Deception Wears Many Faces: a stunning psychological drama that will keep you turning the pages

by Maggie James

  ‘I’ll make a firm booking the second I get the money,’ Darcy said. ‘The universe meant for this to happen, don’t you see, chick?’

  I mentally rolled my eyes, although delighted for her. Behind his sister’s back, Scott pulled a face, then grinned. Despite his concerns, I knew he was pleased for her.

  I hugged Darcy, her body bird-like against my sturdy frame. ‘You take care of yourself, you hear?’ I studied her face as I stepped away. Excitement had lit a fire inside her, but her skin remained pasty, in contrast to the inky smudges under her eyes. I prayed Darcy would find the miracle she sought in California.

  I didn’t see Scott on the Friday of that week. He was taking the day off to drive Darcy to Heathrow, so that evening I went to Caroline’s instead. Things between us had stayed tense since our last meeting. She’d texted several times, suggesting we get together, and after the fifth message I capitulated, sending a quick reply. I’d missed her; the rift in our friendship was unprecedented. As for my sister, she hadn’t called, texted or emailed for several days. That was fine by me. Mum had left several voicemail messages, each more strident than the last, urging me to see sense and ditch Scott, but I’d ignored them all. My mother and I would carry on the way we always did, with her trying to run my life and me evading her attempts any way I could. Dysfunctional, sure, but weren’t most families?

  Maybe I could mend my relationship with Caroline, however. I rang her bell at eight, a bottle of wine in my hand. To my dismay, her expression seemed strained when she opened the door. Her body was tense as we hugged, her smile forced.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, waving me into the living room. She grabbed the wine, extracting the cork and pouring large measures into two glasses. I sat opposite her and we made small talk, avoiding any mention of Scott. Caroline appeared distracted, her gaze often flitting to the clock on the wall.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked. She wasn’t her normal self at all.

  ‘I’m fine, so I am.’ It was unlike her to lie.

  When the minute hand hit the half-hour mark, the doorbell rang. Caroline sprang to her feet, her eyes avoiding mine as she rushed into the hallway. Was that guilt in her face?

  A familiar male voice reached my ears.

  ‘Richie was just passing.’ The lie was obvious, and fierce resentment filled me. So Caroline was match-making again, was she? More like meddling, in my view. I plastered a fake smile on my face.

  He nodded in my direction. ‘Lovely to see you, Lyddie.’

  ‘Likewise.’ My irritation must have been evident in my clipped tone, but I didn’t care.

  Richie sat in the armchair nearest the door, his legs sprawled in front of him. Damn, he looked good. A tight-fitting T-shirt in a soft shade of blue intensified the azure of his eyes, its fabric stretched over his hard muscles. His dark hair flopping across his forehead, the waft of spicy cologne, that uncertain manner of his – they all stirred up memories of better times. I clamped down hard on my traitorous thoughts. Richie might well look delicious enough to tear apart and eat with my fingers, but the guy was off limits. So was I. I’d already found my dream man.

  ‘So, Lyddie.’ Caroline’s voice held tension, nervousness evident in every syllable. ‘Are you still seeing that bloke? Scott, Steven, whatever he’s called?’

  Irritation flared within me. Her words were a subtle dig, the way she’d paired Scott’s name with that of Ellie’s fake con artist. Caroline was being a manipulative bitch and I refused to play her game, especially in front of my ex.

  ‘He’s called Scott.’ My tone was freezer-frigid in its coldness. ‘And yes, we’re still an item. What’s more, it’s serious. We love each other.’

  Dismay flew into Caroline’s expression. Richie remained silent. Had he spoken, I couldn’t guarantee I’d keep my temper.

  ‘Isn’t that a little soon?’ Caroline hesitated, no doubt clocking my sour face, but she ploughed on anyway. ‘I mean, you’ve only been going out together a few weeks, right?’

  ‘That is none of your business. Whom I date, and for how long, is not your concern.’

  She took a gulp of wine. She looked ready to cry, but I steeled myself against possible tears. Caroline had crossed a boundary, and if our friendship suffered, she was to blame, not me.

  ‘You’re like a sister to me, so you are,’ she said. ‘What Ellie told me, though - I believed her. I’m fecking worried about you. So is Richie.’

  Fury spewed from me with the force of a volcano. Goddamn my blabbermouth friend and her latest treachery. ‘You gossiped about me to Richie, of all people?’ I yelled. ‘How dare you betray me like that?’

