Her Perfect Lies (ARC)

by Lana Newton

  About the Author

  LANA NEWTON grew up in two opposite corners of the Soviet Union – the snow-white Siberian town of Tomsk and the golden-domed Ukrainian capital, Kyiv. At the age of sixteen, she moved to Australia with her mother. Lana and her family live on the Central Coast of NSW, where it never snows and is always summer-warm.

  Lana studied IT at university and, as a student, wrote poetry in Russian that she hid from everyone. For over a decade after graduating, she worked as a computer programmer. When she returned to university to complete her history degree, her favourite lecturer encouraged her to write fiction. She hasn’t looked back, and never goes anywhere without her favourite pen because you never know when the inspiration might strike.

  Lana’s short stories appeared in many magazines and anthologies, and she was the winner of the Historical Novel Society Autumn 2012 Short Fiction competition. Her novels are published by HQ Digital, an imprint of HarperCollins UK.

  Lana also writes historical fiction under the pen name of Lana Kortchik.

  To find out more, please visit http://www.lanakortchik.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lanakortchik

  Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/lanakortchik

  Her Perfect Lies

  LANA NEWTON

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Lana Newton 2019

  Svetlana Newton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008364854

  Version: 2019-09-11

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue: A Year Later

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For Sal, the bravest of the brave

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  A stranger watched her from the mirror. Grey eyes, pale lips, blonde – almost white – hair, as if bleached by the sun, a face she felt she had never seen before. The only thing she knew about this stranger was her name.

  Claire. They said her name was Claire.

  They told her other things, of course – things she found hard to believe. She was famous, touring around the world with the largest ballet company in the country. The nurses talked about her as if they knew her. One had even seen her perform, in far away Australia of all places.

  Through mindless hours in her hospital bed, she imagined herself on stage in front of thousands. Impossible, she would whisper, the stranger in the mirror nodding in agreement. Yet, there were pictures and videos to prove it. She peered at herself in the photographs, as Odette, Sugar Plum Fairy, Cinderella. Dazzling costumes, elegant posture, long limbs. Was it really her? She looked at the twirling doll on the screen of her phone until her eyes hurt. Impossible, impossible, impossible.

  Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, like a clap of thunder, filled the room. Unfamiliar, and yet, she felt she ought to know it, as if she had heard it a thousand times before. Every time she willed her body to move, her feet would slide into a ballet position like it was the most natural thing in the world. What her mind had forgotten, her body remembered. Pirouettes, jetés, and pliés came to her in time to Tchaikovsky’s eternal creation, each as perfect as a summer rain.

  Today was a special day. The nurses seemed excited for her. She felt she should be excited, too. Staring in the mirror, right into the stranger’s eyes, she forced her face into a smile and widened her eyes, but instead of happy she looked scared. She was exhausted, as if she had lived a thousand lifetimes, none of which she could remember. Splashing her face with cold water, she brushed her hair and tied it in a high ponytail. Reaching for her bag, she applied some makeup. Black for her eyelashes, pink for her cheeks, red for her lips. The last thing she wanted was to look like she was part of this grey hospital room.

  The London sky outside wasn’t grey but a vivid purple. She watched the last traces of sunlight disappear, and then, out of nowhere, the rain came. It battered the lone oak tree outside, and the leaves thrashed in the wind. Over the music she could hear their rustle. This sky, this oak tree, the room she was in, the cafeteria down the hall – these were the boundaries of her world. Beyond them, she knew nothing.

  The music stopped and she turned sharply away from the window. She could sense his gaze. The man standing in the doorway was tall, and she felt dwarfed by him. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds too long – Claire, her cheeks flush with rouge, eyes filled with fear, and her husband, impeccably dressed, unsmiling, unfamiliar.

  ‘Hi, Claire.’ The man took a few steps in her direction.

  ‘Hi, Paul.’ In two weeks she had seen him twice. Now he had finally come to take her home.

  ‘Feeling better today?’

  She didn’t know how to answer his question. Better than two weeks ago? Yes. But better in general? She couldn’t remember what that felt like. ‘I still get headaches. But my back is almost healed.’ She peered into his face. There were wrinkles around his eyes and dark stubble on his chin. She didn’t have it in her heart to tell him he was a stranger to her. But he was looking at her as if she was a stranger, too. His eyes remained cold.

  ‘Do you have everything?’ he asked.

  ‘I just need to say goodbye. Wait here for me? I won’t be long.’

  She made her way down a busy corridor, navigating gurneys, trolleys and people. She had made this trip many times before, could probably do it with her eyes closed – a left turn, twenty uncertain paces, another left, down two flights of stairs and a right. The door she wanted was hidden behind a pillar, tucked away from prying eyes. You could easily walk past and not even know it was there. Today it was wide open, as if inviting her in.

