‘Lucky?’ Gwen stared at the younger woman.
Babs reached for her wine before answering. ‘Yes, lucky. Toby may have disappointed you but he didn’t ruin you.’
No, Gwen hadn’t been ruined. She could easily absorb the loss of the five thousand pounds. The dent to her self-esteem, her anger at being taken for a fool yet again would take longer to recover from, but she would, in time. She felt a smidgeon of sympathy for Babs, but when she thought of Toby, it was easy to brush it away. ‘There’s one thing I wanted to ask–’
‘No!’ Babs’ free hand sliced the air. ‘No questions.’
Of course, she was right. Gwen nodded, put her glass down and got to her feet. ‘I’d better go. There’s no reason for us to meet again.’
‘There was no reason for us to meet today either.’ Babs’ voice was sharp, her eyes critical.
‘True, I made a mistake. It won’t happen again. We know where we stand with each other.’ Gwen was being polite; what she really wanted to say, and what she hoped Babs understood, was that she never, ever wanted to see her again.
12
Gwen
Back in the garishly tiled entrance hall, Gwen took out her mobile to ring for a taxi then reconsidered. Her head felt woolly after the two glasses of cheap wine, a walk in the fresh air might be a better plan.
The walk through Streatham didn’t clear her head as she’d hoped, and ten minutes later she was feeling decidedly shaky. She’d pulled out her mobile again to ring for an Uber when she saw a taxi approaching, its vacant light a beacon of hope. It pulled up when she waved frantically, stepping out into the street to do so, jumping back when the irate driver of another car blasted his horn at her.
‘You need to be careful, missus,’ the taxi driver said as she half-climbed, half-fell onto the back seat.
‘Beaufort Gardens, Knightsbridge.’ She shut her eyes and rested her head back.
Traffic was heavy and it was nearly forty-five minutes later before the taxi pulled into her street. She leaned forward to address the driver. ‘Anywhere here is fine.’
She paid, got out and crossed through the line of trees that separated one side of Beaufort Gardens from the other. Her side of the street suited her better. The evening sun hit the small balcony that opened from her living room where she’d sit and have a cup of tea or maybe the occasional glass of wine. It was where she’d planned to have the champagne with Toby the evening he arrived, the champagne that was still waiting sadly for a celebration that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe she should pop the cork and drink it herself.
On her own.
A sad celebration of her lucky escape.
Because it had been an escape – her head knew it even if her heart lagged far behind, sulking. She understood exactly what Babs had meant… about how Toby made her feel… what was it she’d said… he’d made her feel slimmer, prettier, sexier? Gwen had barely known him, hadn’t, as it turned out, really known him at all. But she could clearly remember how he made her feel. Younger. Sexier. Irresistible. He’d sent her emotions swirling, a chaos that washed away common sense. Being old enough to know better, being successful, intelligent, and experienced – none of it had stopped the rise and fall and pounding, exhilarating gallop of horses on the merry-go-round her life had become when Toby had stepped into it.
Her life now seemed to be shaded in faded, muted tones. She pushed open the front door of her apartment and dropped her bag on the hallway floor. Toby had never lived there, just an hour or two spent mostly in the bedroom, then a litany of promises as he departed to spend the night with his ‘fragile sister’.
Gwen had believed every word he’d said.
Or had she? Was she still fooling herself, even now? Hadn’t she been ever so slightly suspicious by his devotion to his sister? Hadn’t she simply seen and believed what she’d wanted to?
She walked through to a living room that stretched across the front of the spacious apartment. A comfortable, stylish room, it was dominated on one side by huge beige sofas bracketing a large glass coffee table and on the other by a cherrywood table surrounded by six matching chairs. Bookshelves lined one wall; the others almost completely covered in art.
Three arched floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the street, the central one set with a doorway that opened onto a small balcony. Outside, a neat table and two chairs sat in the middle of a collection of exotic leafy plants. She’d imagined sitting there with Toby to drink the champagne, hoping her neighbours would look over and see her with such a gorgeous man. She’d imagined tossing her hair and giving a seductive laugh. The thought made her smile. What the hell was a seductive laugh anyway?
She eyed the bottle of champagne and shook her head. The idea sounded great, but she’d prefer a cup of tea.
A compact kitchen was set against the opposite wall. Gwen made the tea and took it out onto the balcony. Sitting, she sighed loudly. Foolish woman. Had she really thought that Toby was the one?
She remembered his expression when she asked about the money she’d loaned him. The blank stare that had quickly slipped into hurt disbelief. And even as she’d reassured him that there was no hurry, hadn’t she seen the sharp glint in his eyes, hadn’t she known… known… that she was being taken for a fool. Worse, a cash cow.
Of course she had.
Toby had misjudged her. She wasn’t stupid. Or perhaps, she qualified with a smile, not that stupid.
Finishing the tea, she left the cup on the table and went inside. There were two bedrooms to the back of the apartment, the smaller of which was rarely used. Most of Gwen’s friends lived within walking distance so there was rarely a need for them to stay over.
