by Rebecca Reid
Taking one heavy jewel from her earlobe, Mrs Henderson smirked. ‘Poppy, I don’t expect to have my movements policed by you.’
Poppy leant on the kitchen counter, trying to keep her cool. ‘I realize that, I’m just saying, they were worried. And I did call a couple of times but you didn’t pick up…’ she trailed off. Mrs Henderson was taking a bottle of San Pellegrino from the fridge and walking towards the staircase. ‘Mrs Henderson,’ Poppy heard herself saying, louder than she had intended, ‘please will you listen to me?’
She turned at the foot of the stairs. Not for the first time, Poppy drank in the thinness of her limbs, the depth of her tan.
‘Poppy,’ said Mrs Henderson slowly, as if English was Poppy’s fifth language. ‘You’re tired. I don’t think you’re entirely in control of what you’re saying. Go to bed.’
‘I’m tired because I get up at six with Lola every day and you won’t let me sleep when I’m here alone with them.’
‘I do not pay you to sleep,’ said Mrs Henderson, in a voice that could freeze ice. ‘I pay you to look after my children.’
‘And I do look after them! I do a hell of a lot more looking after them than either you or your husband do. But you can’t just waltz home five hours late without so much as a phone call.’ Her volume had climbed even higher as she spoke and Poppy realized that she was shouting. At the top of the stairs, Damson appeared.
‘Mamma?’ she said, to her mother’s back.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Mrs Henderson.
‘Everything’s fine, Damson,’ said Poppy, forcing herself to smile. ‘Just go back to bed, OK?’
‘Where’s Papa?’ she asked.
‘Out,’ said Mrs Henderson, without turning to look at her daughter.
Poppy could feel the anger rising like bile. She grappled to keep a hold of it. She didn’t do this. She didn’t lose her temper, or tell people how to raise their children. She joined families, she looked after the kids and she didn’t interfere. That was her job. That was the only way that this ever worked. ‘Go back to bed, Damson,’ said Poppy gently. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. We’re going to look at the rock pools, remember?’
Damson seemed satisfied. ‘Night, night,’ she said, trailing back to her bedroom.
‘Now that you’ve woken the children up and disrupted my evening, have you finished?’ said Mrs Henderson.
Poppy sank both rows of teeth into either side of her tongue, focussing on the sharp sting of pain. Of course she wasn’t done. She wanted to tell Mrs Henderson that she was a bitch, that her children weren’t fashion accessories, and to let her know that Mr Henderson had slid his hand down the back of her jeans at Lola’s birthday party last month. But Damson’s worried face had put paid to that.
‘Yes,’ said Poppy slowly. ‘I would just really appreciate it if in future you would call me to let me know that you’re going to be late’
‘In future?’ laughed Mrs Henderson starting to ascend the glass stairs. ‘Poppy, you’re fired.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t think that you could talk to me like that and still keep your job?’
It was hard to find words. It was as if there were too many of them, all fighting to exit her mouth at the same time.
‘Fired?’ she repeated, quietly.
‘Yes, get out,’ said Mrs Henderson, as she reached the top of the stairs.
‘Now?’ asked Poppy, astounded that even Mrs Henderson could be this vile. ‘You want me to go now? I have nowhere to go. What about the kids?’
Mrs Henderson shook her head. ‘I think you’ve done quite enough to upset the children.’
‘Please,’ said Poppy. ‘I’ll go in the morning? Let me say goodbye to them.’
Mrs Henderson smiled. ‘I don’t think that would help anyone.’
‘What about my stuff?’
‘The maid will pack it. I will let you know when you can come and pick it up, at a time when the children and I are out, so that you don’t cause any more distress. And you can arrange to collect your things from the London house when we’re back.’
