Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 9

by Elizabeth Kay


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  articles, her recipes, and her videos, too.

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  I always wanted to go out for dinner. I wanted it to be just the two

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  of us again. But she needed to be in the kitchen, she said; it was how she 18

  paid her half of the mortgage. Charles was desperate to have a little

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  woman, a little wife, someone he could own. But I knew she didn’t

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  want that for herself, and I didn’t want it for her, either.

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  From the hallway I would overhear her saying, “And that was ex-

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  actly the moment I was hoping that Jane would arrive.”

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  I’d close the door behind me, quietly, and pause to listen.

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  “Because I could dart off for just a second and I knew nothing would

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  overflow or burn and that I wouldn’t come back to scorched pans and

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  stodgy sauces.”

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  I would hear her tinkering in the kitchen for a moment or two— a

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  spoon circling a pot, or the crackle of oil in a frying pan, or an ensemble 29

  piece with drawers and cupboards opening and closing— and then,

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  eventually, she would say the line that I was listening for, waiting to

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  hear. It was always something like this:

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  “But you remember what I always say, don’t you? Jane is basically

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  family to me. So I know that she’s out there now hanging up her coat or

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  taking off her shoes or whatever and she’s fine to fetch herself a drink

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  or open a bottle— mi casa es su casa and all that. If your guests are more 03

  demanding, then I would suggest scheduling their arrival for the end of

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  the next stage when you can take a proper break and really be the host-

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  ess with the mostess.”

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  I was alone in the hallway in those moments, yes, but it felt so very

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  different. There were lights on, lights everywhere, bulbs hanging over-

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  head and side lamps shining in corners. There were scented candles

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  running along the radiator covers, the mantelpiece, the coffee table,

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  flickering on every surface. I could always hear Marnie, chattering to

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  herself, to her audience, to her ever growing following. There was the

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  hum of the oven and the French doors would always be open, leading

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  onto the balcony, and I would hear the whistle of the wind and the

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  purring of cars and drivers sounding their horns on the street below.

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  But that night it was lightless, scentless, silent.

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  I liked it, the sense that the flat was unencumbered by any other

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  presence; it felt unowned and sort of hollow.

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  It took me a while to find the watering can (beneath the bathroom

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  sink) and the key to the balcony (in the drawer beside the teaspoons). It 20

  was nearly dark by the time I made it outside and yet I could see spider-

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  webs threaded between the leaves of the plants, stretching from the

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  stems to the metal railings, glistening in the evening light. There was

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  one visible spider, small and brown, centered in a web. I lifted the spout 24

  above it and watched as the wall of water sent everything— it and its

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  web, too— tumbling toward the patio.

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  By the time I arrived home it was nearly nine o’clock.

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  The following morning, I packed a small suitcase with enough cloth-

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  ing and toiletries to last until the end of the week. I even brought my

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  own bedding. They had asked for a visitor, a guest, someone who would

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  show up intermittently, half an hour each day, simply to water their

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  plants. Instead, I became a lodger of sorts.

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  I didn’t think they’d mind particularly, but I wasn’t going to tell

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  them.

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  I let myself into their flat that evening and stood again in the dark

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  hallway. This would be my home now— just for the week— but my

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  home nonetheless. I turned on all the lights— exactly how Marnie liked

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  it— and made up their bed with my own sheets and pillowcases. I un-

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  packed my food into their fridge, into their cupboards, turned on their

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  radio, looked through their bookcases. It was easy to work out which

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  titles belonged to Marnie and which to Charles; most of his had dark

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  spines, bold gold titles, whereas hers were in pastel tones, pinks and

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  yellows primarily, and with intricate handwritten type.

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  I returned from work each evening and embedded myself in the

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  folds of their cushions, the thin layer of grime crawling up their shower 14

  tiles, the lip balm stains tarnishing their glasses.

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  There is something very odd and yet rather comfortable about being

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  alone in someone else’s home. I recall feeling distinctly aware of their

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  presence, even though they were hours away— continents, even— on

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  the other side of the world. I felt like I was seeing them— the real ver-19

  sion of them as a couple— for the very first time. I found myself rifling 20

  through their cabinets, keen to discover their favorite herbs and those

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  with the foil lid still stuck in place. I went through their drawers and

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  was astonished to discover that Marnie had become the sort of woman

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  who bothered with matching underwear. I looked through their medi-

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  cine cabinet— an endless array of painkillers and cough drops and

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  Band- Aids and a thermometer still in its blister pack— and felt that I

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  knew them a little better afterward than I had before.

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  Marnie’s bedside table housed an array of knickknacks, nothing sig-

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  nificant: packs of tissues, samples from beauty counters, inkless pens,

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  old birthday cards, empty pill packets, a pair of old sunglasses, a string 30

  bracelet from a trip we’d taken to Greece while at university. I discov-

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  ered, in Charles’s, three magazines, two bookmarks, four flash drives,

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  some Polaroid photos from a friend’s wedding— one with Marnie in a

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  blue silk dress that I’d helped her to choose— and, wrapped in a brown

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  paper bag at the very back, a red velvet box.

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  So I knew what was coming; I’d had time to prepare.

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  It was Sunday afternoon and I was still lying in bed when I received a 06

  second phone call from Marnie. I held my phone above my face and

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  looked at her name written in block capitals on my screen, the photo-

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  graph taken in her kitchen, apron strings knotted around her waist, red

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  hair scraped away from her face, when I’d upgraded to a smartphone

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  two years earlier.

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  I took a deep breath and I answered.

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  “Jane?” she shouted. “Jane. Can you hear me?” She was giddy, wild

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  with excitement.