Once, she’d considered having the double bed removed and turning the room into an office or library. But there was adequate shelving in the living room for her books and she didn’t really want to get into the habit of working from home so the idea had come to nothing and the bed had stayed.
Extraneous stuff tended to build up in any home but Gwen had resisted the temptation to turn the spare room into a dumping ground. Once a year, meticulously, she went through her belongings and discarded everything she no longer used or needed. The two cardboard boxes on the floor, therefore, were an aberration. And one her cleaner, who cleaned for several of Gwen’s friends, would surely remark on.
To avoid speculation, Gwen needed to deal with the boxes. Of course, she’d already looked inside. That had been her downfall.
It had been Toby’s idea for her to call around the day before he was due to leave Hanwell and pick them up.
‘It will make it easier to leave,’ he’d said, with a wry smile at how solicitous he was being of his sister’s feelings. ‘She uses headphones while she works so she won’t hear if you call.’
Gwen had driven to the house on Myrtle Road, found parking immediately outside, and rang Toby’s mobile to say she was there. After several minutes waiting, the front door opened and he’d come out with one box after the other. He placed them in the boot before coming to the driver’s window. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with the smile that said he’d thank her better when they were alone. He bent then, leaned through the open window to capture her lips with his.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said with that way he had, that ability to infuse one word with so much meaning.
She’d reached up and laid a hand against his cheek. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.’
At home, she parked in her usual space and carried the boxes into the apartment one at a time. They were cumbersome rather than heavy. Clothes, she assumed, dropping them on the floor of the spare bedroom.
The wardrobe there was almost empty with a couple of formal dresses hanging to one side. Plenty of room for Toby’s clothes. Gwen had looked at the two boxes and decided to surprise him by unpacking.
She took out the suits and shirts and hung them on the wooden hangers, smoothing her hands over the fabric, feeling a rush of pleasure as she buried her nose in each garment and breathed in Toby’s scent. It had
been a long time since she’d felt so good. She hung the final suit and ran a hand over the material to ease out the creases.
Such fine fabric. She frowned when she felt a bump in the right-hand pocket, automatically reaching inside for the cause. A twisted piece of paper. She threw it on the bed and smoothed the pocket again. Perfect.
The following day, excitement bubbled as she readied the stage for Toby’s arrival. Everything had to be perfect and she danced around the apartment, shutting curtains, switching on the numerous lamps to create the perfect ambience. The discarded paper on the bed in the spare room caught her eye, she picked it up to throw in the bin, carrying it with her as she finished her preparations.
She took the bottle of champagne from the fridge and nestled it into the ice bucket on the balcony, then reconsidered and brought it inside. Finally satisfied it all looked the way she wanted, she sank onto the middle of the sofa where a pool of light from the lamp on each end overlapped.
The stage was set. She was smiling in anticipation, her fingers playing with the twist of paper she’d forgotten she was holding. It was disintegrating and a tiny piece fell from it to the sofa. Tutting, she picked it up and stood to put it into the kitchen bin.
She pressed her foot on the bin pedal, the lid gaping open to devour whatever rubbish she was dropping and held the screwed-up scrap over it… then took her foot away. Later, when she had all the time in the world to think about things, she remembered that moment, wondered what had made her stop and laughed at how different her life would have been if she’d simply let go.
But she didn’t, she untwisted the paper, and read what was written there, the name and the phone number that had changed everything.
Gwen stared at it, a sour taste twisting her mouth. Toby’s sister’s name was Misty Eastwood, he’d mentioned it a couple of times. Who then was Dee Carter?
His mother maybe?
There was only one way to find out.
She rang the number.
‘Hi,’ she said when it was answered. ‘Is that Mrs Carter?’
‘Yes.’ The voice gave nothing away.
‘Toby Carter’s mother?’
A laugh rang out. ‘No, that old bat died years ago.’
‘A sister then?’
‘Who is this?’
It had been a silly idea. Gwen pressed the pedal of the bin again, dropped the piece of paper into the yawning mouth, and let it snap shut with a bang. ‘I’m sorry for bothering you.’
‘Wait! Don’t hang up.’ The voice was urgent. ‘If you’re ringing about Toby you’re probably another of the women who have fallen into his trap. Let me enlighten you. Toby doesn’t have any sisters.
‘I’m Dee Carter. Toby’s long-suffering wife.’
13
Babs
Babs stood at the bay window of her Streatham apartment. The side window gave a good view of the entrance and a few minutes later she saw Gwen leave the building and hesitate before walking down to the main street, tottering in those ridiculously high heels, her butt cheeks rising and falling in that too-tight skirt.
Mutton dressed very expensively as lamb. Babs was under no illusions; it was Gwen’s money that had attracted Toby’s attention. And before that Misty’s.
But for six incredible magical months Toby had lived with Babs. They’d been unbelievably happy and she’d thought it would be forever.
That Toby was her happy ever after.
Her job as a physiotherapist brought in a good salary but she was a long way from wealthy and the mortgage on the apartment ate up the bulk of her take-home pay. Her glamorous life with Toby has been built on a shaky foundation of credit cards. All three of them. They were maxed out and she’d not paid the minimum repayment on any of them last month, red print screaming her crime across the top of the one statement she’d foolishly opened. She’d scrunched it up and tossed it in the bin.