  It was quiet in the room, no music playing, no television murmuring in the background, no eager visitors with their chatter and flowers. Only the heartbeat of the machines, like clocks counting down the seconds, and the ventilator puffing, struggling, breathing in and out. If n
urses or doctors spoke in here, they did so in hushed voices, as if they were afraid of disturbing the man on the bed. Which was ironic because all they wanted was for him to wake up.

  Outside the window was the hospital car park, a noisy anthill of activity, with ambulances screeching and cars vying for spaces. The rumble of engines was a muffled soundtrack to the man’s artificial existence. She felt grateful for the oak tree outside her room, for the peace and quiet. She would have hated having nothing but cars to look at. But the man didn’t care. He was asleep.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Claire took his hand. After two weeks, this gesture had become a habit. Day after miserable day she would do it on autopilot, looking into the man’s face, studying his lifeless features. Today she could swear his eyelids were moving. She wanted to ask the doctor if it meant anything. Fluttering eyelids – was it a sign? Was he about to wake up? Or was it her imagination showing her what she wanted to see?

  ‘Your father, is it?’ A nurse crept up behind her silently, like a cat. She looked a little like a cat too, scruffy and ginger, her eyes cagey. She paused next to the man’s bed, removed the chart from its folder and checked the monitors. ‘You look just like him.’

  The man’s skin was grey today, more so than usual. His face was gaunt, his body a skeleton on the white sheet.

  ‘Yes,’ said Claire. ‘I’m waiting for him to wake up, so he can tell me about my life.’

  If the nurse was surprised, she didn’t show it. ‘Are you a patient here?’

  Claire didn’t answer but turned away from the nurse and towards her father. The woman’s mouth opened as if to repeat her question, but at the last moment she seemed to change her mind. Her eyes darted over Claire’s face as she made a few notes on the chart and placed it back. ‘I hope he pulls through,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll pray for him. And for you.’

  She was already out the door when Claire called out, ‘Can he hear me? If I talk to him, can he hear?’

  The ginger head reappeared in the doorway. ‘They do believe so. I mean, after all the research they’ve done. Speak to him, tell him you love him. It will help.’ The nurse nodded as she spoke, as if for emphasis. Her eyes filled with compassion.

  Claire squeezed the man’s fingers. Ever so slightly she shook him, pushed his shoulder with her tiny fist, willing him to open his eyes. His hand felt cold in hers, a dead weight pulling down. She brought it to her face and saw her tears fall on the calluses of his palm. These hands held me when I was a child, she thought. These lips, now motionless, read bedtime stories and kissed me goodnight. How could she have forgotten all that? It didn’t seem possible. Memories like that were part of one’s DNA, only gone when life itself was gone. She leant over, pressing her lips to his forehead. ‘Wake up, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘I need you.’

  She had spent the last two weeks feeling guilty. Guilty that she was awake, while her dad was unconscious. That she could walk, look out the window, enjoy the pale sunlight and the meagre hospital food. And now she felt guilty she was leaving this place, returning to what once had been her normal existence, while he was stuck in this bed, not yet dead, but not quite alive either.

  On the way back she walked slowly, delaying the inevitable, not ready to leave the familiar for the unknown.

  Paul was waiting in her room. ‘Time to go,’ he said and his lips stretched into a smile. Even to her confused, drug-addled mind, it looked forced. Glancing away, she nodded quickly and reached for her bag. Her whole life, all two weeks of it, packed into a small travel case. Paul walked out without touching her. As she waited for him to talk to the doctors and sign the paperwork, she felt sweat drops on her forehead. Her throat was dry.

  The nurses came to say goodbye. As she hugged them, she cried like she was parting with the only family she had.

  In the car Paul was silent. The only sound was the swish-swish-swish of windscreen wipers as they sped through the rain. There was so much she wanted to know. How did we meet? How long have we been married? Do we make each other laugh? Are we happy? She didn’t ask any of those questions. Instead, she said, ‘Where were we going?’

  ‘What?’ Paul startled as if she woke him from a dream.

  ‘Dad and I – where were we going on the day of the accident?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’

  Shadows loomed outside the car window – trees, houses, lampposts. Claire watched them whiz past at forty miles an hour. She could make out manicured lawns, flowers and driveways. Some windows were dark, others brightly lit. She imagined a different life inside each one. Perhaps a married couple sitting down to dinner before retiring to bed to read and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Or a grandfather listening to his grandson play the piano.

  ‘Do I have any other family?’ she asked as they turned onto a motorway. There were no more houses, no more lights, only dark skies and even darker trees.

