Seven Lies (ARC)
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I desperately wanted to be the absolute opposite: calm, composed, con-
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trolled.
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She sat down beside me regardless. Her arm nudged mine. I stayed
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still so that the bobbled fabric of her jumper nestled soft against my
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bare skin. I felt this anger prickling within me, and I knew that I needed 25
to ignore it and be cautious, to be calculated rather than ruthless.
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She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair.
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I wanted to slap her even though I know that violence is never the
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answer, and yet everything about her— her smirk, her pink jumper, her
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mettle— was infuriating. She had accused me of murder, not once, but
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twice. She had accused me of killing my own husband. And when Mar-
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nie was finally beginning to find a path through her grief, it was this
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woman— sitting there beside me— who tore it away, suspending our
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way forward.
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“You should get off at the next stop,” I said.
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“But then I won’t know where you’re going,” she said, and she pulled
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one of her feet onto the cushioned seat to retie her laces.
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“You could just ask me,” I replied. “It isn’t interesting. And frankly,
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if your investigation has led you here, then it’s definitely time to stop.
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I’m on my way to visit my mother. I see her every weekend and I’m al-
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ways on this train.”
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“Where does she live?”
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“The end of the line.”
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“Can I have her address?” She smiled at me conspiratorially, as
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though we were in this together. She put her foot back onto the floor
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and then started to lift and lower her heel repeatedly, so that her leg
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bobbed up and down, the tanned flesh of her thigh trembling.
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“She’s in a residential home,” I said. “Dementia.”
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I suppose I needed to seem honest, as though I had nothing to hide.
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I was willingly giving her the information that she wanted to make my-
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self seem innocent.
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“I’m so sorry,” said Valerie. “That’s a real shame.”
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“Why?” I asked bluntly. “Because she won’t be able to tell you any-
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thing?”
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She looked shocked. “No,” she insisted. “What an awful thing to say.
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That isn’t it at all.”
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“Right,” I said. I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. It didn’t
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really matter.
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She looked over her shoulder, out the windows, at the hedgerows
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sliding past, a blur of green. “You think I’m a monster,” she said. “I’m
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not. I just know that there’s something else here that still needs uncov-
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ering. So I have to keep going. It isn’t going to get any better, I’m afraid.”
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I think my face must have contorted in some way— perhaps she saw
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the fear that was nestled inside me— because her eyes shifted quickly
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until they were almost sympathetic.
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“Sorry,” she said. “That sounds a little like a threat, doesn’t it?”
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“Isn’t it?” I asked.
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“No, you’re right,” she said. “It probably is. Do you feel like I’m get-
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ting closer?”
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“There’s nothing to get closer— ”
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“Stop that,” she said. “You can see it as clearly as I can. There are
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these little cracks throughout your story. And, somewhere, there’s a
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wrecking ball that will destroy it completely. I’m going to find it.”
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I shrugged. “You’re wrong,” I said. It didn’t sound convincing.
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“I don’t think you killed your husband, though,” she said. “If that’s
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any consolation.”
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“It isn’t.”
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“And I am sorry about that, I suppose. It’s tough.”
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“You get used to it,” I replied. “To the shit.”
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“Oh, I hear you,” she said. “Sometimes I’m into my fourth vodka
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before the edges even begins to soften . . .” She started to twist at the 18
silver ring sitting snug around her thumb. “I’ve just remembered that
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message,” she said, and she grimaced. “I left you a message. On your
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answering machine. Anyway, I felt terrible the next morning; I’d drunk
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far too much. But I meant what I said.”
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“That you’re still investigating us?” I asked. “I’m just glad Marnie
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deleted hers before listening to any of that nonsense.”
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Valerie tilted her head slightly to one side and her eyes widened, and
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I knew then that I’d made a mistake.
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“What do you mean?” she asked. “She didn’t listen to it?”
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I shook my head.
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“I thought she’d heard it but ignored it.”
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I didn’t say anything. The family of four got off at Richmond. There
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was a last- minute kerfuffle— over hats and rucksacks and where was
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the sunblock— and the mother smiled at us uncomfortably as she hur-
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ried her family out of the carriage just before the doors beeped and
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closed and we pulled away from the platform.
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The air- conditioning grunted and groaned and then whistled to a
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stop. The train suddenly felt quieter, without the whir of the fan and
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the hiss of cool air entering the carriage. The temperature began to in-
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crease. I stood to open the window, but it was sealed shut. They were
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all sealed shut.
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“All right, princess,” came a voice behind me, and I turned to see
> 10
that the man had returned and was sitting opposite us, where the fam-
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ily had been sitting a few moments before.
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I stayed standing but said nothing.
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“What was it you said back there?” His voice was loud, and others in
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the carriage were stirring, staring, waiting to see how the situation
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would unfold. I wondered if they’d been listening all along, how much
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of our altercation they had overheard.
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“Hey!” he shouted. Valerie was peering into her purse. “Weren’t ig-
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noring me earlier, were you?”
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“There are some seats further down,” I said. “Just over there.”
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“I’m not looking for a seat, am I, love? I’m wanting to speak to her.”
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Valerie refused to look up, fiddling instead with wads of old, faded,
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folded receipts, her empty water bottle, her phone. I should have
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walked away. I should have let her handle him herself, but there’s this
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unwritten code between women, and it exists in public places, and
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more than ever on public transport, that you unite in the presence of
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threatening men, and so I inevitably— without really thinking about
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it— stayed there beside her.