  ‘Lyddie.’ Richie’s tone was calm, despite the tightness around his mouth. ‘Caroline’s right. I’m concerned. We both are. We only want to help.’

  ‘By patronising me? Giving me unwanted advice? Believing my mentally unwell sister instead of me?’ I didn’t give a damn if I was shouting. ‘What is this? Some kind of American-style intervention?’

  ‘Lyddie, please.’ Caroline was crying for real by then. ‘I meant well.’

  ‘You had no right to tell Richie.’

  ‘Just answer me this.’ Wariness had crept into her voice. ‘Has Scott ever asked you for money?’

  ‘No.’ I injected a truck-load of triumph into one short word. It was the truth - Scott had never asked me for funds. I didn’t have to lie, unlike Ellie.

  Caroline looked taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’ She grimaced. ‘Feck, I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.’

  I huffed in exasperation. ‘I’ve already told you all the reasons Scott isn’t who Ellie says he is. The way he cares about his sick sister, the fantastic artwork he creates. None of it ties up with the shit Ellie’s spouting.’

  Richie spoke. ‘Then why is she saying these things?’

  I clung to the vestiges of my loyalty to my sister, reluctant to divulge what Scott had said about Ellie’s demands for money. I’d acted out of malice before in telling Caroline, but I refused to repeat such spite with Richie, however angry I was. Besides, my so-called friend had doubtless already blabbed the details to him.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. But she’s wrong. Scott’s the real deal.’

  ‘So this guy you’re dating has never asked you for money?’ Richie’s scepticism was obvious. ‘A couple more questions, Lyddie, and then we’ll let it drop. Yes, we will,’ he said, shooting a warning glance at Caroline when she tried to interrupt. ‘This sister of his. Darcy’s her name, yeah? Am I right in thinking she’s seriously ill?’

  The change in direction threw me off-balance. ‘That’s correct. She has leukaemia.’

  ‘Is she in remission? Or getting chemo?’

  ‘She’s on her way to California right now. To an alternative therapy centre. Conventional medicine hasn’t worked for her.’

  Richie didn’t respond at first, and I got the impression he was choosing his words with care. ‘And who paid for her stay in California?’

  ‘What?’ I stood up, my foot kicking over my wine by accident, but I was past caring. ‘You have no right to ask such questions. Scott’s sister, and how she funds her treatment, is none of your business.’

  ‘Sit down, Lyddie. Please,’ Richie said. ‘Just hear me out. Take this guy’s job. He manages a motor dealership, right? How do you know that for sure? I’m guessing you only have his word for it.’

  ‘I trust him. He’s honest, caring, loyal.’

  It was as if I’d not spoken. ‘These men are experts at their game,’ Richie continued. ‘Devious and without scruples. This guy probably changes tack with each woman. That’s why he appears different to when he conned Ellie.’

  ‘Really.’ I made no effort to disguise my sarcasm. ‘So what’s his game this time? How does he intend to defraud me?’

  ‘Through his sister.’

  That was a step too far. Ice dripped from my next words. ‘She has leukaemia, for fuck’s sake. Are you suggesting she’s pretending?’

  ‘That’s exactly w
hat I suspect.’

  I gawped at him. ‘I’ve met Darcy. She looks like death. Pale as putty and thinner than a toothpick. No way is she faking.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone feigned a serious illness for fraudulent purposes. Which brings me back to what I asked earlier. Who’s paying for her treatment in California?’

  My silence gave me away.

  ‘Lyddie?’ Caroline prompted. ‘Please say you haven’t given her money. Oh, my God. You did, didn’t you? You’ve paid for a trip she’ll never take, because she’s part of the scam, don’t you see? They’re working you together.’

  ‘No.’ My mind clamped shut against her words. ‘You’re wrong. Yes, I gave Darcy the funds for her treatment. I’ll do so again if needs be.’ Caroline’s sobs grew louder. ‘But that proves my point, don’t you see? Because Scott has never asked me for money. Neither has his sister. I offered because I wanted to help. It was my decision - nobody forced me. Scott intends to repay me by Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, Lyddie.’ Such love in Caroline’s voice, yet it burned me like a blowtorch. ‘He’ll be long gone by then. So will she.’

  ‘I told you my coming here tonight would be a mistake.’ Richie’s words were aimed at his sister. ‘Didn’t I say Lyddie would never listen to reason?’

