is a bit more than a perfectionist. The walls and floors are so sparsely decorated and deliberately clean, I wonder if he is as obsessed with his work as he is with the housekeeping. It is not a house but a show home—unlived in.

  Is that why he hit me? He sees me as a threat to his polished exterior. My behaviour doesn’t match his outward appearance. Maybe I am acting kind of spoiled, and he can’t see any other way to show me how much I upset him. I have to admit, Joel isn't an arrogant man. He must have been scared, felt backed into a corner.

  I'm still telling myself he didn't mean to hit me, and wasn't entirely to blame when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch the familiar sight of Chris Hollins duck behind the low, pitted wall at the far end of the lane, which leads straight from the road to our house. I don't ask Joel how he managed to get through the gate before Joel opened it with his key fob, because I can only guess. He has been waiting for us to return, and I want to know why.

  JOEL

  I don't mean to hit her, but I can't bring myself to apologise, either. At least, not this time. We've been home for less than a week, when I find the text message on her phone. She hasn't sent it; it's saved in her drafts folder, but if she had, everything we'd discussed on our wedding night would have been for nothing, because she lied to me. She hasn't forgiven me at all. Erica is considering telling Rose I slapped her. I throw her mobile phone across the room. It smashes into several pieces on the ground. She's still taking a shower so she can't hear me. I gather up the broken phone, and toss it into the bin.

  She comes down the stairs, water still dripping down her face from the towel woven around her head. Like an odd-looking turban.

  'Have you seen my phone?'

  'No.'

  'I think I've lost it. I'll have to get another one.'

  'Why don't you wait? I'll get you a new one at the end of the month.'

  'Really?'

  'Of course. Anything for my wife.'

  She heads back upstairs, and I follow her into the bedroom. She picks out a delicate grey knee-length jumper from the wardrobe, which she plans to wear over her tight-fitted jeans. I bought her them in the shopping centre, before we returned home from our honeymoon in Italy.

  As she sits on the edge of the bed, pushing her feet into the black leather boots, I stand in front of her so I can see the lie forming on her face before I confront her.

  'When was the last time you spoke to Rose?'

  'Oh, I don't know. Yesterday, I think.'

  'What about?'

  'I wanted to know how Pippa was doing.'

  'How is she?'

  'She's settled in fine. I'd go so far as to say she probably doesn't miss me at all, at least not as much as I miss her.'

  'Why don't you let her stay with Rose and Jared for a bit longer? I'm sure they're enjoying the company.'

  'I can't see why not,' she says. 'You don't mind?'

  'Not at all. At least then I get to have you all to myself a little longer.'

  She doesn't seem to make anything of this statement, and continues tying the lace of one boot. She doesn't look up, until I've stepped in front of her. She's looking for the other boot.

  'Are you looking for this?'

  'Thanks.' She holds out her hand to take the boot from me. I pass it to her reluctantly. She's distracted, and doesn't notice me unbuckling the belt over my trousers. She only looks up when she hears the leather snap, as I fold it in half.

  She continues tying the lace of her boot, before I slam the belt down hard on her leg. Then again, across her stomach, as she falls back on the bed, winded, clutching her face. But, I won't hit her there; it's too noticeable. I slam the belt down again and again across her clothed stomach and legs, but she folds over so I exhaust myself trying to find someplace where I know it will hurt her more. I take one last swipe, but it misses her back, and the buckle falls loose hitting the back of her head sharply, causing her to fall forwards from the foot of the bed, smacking her face on the dressing table which lines the wall.

  I stand over her, waiting for some kind of reaction, other than her holding her stomach with one hand, and her head in the other, running out of the room toward the bathroom, and locking herself in.

  I know she isn't going to stay in there for very long, because she'll want to find her phone to call the police. Only she won't be able to, because it's smashed into pieces in the kitchen bin, and mine is held safely in my pocket.

  I catch my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe, examining my features for any sign of shame, but find none. I shouldn't be upset, but for some reason, the fact she chose to cower, rather than fight, has angered me more. I'd much rather she'd stood her ground, and tried to explain herself, instead of accepting her punishment, like a scolded child.

  'You'll have to come out of there soon enough, and when you do, I expect an apology from you. I don't take well to being lied to, Erica. You know that.'

  I leave her to stew on my words, as I make my way down the stairs, careful not to let her hear me, as I pull the phone from my pocket and dial Rose's number, saved in my contacts list, since having copied it from Erica's phone, the day she moved in with me.

