Seven Lies (ARC)
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inhabited, hectic, full. I opened the three boxes in the hallway, and I
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assembled the fans, and I plugged each into the socket beside the radia-
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tor, one by one, to check that they worked. There, crouched on the
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floor, I was drawn again to that black and white carpet. I lifted one of
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the corners to peer beneath. Nothing. I pulled it back a little farther,
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but there wasn’t even a stain by the bottom step.
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I left the fans at the foot of the stairs, and I sat on the sofa and I
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waited for Marnie and Audrey to return home, and I didn’t touch any-
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thing because I didn’t want to further upset the sense of the place.
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They returned just after one o’clock, and Marnie said that she was tired
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and needed a rest and thanked me for the fans and said that we must try
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for brunch again soon, or maybe lunch, that she’d be in touch.
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We haven’t managed to see each other since.
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I was meant to be seeing her for dinner last week, but then she
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called my office in the afternoon to say that she didn’t feel much like
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cooking, she was exhausted, and could we please rearrange? I said not
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to worry, to come to me and I would cook, or I could cook at hers, or
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how about takeout. But she was insistent. Not today.
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It has been over a month.
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I have been using the time— this space— to concentrate instead on
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Valerie.
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I wish I could say that it had proved a satisfying distraction, but that
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would be untrue. And I did promise you the truth. So here it is. I found
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myself contemplating things that would— how might you say it?—
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prevent her from interfering in a very permanent way. I knew where she
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lived. I knew where she worked. I might not have known her secrets in
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the way that she knew mine, but I was quietly confident that I could
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create a fatal situation.
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But it wasn’t that straightforward. I couldn’t find a way to do it that
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didn’t make me feel queasy. I liked the idea of pushing her in front of a 05
car. It would have had a satisfying symmetry. I imagined ways to snaffle
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her pills— I’d seen her posting about hay fever tablets— and replace them 07
with something more deadly. But I bristled every time my thoughts be-
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came more pragmatic and less fanciful. Which, in many ways, served to
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prove her wrong: I wasn’t a murderer after all.
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And so I needed a different plan.
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That afternoon, I found myself scrolling again through her recent
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uploads— photographs, newspaper pieces, and tweets, too— and dis-15
covered a new image, posted only that morning. It showed a row of tap
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shoes, and the caption said: Final rehearsal— here we go! I went onto the 17
website of the dance company and discovered that their show was tak-
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ing place just a few hours later in a church hall in the city center. They 19
weren’t selling tickets in advance— first come, first served— and would 20
instead be accepting donations for a mental health charity on arrival.
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I decided to go. I wanted to see her.
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I arrived promptly at seven o’clock. The woman holding the collec-
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tion bucket at the door asked if I’d watched one of their shows before
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and, when I said no, she asked if I knew a member of the cast.
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Without thinking, I responded, “Valerie.”
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“Sands?” she said. “Valerie Sands?”
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I nodded.
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“She’s been such a wonderful addition to the team,” said the woman.
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“We’re so thrilled to have her. She hadn’t danced since she was a teen-
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ager, but she’s picked it all up again so quickly. She’ll shine tonight, I’m S31
sure. You’ll be very proud.”
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I smiled and nodded again and gratefully accepted a bright pink
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program. Valerie was listed as was one of six dancers performing in the
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opening sequence.
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I stepped into the body of the church and was amazed by its size: the
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ceiling, so incredibly high and decorated so ornately; the thick wooden
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pews; the stage hidden behind thick green curtains. The benches were
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full— children sitting on laps and teenagers packed tightly together—
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and so I went to stand near the front beside a few other stragglers. A
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crowd began to form behind me: families and friends and loved ones.
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Then the lights fell and the curtains opened, and I saw her step onto
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the stage. She was one of three women with three men behind, all of
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them in loose black trousers and tight black tops. They looked ordinary,
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boring, until the song started. The speaker beside me began to vibrate,
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and they became instantly magnificent. They were moving so fast—
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their bodies sharp, punctuating the music— and the sound from their
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feet was aggressive and bold. The energy made me feel more alive and
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I was completely absorbed until she looked toward the front of the
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stage. She was searching for someone. She found me instead.
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She stumbled, just briefly, before righting herself. She caught up
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quickly, but it felt good to have upset her rhythm. I liked that, for once, 21
she was surprised by me.
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I snuck out at the end of the song, and I liked, too, that she knew
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what it felt like to be thrown off balance.
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Chapter Thirty- Five
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I
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t was a Saturday morning and I was on my way to visit my mother.
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I had been tempted to stay in bed, but she knew to expect me— or,
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at least, she had known; she may well have forgotten.
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The weather was warm, too rich and too humid for long lie- ins and
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cozy mornings. It had been over eighty degrees for the last three weeks
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with no rain in almost a month. The grass across the city has shriveled
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to yellow straw and even the early mornings felt sticky and oppressive.
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It was the sort of weather for ice cream in the park and sitting in the
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shade and visits to the lido and late alfresco dinners in the rolling heat 20
of a long evening. It was not the sort of weather for train journeys and
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windowless nursing homes and the tight bonds of familial duty.