Poppy gave herself a fast, angry talking to. She had nowhere to go, fuck all money and it was the middle of the night. She shouldn’t have lost her temper, she shouldn’t have picked a fight. Forcing her mouth to form the words, almost choking on the humiliation, Poppy put on a gentle voice. ‘Mrs Henderson, this is mad, I’m sorry I said anything. Let’s just go to bed, let’s talk about it in the morning—’
She shook her head.
‘Please?’
Mrs Henderson smiled. ‘No.’
Rage, pure hot rage, swelled up in Poppy’s stomach. ‘Fine.’
Marching across the kitchen, she grabbed her handbag and, hoping Mrs Henderson wouldn’t notice what she was doing, swept the car keys she’d dropped on the side into her hand. Reaching the door, Poppy realized to her panic that her feet were bare. The only shoes by the front door were the strappy gold sandals that Mrs Henderson had kicked off on arrival. Sighing, she yanked them on to her feet. They were still warm and slightly damp from Mrs Henderson’s feet. Slamming the front door behind her she bleeped the Range Rover keys and slid into the driving seat, thanking her lucky stars that she hadn’t drunk an illicit beer earlier, though there was no way Mrs Henderson had driven home sober. But, Poppy thought, as she took the car in a sharp U-turn and out of the drive, the rules were different for people like her.
Chapter II
Pepito’s was on the side of the road and full of Spanish teenagers, but it was open, and it was still serving, which was all that mattered. Poppy found the last empty table left outside, ordered herself a beer and then, because tonight had gone to hell anyway, asked the guy at the table next to her if she could cadge a cigarette. She drew the smoke into her lungs, sighing and revelling in the burn at the back of her throat. The cigarette glowed orange at the end. She liked watching the ash creep up. The beer was cold and had a thick wedge of lime shoved in the top. It was what she needed. It was a shame that she could barely afford this one, let alone another one. Steadying herself, she pulled her purse open. She had twenty-two euros in cash. A credit card which had a hundred quid left on it, and less than fifty pounds in her debit account. The Hendersons owed her several hundred in expenses – she’d paid for Rafe’s sailing lessons and lunch for all four of them all week. Mrs Henderson always had a lax attitude to repayment, what were the chances that they’d bother to pay her back now? Would they even honour her final month’s salary?
First things first, she pulled out her phone.
Got fired. Sitting in a bar, working out my next move. Back in England asap. Can I crash on your sofa? she wrote, and pressed send.
Gina wouldn’t be awake, but she would see it in the morning and she’d definitely say yes. Gina had a sweet deal, a ‘nanny flat’ in the basement of the house her bosses lived in. Was there any chance she could ask Gina to lend her a couple of hundred quid to get her home? Probably not. Gina was just as broke as she was. Poppy ran her finger down the list of contacts in her phone, scanning for someone she’d forgotten about who would lend her money. There was no one. Her eyes settled briefly on ‘Mum’. No way.
Next, she typed out a message to Damson, who had been given the most recent iPhone for her eighth birthday. Would she see if before her mother intervened? It was worth a try.
Darling Dam, I’m so sorry that I didn’t say goodbye. I’ll miss you lots and lots. Give Lola a big squeeze from me and tell Rafe that I’ll miss him too. PS. Don’t worry about the argument earlier. Sometimes grown-ups have fights but it’s no one’s fault and everything is OK. All my love, Poppy
Writing the penultimate line was almost impossible. She had to force her fingers to press the buttons. But it mattered. Damson needed to think that her mother was on her side. She was going to end up fucked up enough as it was. Poppy couldn’t be part of that.
What next? Grimly, like looking down at a cut, knowing that once you saw the blood it woul
d start hurting, she searched for flights on her phone. Ibiza to London in the middle of summer with twenty-four hours’ notice was, unsurprisingly, ruinous. The cheapest one, with two stops and a final destination in Manchester – two hundred miles from home – was three hundred quid. She slumped forward, letting her forehead touch the cool table. She’d have to sleep in the Range Rover on the side of the road, and then beg her final salary and the money the Hendersons owed her when she dropped it back tomorrow. Oh God, she’d have to go back in Mrs Henderson’s shoes. Despair swelling up in her chest, she scanned the restaurant for a waiter. The money situation was bad enough as it was. Another four euros couldn’t make much of a difference at this point.