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  “Of course,” I said. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

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  And I knew what it was and that nothing was the matter and yet we

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  plodded through the charade regardless.

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  “Charles proposed,” she squealed. “He’s asked me to marry him.”

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  She was entirely unable to control the volume or the speed of her words.

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  “I’m sending you a photo of the ring,” she said. I heard her fingertips

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  tapping against the handset. She lifted the phone back to her cheek.

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  “Has it arrived?” she asked.

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  My phone vibrated against my ear. I already knew, of course, what

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  this image would show. And yet I didn’t feel ready to see that ring snug

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  on her finger, nestled against her fair skin, binding her to a very specific 25

  future.

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  “Not yet,” I replied. “I’m sure it’ll come through shortly.”

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  I was going to look at it, but later. I was planning to put a bottle of

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  wine in the fridge and tidy the flat and go for a walk and then, hours

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  later, when it was quiet and dark outside, I would open the message and

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  I would look at it then.

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  “And you’ll be there, won’t you?” she asked. “Of course you will. At

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  the wedding? We might do it abroad, maybe, we’ll see, we’re not sure.

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  And you’ll help me decide what to wear?”

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  “Of course,” I replied. I wasn’t convinced that I sounded quite en-

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  thusiastic enough. “Of course,” I said again, hoping that mindless rep-

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  etitions would create the illusion of excitement when in fact I felt rather 06

  nauseated.

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  “And you’ll be my maid of honor,” she said. “You will, won’t you?”

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  “Yes,” I replied. “Of course I will.”

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  “Okay, then, I have to go— we’re heading home now, and I need to

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  make a few more phone calls and, oh, Jane, isn’t this just the most ex-

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  citing thing? I really can’t believe it; I really can’t. Will you let me know 12

  when the photo arrives? Or I can send it again. It’s really something,

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  really special. You’ll like it, I think. Or at least say you do. But I’m sure 14

  you will really as well. Okay, I’m blathering and Charles is rolling his

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  eyes— yes, yes, I’m coming— so let’s talk later and I’ll see you on Friday 16

  if not before and— yes, okay— love you!”

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  She hung up.

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  Chapter Eight

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  I

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  went to bed early that night. I sat there propped against my pillows,

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  sweating in flannel pajamas, staring at the photo on the screen of

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  my phone. It showed her hand, the gold band neatly circling her fourth

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  finger. It was a very beautiful ring, but I couldn’t help envisaging it

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  made of rope, as a noose that could suffocate, the end of something

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  rather than a beginning. The hand— while obviously Marnie’s, with her

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  slender, elegant fingers and neat, painted nails— felt somehow other,

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  like its own individual being, quite separate from her as a whole.

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  I woke abruptly— ten past two in the morning— drenched in sweat

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  and shivering and with the absolute certainty that I’d forgotten to do

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  something of incredible importance. It was then that I realized that

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  Marnie had called me from the car again— not only the first phone

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  call, but the second one, too. There had been that same sound of

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  traffic and the reverberation of shuddery wheels at speed. And she’d

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  said, hadn’t she, that they were traveling, that they were on their

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  way home.

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  I was entirely sure that Charles would not have— would never

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  have— proposed in a car. That wasn’t his style at all. He’d have wanted

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  flowers and champagne and violinists and probably moonlight, too. I

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  felt a little surprised that she hadn’t called me earlier.

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  When Marnie was sixteen years old, she fell in love with a boy called 04

  Thomas. He was seventeen and six foot four and played rugby for the

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  county. She loved his chiseled jaw and firm abs and broad shoulders and

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  strong arms. I couldn’t stop staring at his bizarrely large forehead. But 07

  he was utterly charming and I say that as someone not easily softened

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  by good manners and charisma and a slightly crooked smile.

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  I didn’t hate him, but I
should have. I didn’t kill him, but I wish

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  that I had.

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  Stop it. Don’t look at me like that.

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  Stop being so judgmental and listen to the story.

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  I liked the way that their relationship worked. He was hoping to be

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  offered a sports scholarship at a top university and so much of his time

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  was spent training or competing. Most evenings, in fact, and always a

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  match on weekends. They saw little of each other and their romance

  17

  thrived instead on notes passed in corridors and threads of texts and

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  winks across the canteen.

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  The summer arrived with its eager mornings and long, humid after-

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  noons. I didn’t notice that Marnie was still wearing sweatshirts until

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  she absentmindedly rolled up her sleeves one lunchtime and I spotted

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  four equal bruises crowded above her elbow. She saw me staring and

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  garbled some nonsense about a bump against a bed frame.

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  I don’t know how I’d missed it. She was secretive with her phone,

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  where once she’d read her messages aloud and together we’d crafted

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  replies. She was quick to anger, quick to bite, restless and skittish and I 27

  hadn’t noticed any of it.

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  I knew what was happening. And I knew that I could stop it.

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  There was a trellis tangled with wisteria that scrambled up from the

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  backyard of her parents’ house to her bedroom window. I climbed it. I

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  opened her wardrobe. I stepped inside and I sat cross- legged, cushioned 32N

  by a mound of clothing.

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  I waited.

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  I knew that he was playing rugby that afternoon. She was watching

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  the match and I knew that they would return to her room afterward

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  because her parents were at her brother’s music recital and, at that time 04

  in our lives, an empty house was too tantalizing to ignore.

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  I heard the key in the lock, their voices on the front step, the tap

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  running in the kitchen, a cupboard opening, a glass clinking against the

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  marble worktop. I heard their feet on the stairs, the bedroom door

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  smoothing the carpet, the springs of the bed.

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  I took my phone from my pocket and I turned on the microphone

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  and I held it at the gap between the two doors where the light seeped

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  in. I still have the recording:

 

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