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The train was busy. We were still at Waterloo and not due to leave
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for a few more minutes. I was sitting by the sliding doors on a row of
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four seats, all backed against the window. The seats opposite were oc-
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cupied by a young family: a mother, a father, and their two young
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daughters. They had rucksacks on their laps, and I wondered if they
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were going to the seaside or to the countryside, where the temperature
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was a little cooler and the air a little less thick.
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Behind them, another train was readying itself to depart. The guard
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leaned out, scanned the platform, and blew his whistle. The other train
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groaned and began to move and my stomach lurched, as though we,
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too, were moving. I sat back and closed my eyes.
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I’d be back in the city by the afternoon and my role as the dutiful
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daughter would be complete for another week.
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When I opened my eyes, we were at Vauxhall.
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“You need to stop it,” said a woman, standing on the lip of the train,
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facing outward, her hands stretched to the sides, holding the door frame
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and blocking the entrance. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell that 09
she was near tears from the shake in her voice. “Do not get on this train.”
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“Ah, lady, come on now,” said a man on the platform. “What’s the
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matter with you?”
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She inhaled and her chest rose, and I could see that she was fright-
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ened but trying hard not to show it. “Excuse me!” she shouted toward
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the guard on the platform. He was facing away from her, speaking into
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a walkie- talkie. “This man is stalking me. Excuse me?” He didn’t turn
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around.
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“I can get on whatever the fuck train I want to,” the man continued.
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“Not this one. You’ve been following me and shouting obscenities
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and I’m not having it anymore.” She looped the strap of her handbag
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over her head so that it hung across her chest. Her sweater was bright
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pink— it made her look younger, more vulnerable— and her denim
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shorts revealed toned, tanned thighs.
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I caught the eye of the woman sitting opposite. Her husband
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wrapped his arms around the shoulders of their two young daughters as
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we silently discussed whether we ought to get involved.
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“Oh, fuck you!” shouted the man.
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“Ah, that’s enough, now,” said the father opposite, his voice mea-
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sured and calm. “Just give it two minutes, mate. There’s a train right
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behind this one. No fuss, yeah?”
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The man stood still on the platform, as though considering the re-
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quest. “Fuck you all,” he said eventually, and stormed down the platform.
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I exhaled. Backing down to a small woman in denim shorts and a
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pink top? Well, that would be emasculating, a sign of weakness. Whereas
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walking away from another man— slightly older, slightly broader— was
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just common sense.
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Charles had been intimidated by strong women. He would dismiss
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his female colleagues over dinner, labeling them overly emotional or, in
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the same breath, too good- natured. He felt threatened by the success of 06
the female partners who had happy children and great marriages and
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impressive careers. Or maybe that’s simply what I wanted to see. I
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added his every failing to a list and counted the many ways in which he
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didn’t deserve a woman like Marnie.
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The woman in pink pressed the button and the doors slid closed in
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front of her.
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“Thank you,” she said, turning to face the father with his young
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daughters. “Thank you for getting involved.”
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She turned and stepped toward the empty seat beside me.
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I knew her.
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I recognized her immediately.
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I’d know that face anywhere.
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Chapter Thirty- Six
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She was so familiar. I recognized her dark hair, slicked back, and
the tattoos on her left wrist and thumb matched those in her
photographs. She looked different up close: much sharper, more re-
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markable. I’d seen her stand that way before, too, her weight through
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one side, her hip jutting to the left, and she had the same black leather 17
bag that she’d worn at the funeral. But it was more than that: more
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than just the way she looked and stood and the things that she owned.
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I felt as though I knew how her mind worked, the way she constructed
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a thought.
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“I know you,” I said.
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“You do,” she replied. “Although you weren’t meant to see me. But
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then I couldn’t have anticipated all that commotion with that weird
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man. I feel a little shaken, actually. He was awful, wasn’t he? That’s the 25
second time he’s followed me. And it’s never nice being followed by a
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stranger, I suppose.”
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She raised an eyebrow and then she laughed.
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I was astounded by her confidence; she was so self- assured, so un-
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afraid. I should have felt frightened. I know that. It should have been un-30
nerving to have her confirm that she’d been pursuing me— likely for
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months— with nothing but the worst intentions. And yet, in that mo-
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ment, I felt reassured. I had been correct. I had been followed. I was right.
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“You weren’t quite as subtle as you think,” I replied. “I’ve seen you.
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More than once, in fact.”
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“Oh, really?” she replied. “Damn. That’s so disappointing.” I hadn’t
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noticed it before, but there was something very pretty about her fea-
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tures, her face.
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“What do you want?” I asked.
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“I want to know where you go every Saturday,” she replied. “Do you
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mind if I sit down?”
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I shook my head, because I didn’t want her there beside me, acting
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as though we were friends, as though this was anything other than the
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mess that it actually was.
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“Yes,” I replied. “I do mind.”
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“Oh, don’t be like that,” she said.
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“You’ve just intimated that you’ve been following me and you want
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to sit down beside me and have— what, a chat? No. I’m not interested.”
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“You’re so dramatic,” she said. “I hadn’t expected that. I thought
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you’d be very measured, sort of indifferent, but you’re just leaking
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emotions, aren’t you? Which is strange because it isn’t really such a
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revelation, is it?” she continued. “If you knew that I was following you.”
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I hated that. I hated the implication that I was being hysterical when