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“Look at me!” he shouted, and, instinctively, she did.
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Valerie inhaled and then stood up. “Look,” she said. “I’m just trying to
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have a nice day out with my girlfriend.” I felt her fingers climbing along 31S
my wrist toward my hand. I let her take it. Was she still playing? Was she 32N
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in control? Or was he? “And we really don’t want any trouble, so what is
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it exactly that you want?”
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“Well, doesn’t that explain it,” he said, standing up.
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I tensed, but he didn’t move any closer.
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“You’re a dyke.” He laughed. “Why didn’t you say? Suppose I
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should’ve guessed, what with all the rage and hating.”
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He walked past us, holding his middle finger up behind his head as
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he disappeared farther down the carriage.
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We watched him go and then sat back down.
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“He’s been stalking me,” she said, very quietly. “We went for a drink
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once. About a piece I wanted to write. And then I saw him at my show,
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a dance show. He was watching me from the front of the stage. It really
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threw me. Anyway, I hope that’s the end of him.”
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“I want you to get off at the next stop,” I said again.
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“I won’t follow you,” she replied.
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“I don’t believe you.”
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She laughed. “I suppose that’s fair.”
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“I want you to stop investigating us now.”
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“I’m not going to do that.”
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“You are,” I replied. “There’s nothing to find, and you’re stalking me
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now, which is an offense in itself.”
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“I’ll tell the police what I’ve found.”
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“You think they’ll care? About a rainy walk and a noisy apartment?
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Those things aren’t evidence, Valerie. They’re nothing. You haven’t
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found anything. You’re wasting your time. There’s something wrong
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with you.”
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“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said, and I could see that I’d
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found something that unsettled her.
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“This isn’t normal.” I was trying not to shout, but the anger inside
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me was bursting within each capillary, tiny explosions beyond my con-
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trol, itching and pulsing and desperate to escape. “You’re not normal.”
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“Says you.” Her face was distorted: her jaw clenched, her eyes nar-
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rowed, her mouth scowling.
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“What does that mean?” I said. “What are you saying?”
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“That you murdered your best friend’s husband. You want to talk
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about obsession? You want to talk about not normal? I’m coming for 06
you. And you know it. You just can’t quite believe it yet.”
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“You know what?” I said. “I think you’re jealous.”
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It was a new thought. It hadn’t occurred to me before that moment.
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But it must have been percolating somewhere, because it made such
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perfect sense.
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She opened her mouth to speak, but she didn’t say anything. Her
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cheeks sank slightly, indented between her teeth, and her forehead was
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instantly clear of its creases.
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“I’m not,” she said eventually.
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I shrugged, as she had done earlier, in a deliberately flippant way.
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The train pulled up at the platform. She reached into her handbag
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and held out a business card. It had an illustration of a fountain pen
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embossed in gold foil on one side.
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“I’ll go,” she said. “But take this. And call me. I really want you to. I 20
mean it.”
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“Not a chance,” I replied.
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Chapter Thirty- Seven
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he door was open, as always, and I knocked lightly against the
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frame. My mother was sitting in the corner of the room in her
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armchair. It had a pale wooden frame and polished wooden legs. I
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hadn’t noticed the pattern before— the cushioned body decorated with
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electric green swirls— but it was hypnotic set against the purple of her 16
woolen jumper. She was wearing shoes instead of slippers, and I won-
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dered if she’d been using the moisturizer I’d bought for her birthday,
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because her skin looked a little softer, a little suppler.
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“Morning,” I said.
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She smiled at me and tapped her hand against the armrest of her
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chair. She still spoke— sometimes— but less and less, and instead used
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small gestures to convey her meaning. She had once described how it
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felt to lose words on the way to her lips. She said it was like shepherding 24
children to school, each word a child, but they were unmanageable and
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arrived at the wrong time or, sometimes, they didn’t arrive at all and
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stood on the path spinning in circles. Or, even worse, the children who
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arrived were the wrong children, somebody else’s, and not the ones
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she’d wanted. The silence was a less frightening alternative.
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She turned her head toward the bed, encouraging me to sit there.
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I did as instructed, even though the mattress was horribly uncom-
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fortable.
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“You,” she said. And what she meant was: Please tell me about your
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week, about your day, about your life, about everything that has happened 03
to you since we were last together.
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“Not a lot to report,” I said. Which was the truth. I had fallen back
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into a very familiar routine, a reliable combination of work and home
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and home and work. “But I’m going to call Emma later.”
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My mother’s face twisted slightly as I said this, and I continued talk-
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ing so that she didn’t have the space in which to form a reply or to begin 09
her manic gesticulations.
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“I might even pop over to see her. She’s doing much better since that
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last trip to the hospital, but it’s probably a good idea to visit even so.”
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My mother frowned. She’d ignored Emma’s suffering until the ill-
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ness was thoroughly entrenched in her bones. She hadn’t known me as
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a wife, only as a widow. But despite these crushing shortcomings, she
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knew us. And perhaps in a way that only a mother can know a daugh-
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ter. She knew, for example, that I was manipulating the truth because
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I was weak. I couldn’t admit that Emma was not doing much better, but
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in fact seemed to me to be a little worse. Her hair was thinning, and a
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