  'Rose, it's Joel.'

  'Oh, hi.'

  'I hope you don't mind me calling, but Erica has a bit of a cold, and she's feeling a little under the weather. She asked me to tell you to keep hold of Pippa for a bit longer, if that's not too much trouble?'

  'No, not at all. I'll tell Jared; he'll be so pleased. They've bonded rather well. Give my love to Erica, and let her know that if she needs some tissues, or Lemsip, I'll be straight over.'

  'I will. But, I can assure you, I'm taking very good care of her. Erica has everything she needs here, with me.'

  'I wouldn't expect anything less,' she says. 'Take care, both of you. I'd better dash, as I'm in the middle of decorating. We're re-painting the kitchen.'

  'Lovely. I'll let you get on, and we'll see you soon.'

  I hang up, after we exchange goodbyes, open the kitchen door, and stand at the foot of the staircase, with my eyes on the still-closed bathroom door, wondering how long Erica is going to take before she leaves the safety of the bathroom, and dares to come down the stairs to face me.

  PRESENT

  ERICA

  I arrive at my dad's around 12:30pm. Lily is asleep in the back of the car. The street is lined with cars, and the quiet area I'm used to carries the noise of the building works behind the houses—the other side of the new housing estate in Bracknell.

  The detectives warned me to stay close-by, in case they needed to speak to me, but I have nowhere else to go. I'll have to call them for an update, as soon as I've told my dad everything. Well, almost everything.

  I have to get this over with; otherwise my mind is going to implode.

  I park the car outside the house, turn the engine off, jarring my foot on the kerb. My sense of balance isn't as good as it used to be, a few head injuries have seen to that. I reach inside the car, and undo Lily's seatbelt, carrying her to the front door, pressing the bell with my elbow, and offering my dad a nod toward the open car door, as his shocked face takes us both in.

  He rushes over to the car, locks it up for me with the keys I hold out to him, and ushers us inside the house.

  I head straight into the living room, and place Lily's sleeping body on the sofa, following my dad down the hall, and into the kitchen.

  'Erica, what are you doing here?' he says, standing there, his hands on my shoulders. 'I was so worried about you. I caught the late-night news yesterday. That Marcia Lubovich woman. You know, the journalist, I like. She said Joel had died. That it was some kind of accident, but the police . . .'

  He stops talking the moment he sees the fear in my eyes.

  'Oh, honey,' he says, sitting me down on a chair and doing the only thing he knows to in such a situation—boil the kettle for a consolatory cup of tea.

  'What happened?'

  I offer him the same tale I told the detectives, sure somebody is going to cat
ch me out on one of my lies. Let's be honest, there's been many of them in the past two days. But, he doesn't do as much as blink. In fact, I think a small part of him is glad Joel is dead. He never liked him. He could never explain to me why. He just said there was something funny about him. I never bothered to argue; there never seemed to be any point. Once my dad's mind is made up, it's difficult to change it. If Graeme doesn't like somebody, he cuts them off, no questions asked. Just as any father would do to protect his daughter.

  That's why I haven't seen much of him in the past four years, though he would never tell me why, I knew. I knew the second he clasped eyes on Joel during our wedding ceremony he was unsure of him.

  Later, after the reception, he caught me alone, prior to our departure to the hotel. Joel was talking to one of his colleagues at the firm, and my dad told me to be careful. I didn't know what he meant, at the time, but I do now.

  I want to ask him how he knew there was something sinister behind Joel's eyes, something I couldn't see, but now isn't the right time. I can't face the Spanish Inquisition just yet. I take the cup he holds out to me, and sip the tea tentatively, as if savouring the taste.

  I was so sure I'd be locked up in a police cell by now, I haven't really thought about what I'm going to do next. I have no home, no money, no job, and no husband. I'm not sure I can cope with all this on my own, but I can't tell anyone what I've done. In order for my story to remain authentic, I cannot tarnish mine and Joel's relationship together. Nothing can get out about the things which went on in that house. If it did, I'd be seen as at fault, and for now, at least, nobody suspects I had anything to do with his death. In order to keep up the pretence, I'm going to have to start to arrange the funeral, act the respectable wife, and the shattered mother. Inconsolable. If I don't, one slip, and it will all be over.

  My dad holds out his hand, as I reiterate the mistake I made, locking myself in the bedroom. And the fact the police were very good, vigilant in suspecting something untoward had occurred. I tell him he was a good man.