She ignored the letters from the bank piling up on the hall table. There was no point in opening them, she knew they’d simply tell her what she already knew, that she was in arrears with her mortgage repayments. Knowledge, in this case, wasn’t power.
The thought of pulling her head from the sand to face it all terrified her… so she didn’t.
Her salary from the clinic was due in a few days, but it wouldn’t go anywhere towards paying off the arrears. It might cover the minimum payment for her credit cards. Might. She wasn’t really sure.
She drained the end of the wine into her glass. It was the last bottle. She should have charged Gwen per glass; she looked like a woman who could afford it.
Babs had seen the sharp look in Gwen’s eyes and guessed Toby had underestimated her. Rich, but not a complete pushover. Not like Babs had been. Not as foolish or incredibly, unbelievably stupid.
Babs and Toby had been good together before Misty had lured him away. She was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. Babs drained her glass and threw it across the room. She’d wanted it to smash to pieces, wanted the noise and destruction but she couldn’t even do that right, the glass hitting the back of the small single-seater sofa and rolling unbroken to the floor.
With no outlet, the dart of anger simmered. Babs had always been quick-tempered. Following complaints to her employer from a member of the public a few years before, she’d been obliged to attend an anger management course. She knew all the strategies, even used them sometimes. She knew that chewing over Misty’s part in Toby’s desertion was adding fuel to her anger. It was irrational, she knew Toby’s form, but the spinning hand on the blame game board stopped and pointed firmly at Misty every time.
Alcohol didn’t help. Unless you drank enough to enter that wonderful world of oblivion. Unfortunately, there was no more wine. Gin but no mixer. With a shrug, Babs got to her feet.
Who needed mixers anyway?
14
Misty
For a long time after Gwen left, I sat, too weary to move. Certainly too weary to switch on my computer and get to work. I’d catch up the next day or maybe, if I managed to get a few hours’ sleep, later that day.
I tried to imagine the elegant Gwen facing up to Babs and shook my head. My money would be on Babs who was probably ten years younger and no stranger to violence if her attack on me was anything to go by. It had been savage; I considered myself tough and I’d been scared.
Still, it was none of my business. Toby was history. I had to keep reminding myself of that.
When my sister rang a little later, I was sitting in the same place trying to find some energy to do something… anything.
‘You doing okay?’ Ann’s voice was suitably sombre.
To give her something else to think about apart from me, I told her about my early-morning caller.
‘Oh no!’ Ann’s voice was suitably shocked. ‘What an absolute bastard that Toby was!’
‘You have to give the guy some credit, don’t you? He had three different women almost eating out of his hands and desperate to keep him in a manner to which he’d become and wanted to stay accustomed.’
‘It’s like something you’d read about in one of your twisted stories.’
‘Ann,’ I said with a laugh, ‘if I wrote a story this pathetic my agent would cry and my publisher reconsider offering a further contract. Who wants to read about three pathetic women making idiots of themselves?’
‘Stop being hard on yourself, Misty. He’s a con artist. They are skilled at what they do.’
‘Yes, I know. She didn’t say, but the woman who came around this morning, Gwen, I think she’s lost more money than she was letting on. I think that’s why she was desperate to find him.’
‘Probably why he’s disappeared too. He got what he wanted and scarpered.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right.’
‘It’s the last you’ll see of him, I bet,’ Ann said firmly. ‘He’s probably sunning himself in Barbados. You had a lucky escape.’
After arranging to meet for lunch later in the week, I put the phone down.
I climbed the stairs, my hand heavy on the oak banisters, bare feet flap-flapping on the wood. It seemed too much effort to shower, almost too much to turn on my computer. I flopped onto my office chair sending it rocking and pressed my feet into the floor to keep the motion going, then, resting my head back, I let my mind wander.
Toby reached a hand towards her, his eyes imploring. It’s only ever been you, Misty. All those other women, they meant nothing. I didn’t mean what I said, I was overwhelmed by my feeling for you, by a love I’d never felt before.
I woke when my head fell forward, a cry of despair at the end of the dream. A cry of frustration at my snivelling stupidity. I dug my heels in, pulled my chair closer to the desk and switched on my computer.
Diving into my writing and the characters I’d brought to life would take me away from reality. This story had the type of strong female characters I liked to write about. They’d not put up with men like Toby.
I disappeared into my writing, taking solace from spending time with women who had more gumption than I, wondering once again why I could write them so well, so believably, when I was so weak and pathetic.
Sometime during the morning, I put on my headphones, music the final step to separate me from reality. Darkness had slipped into the room before I stopped, thirsty, hungry and tired, my eyes prickling. I looked to the corner of the screen unsurprised to see it was nearly midnight. It worked like that sometimes, the words flying from my fingertips as if desperate to escape. It was why living alone suited me, why I’d been foolish to think of sharing my home with anyone. I leaned back in the chair and stretched my arms overhead, flexing my fingers. Toby. That episode had been a crazy aberration.
The Lies He Told: a gripping psychological suspense thriller Page 6