  ‘There’s your mother.’

  ‘She never visited me at the hospital. Why is that?’

  For a moment he looked confused. ‘I was surprised when I didn’t see her there. I expected her to be by your side at a time like this.’

  I have a mother, she thought. Squeezing her eyes shut, she searched for a recollection. If she reached deep enough, if she focused hard enough, would she be able to see her mother’s face? That wasn’t something one could easily forget. Not even someone like her. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she dug her nails into the soft skin at the back of her wrist. She wondered what her mother was like. Had she taken her to ballet classes when she was little? Had she stayed up late baking cupcakes for her birthdays? Did she look just like her, only slightly older?

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘You’re an only child.’

  Before she could ask another question, the car screeched to a stop outside a two-storey house. In the headlights she could see a sprawling lawn and a white staircase curving up to a set of French doors. It was not a house; it was a mansion. As she gaped at it, wide-eyed, Paul opened her car door. She emerged, slipping on wet gravel. He caught her mid-fall but almost immediately let go.

  Bright lights snapped on suddenly along the front of the house, startling her. ‘Motion sensors,’ explained Paul. He carried her suitcase up the stairs and there was nothing left for her to do but follow into the life she knew nothing about. The rain lashed the side of her face as she walked, and the droplets ran down her body, filling her shoes with water.

  When they reached the front door, she heard whimpering. Surprised, she glanced at Paul, but he was busy fumbling for the keys. Finally, he unlocked the door, letting her in. As soon as she stepped over the threshold, she was under attack. Something enormous crashed into her, making her cry out in terror. She lost her footing and fell, at the last moment grasping a wall. A large beast wrestled her to the ground, its heavy breathing in her ear. Barking excitedly, it slathered her with a long, wet tongue. Catching her breath, she ran her fingers through the fur. When Paul turned on the lights, she saw the beast was only a dog. It was a large Labrador, with a long tail and droopy ears.

  ‘Down, Molokai,’ said Paul. Instantly the dog leapt off but continued jumping on the spot, its yellow tail dancing.

  ‘Molokai?’ The word stirred something in her, a distant memory that wouldn’t rise to the surface. It wasn’t a word she recognised, and yet it sounded familiar, as if a dozen threads of her life were intertwined in those three syllables. In frustration she looked at the dog and the dog looked back, its mouth open in a smile.

  ‘Molokai is an island in Hawaii,’ explained Paul. ‘That’s where we honeymooned.’

  ‘Oh. How old is she?’

  ‘He is five.’

  Carefully she rubbed Molokai behind his ear. Something told her dogs loved that. This one certainly did – as soon as Paul’s back was turned, he jumped all over her again. ‘That’s a nice welcome,’ she muttered, not sure what to do next.

  ‘Yes, he’s very friendly. Sometimes too frien
dly. If ever there are burglars in the house, he’ll probably lick them to death. He loves you the most.’

  Looking into the dog’s dark eyes, Claire suspected the feeling was mutual. For a moment she felt a little less lonely.

  ‘Come in,’ said Paul. ‘No point standing in the doorway like an unwanted guest.’

  But that’s how I feel, she wanted to tell him as she walked into the living room. Like an unwanted guest who had confused date and time, ending up in the wrong place when she was least expected. Luckily, Molokai was by her side. Her hand on his neck, she stared at the high ceiling and the marble floors. In the far corner of the room she spotted a white cat. It glanced at Claire for a few seconds and ran off as fast as it could, hiding behind a curtain. Looking up, she noticed an enormous crystal chandelier, all baubles and fake candles. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

  ‘Your pride and joy,’ said Paul. ‘You bought it in Italy.’

  Choosing to ignore this information, Claire perched on the edge of a sofa. Paul watched her for a few seconds. ‘No need to look so overwhelmed. This is your home. Make yourself comfortable. Hungry? There are sandwiches in the fridge.’

  ‘You made me sandwiches?’ She was touched.

  ‘Our housekeeper did.’

  ‘We have a housekeeper?’ Why did she find that so surprising? The housekeeper seemed to go hand in hand with the marble floors and the sprawling staircase. ‘How can we afford such a big house?’

  ‘Your mother bought it for us.’

  ‘My mother is rich?’

  ‘Old family money,’ he explained.

  Although food was the last thing on her mind, Claire sat down at the dining table with Molokai at her feet. She could feel his cold nose on the bare skin of her leg. Paul didn’t eat, nor did he look at her, staring at the newspaper instead. She could tell he wasn’t reading. His eyes remained steady, far away. Like jigsaw puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit they sat in awkward silence on opposite sides of the table.

  Soon there was nothing left of the sandwiches but a few pickles. She didn’t like the salty taste on her tongue.