‘Uno mas por favour,’ she said, gesturing to the empty beer bottle in front of her. She looked down at her sundress, wondering if enough smiles and cleavage might get her a free drink. The thought that finding someone here to go home with would be a lot less unpleasant than sleeping in the car crossed her mind. The waiter smiled back at her, but didn’t seem to be listening. She got up, squeezing through the drunken crowds and ordered her drink at the bar. Stepping back onto the terrace she saw that her table had been taken by a man in a blue linen shirt, sitting with his back to her.
‘Lo siento,’ she said, realizing that she was rapidly running out of Spanish words, ‘Es mi—‘ She gestured to her handbag, which she had left on the table.
The man turned to look at Poppy. He had green eyes, curly dark hair and an irritating smile.
‘You got up,’ he said. His voice was cut-glass English. Poppy rolled her eyes. The last thing she wanted this evening was to get into another argument with a Henderson-type.
‘Never mind,’ she said, reaching over to grab her bag. As she leant over she caught the smell of him – the scented ironing water some maid had used on his shirt. The expensive aftershave. It smelt good.
‘You could join me. If that’s the extent of your Spanish I can’t imagine you’re going to be making conversation with anyone else in this place.’
‘Seeing as it’s my table,’ said Poppy, pulling out a metal chair, ‘you’ll be joining me. Not the other way round.’
He smiled. ‘A shame. If you were joining me then I would have insisted on paying.’
Poppy felt her lips curling into a smile. ‘In which case, perhaps I was mistaken.’
He let out a low laugh. ‘Not bothered about pride. I like that in a person.’
‘In a woman,’ Poppy replied without thinking.
‘No,’ he said. ‘In a person.’ He stuck his hand out. ‘I’m Drew.’
‘Poppy,’ she said. His hand felt cool in hers.
‘Poppy,’ he repeated, smiling at her. ‘Is there any chance that you’re at all hungry?’
She’d been too angry and worried earlier to eat, and thinking about it, it had been hours since she’d had anything. She nodded. ‘Fucking starving.’
‘What do you want to eat?’ he asked.
‘Everything,’ she replied, swigging from her beer.
Drew gestured for the waiter and, though Poppy wouldn’t have admitted it for all the money on Ibiza, she was a little impressed by how fluent his Spanish was.
‘What did you order?’ she asked as the waiter walked away.
‘Everything,’ he smiled.
TRUTH HURTS by Rebecca Reid
Poppy has a secret.
Drew has nothing to hide.
Theirs was a whirlwind romance.
And when Drew, caught up in the moment, suggests that he and Poppy don’t tell each other anything about their past lives, that they live only for the here and now, for the future they are building together, Poppy jumps at the chance for a fresh start.
But it doesn’t take long for Poppy to see that this is a two-way deal. Drew is hiding something from her. And Poppy suddenly has no idea who the man she has married really is, or what he might be capable of.
Poppy has a secret.
Drew has nothing to hide.
Drew is lying.
Which is more dangerous, a secret or a lie?
Available to pre-order now
Out August 2019
About the Author
Rebecca Reid is a freelance journalist. She writes for the Telegraph Women’s section, Metro Online, Marie Claire, the Independent, the iPaper and the Guardian, amongst others.
Rebecca is also a regular contributor to Sky News, Talk Radio and ITV’s This Morning as well as appearing on Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour, LBC, BBC News and the BBC World Service to discuss her work.
She graduated from Royal Holloway with a Creative Writing MA in 2015. Perfect Liars is her debut novel.
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First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Transworld Digital
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Corgi edition published 2019
Copyright © Rebecca Reid 2018
Cover images © Karina Vegas / Arcangel
Rebecca Reid has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473559813
ISBN 9780552175609
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