Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 46

by Elizabeth Kay

simply to satisfy Marnie’s complaints— and the officers had been almost

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  apologetic as they went through their questions again. At the end of the

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  interview, they talked about loss and heartbreak and how the mind was

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  a powerful thing. And Jane had nodded, and she hadn’t needed to con-

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  tort her face into one of sorrow, because her grief was genuine.

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  There is tea in a thermos in the footwell, and she takes a sip. It is

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  still warm. She watches as a man in a thick woolen coat drives past,

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  signals, and stops at the gates to the school. He winds down his win-

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  dow, holds out a small fob, and the metal gates crank apart. After that,

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  the roads become much busier. Commuters march past on their way

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  to the station. Teachers park their cars and heave piles of paperwork

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  from their passenger seats, scurrying inside to the warmth of their

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  classrooms. It is the first day of school and there is a freshness to these 22

  proceedings.

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  Jane is always looking for auburn hair, twisted into spirals of red and

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  gold, the curls that fall loose at the front. Jane is never looking for

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  cropped black hair and yet she sees it everywhere, but never dark

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  enough, and never that tattoo. She scans the crowd as the children

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  begin to arrive, but they are all slightly older, accompanied by their

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  parents, who wave rushed goodbyes at the gate. Jane sinks a little lower

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  in her front seat, bending her legs, aware of people passing too close to 30

  her car: the children on scooters, the parents juggling bags and babies.

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  Jane looks up and there she is: Marnie approaching the school from

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  the other side of the gates. She is wearing loose black trousers cropped

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  S E V E N L I E S

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  at the ankles and bright white trainers. She is holding her blue coat

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  closed at the collar and she walks as she has always walked: purposeful,

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  confident, unafraid. She is talking, and Jane feels a sudden surge of

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  envy, because she is so familiar with the movement of those lips, the

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  rise and fall of those cheeks, the spirited shifting of that jaw.

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  Audrey is walking beside Marnie wearing a red duffel coat and shiny

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  black shoes. Jane thinks that Audrey’s hair, auburn, has been newly cut;

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  it is cropped neatly around her chin. She has a small red satchel swing-

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  ing from her hand and a red hat on her head.

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  Jane owns that hat, too. A few weeks earlier, she’d followed Marnie

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  and Audrey to The School Shop on the high street. Marnie came out

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  carrying bags of uniform, and Audrey was skipping ahead excitedly

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  wearing that hat. And so Jane went in and bought one, too, with a story

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  of her daughter whose hat had gone missing the previous year. She had

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  wanted to feel the fabric— a rough felt— between her fingers.

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  At the front gate, Marnie bends down and says something to Au-

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  drey. They look up at the teacher, who is smiling, welcoming the new

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  students and reassuring the parents. Marnie is nervous. Jane recognizes

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  her pursed lips, the way she is holding her hands on her hips. She wants

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  to be standing beside her best friend, because she knows she is needed

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  in moments like this.

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  Audrey doesn’t seem worried at all. The teacher urges Marnie to

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  leave— gesturing for her to go— so that Audrey will come inside, and

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  reluctantly Marnie walks away. She turns and waves several times be-

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  fore she reaches the corner at the end of the road and disappears.

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  It is then that Audrey begins to look a little lost. She looks around.

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  Jane cannot remember her first day at primary school. She is fairly

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  confident that Audrey won’t remember this day in twenty years’ time.

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  But, if she does, it seems unlikely that she’ll recall looking up and see-29

  ing a woman sitting in a red car watching her. She won’t remember that

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  this woman smiled and waved.

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  That she always smiles. That she always waves.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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  T

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  here are many people without whom this story would not exist.

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  The first is my husband, Malcolm Kay. You are owed so

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  many thanks that it is impossible to represent your contribution in just

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  a few words, but I shall try my best. Thank you for the many long walks

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  in which you encouraged me to unravel and rebuild this narrative aloud;

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  for your smart, insightful input; for taking care of our lives, and of me, 16

  as I lost myself in this story; for your endless confidence, your constant 17

  support, and for urging me to persevere.

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  Thank you to my parents, Anne and Bob Goudsmit. Mum: you have

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  been my cheerleader, champion, and counselor. Thank you for my love

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  of books, for reading and writing and stories. Dad: thank you for chal-

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  lenging me, for your never- ending generosity, and for encouraging me

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  to find something I really loved and to pursue it relentlessly. To my

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  sister, Kate Goudsmit, I am endlessly grateful for your fervent encour-

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  agement and honesty. There is no one else in my life who tells it as it is.

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  To the Goudsmits, Dundases, and Kays, who have been so incredibly

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  generous with their support.

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  This book is in many ways about female friendship, and I am fortu-

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  nate enough to be surrounded by brilliant, intelligent, formidable

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  women. Thank you to Eleanor Thomas and India Merrony, who mock

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  me mercilessly but are the kindest, most loyal friends one could hope

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  for. To Bethany Hadrill, Charlotte Piazza, Frances Johnson, Florence

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  AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S

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  Peterson, Freya Hadrill, Lois Parmenter, Lucy Gilham and Sarah

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  Cawthron.

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  I owe an incredible debt of gratitude to those who have worked tire-

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  lessly to turn this story into a book. Thank you to my agent, Madeline

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  Milburn, who had faith in it long before I did. She is the very best an

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  author could hope for and without her guidance, determination, and

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  support this book would not exist. To her outstanding team: Alice

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  Sutherland- Hawes, Anna Hogarty, Georgia McVeigh, Giles Milburn,

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  Hayley Steed, Liane- Louise Smith, and Rachel Yeoh. To my UK editor,

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  Lucy Malagoni, who is so wonderfully perceptive, patient, creative, and

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  calm: I am so grateful to be working with you. And to the team at

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  Little, Brown: Abby Parsons, Gemma Shelley, Stephanie- Elise Mel-

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  rose, Rosanna Forte, all of whom have been instrumental in bringing

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  this book to life. To my US editor, Pamela Dorman, whose wisdom,

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  vision, and ability to identify the problem with a chapter and then—

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  thankfully!— provide the solution are unparalleled. And to her team:

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  Jeramie Orton, Brian Tart, Andrea Schulz, Lindsay Prevette, Kate

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  Stark, Roseanne Serra, and the rest at Pamela Dorman Books and Pen-

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  guin. A huge thank you, too, to the teams who are publishing this book

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  in other countries across the world. I am so grateful to all of you.

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  Thank you to everyone at Transworld Publishers, where I wear my

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  “editor” hat and where I have received the most incredible mentorship

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  and made the most wonderful friends. A special mention must go to

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  Sophie Christopher, who was a dear colleague and friend, and who,

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  without having read a word of it, was one of this book’s very first cham-

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  pions. You are so missed by us all.

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  And, finally, to the readers of this world. If you have picked up this

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  book and reached the end, then thanks to you above all for spending

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  your time in these pages. I hope you enjoyed it.

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