  I’d been right. They’d cooked this up between them. Devious, manipulative behaviour, but I’d show them.

  ‘Answer me one thing.’ If this didn’t convince them, nothing would. ‘Scott couldn’t have known Ellie and I were sisters. We were both flabbergasted when we discovered the truth. Why would he tell me he’d once dated Ellie, if his aim was to fleece me of money? How could that help him?’

  My question was met with silence. Caroline and Richie glanced at each other, uncertainty in their expressions. ‘I’m not sure,’ Caroline admitted.

  Patience was never my strong suit, and she’d pushed me too far. ‘You’ve crossed a line. We’re no longer friends.’

  ‘Don’t say that. Please.’ She was still crying as I shoved past her, heading towards the door. But Richie blocked my way.

  ‘Be careful, that’s all I ask,’ he said. ‘I’m worried this man is using you. We both are. Please don’t give him or his sister any more money.’

  Who the hell did he think he was? ‘You’re jealous, aren’t you? You broke off our engagement, but you can’t bear to see me happy with anyone else. Well, fuck you.’ I swept past the man who was once my world, desperate to escape him and his sister.

  16

  I lay in bed at the Harbourside flat, unable to sleep, my brain churning. My dominant emotion was anger. Two people I’d once loved had stabbed me in the back, and God, was I angry. Fucking furious, in fact. One thing was certain. Although it pained me, my friendship with Caroline was over unless she admitted she’d been wrong about Scott. Twenty years of closeness gone in one evening, and it hurt like mad. As for Richie, fury filled me at his sheer arrogance. How dare the man who’d dumped me dispense advice on my love life?

  Well, screw him. Screw Caroline, Ellie and my mother too. They could all go to hell. So long as Scott and I were together, I’d be fine. What was it he’d said when I’d told him I didn’t want to be around Mum or Ellie? Then don’t, sweetheart. Spend time with me instead.

  That sounded good to me. Wonderful, in fact. Thank God for Scott. He made everything in my world bigger, brighter, better.

  Should I call him? It was almost midnight, so I decided not to, despite being tempted like crazy. This wasn’t the time to inflict my problems on him, not when he must be wrung dry of emotions after taking Darcy to Heathrow. For another hour, I tried to sleep, but my brain refused to shut off from the events of the evening.

  After a while I retrieved my laptop, hoping to lose myself in the internet. For the next few minutes I checked my emails and social media sites. Then I remembered Love Rats Exposed, curious as to whether Anna had posted an update about Sophie. I logged on, scanned through the latest threads, looking for her name, and found it. I clicked on the post and started to read.

  Oh, my God. Horror shuddered through me, my breath suspended in shock. The words were bleak, written by a woman steeped in grief.

  ‘Too upset to write much. My beloved Sophie is dead. Her body was discovered in an alleyway last weekend. She’d been stabbed to death.’

  A slew of posts followed, all expressing sympathy. One asked whether Sophie ever got the chance to inform the police about the man who defrauded her, a post I considered insensitive in its timing, although I’d wondered the same thing. The dead woman’s mother had posted a brief reply. ‘No, she didn’t.’

  I switched off my laptop, leaning back against my pillows. Could Sophie’s murderer be Michael Hammond, the man who’d conned her? Had he discovered she planned to unmask him to the police? The more I considered the idea, the more unlikely I judged it. For one thing, her ex had broken off contact with her once he’d syphoned off her money. How would he have known what she intended, unless she’d texted him in a fit of fury? The simplest explanation was the most likely one: she’d fallen victim to a random attacker.

  A thought struck me. Sophie had been murdered during the weekend Scott and I spent at the cottage. She might have been stabbed at the same time as we made love. While we strolled along the cliff top, perhaps. Or as we held hands in the pub. The hideous contrast choked me up, swelling my heart until it almost burst from my ribcage. Tears flowed, unchecked, down my face. I sobbed for the dead woman, her grieving mother, my hurt over Caroline and Richie, until I cried myself to sleep.

  The next day was Saturday, and I spent the morning sketching, determined not to dwell on Sophie’s death. Scott texted me at lunchtime, saying he’d be working on a new painting all day, but asking whether I was free to get together the following evening. A perfect end to the week. We’d drink beer, I’d catch up on Darcy’s progress in California, then we’d make long, slow love. Just what I needed.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I texted back.

  That afternoon I drove over to Bedminster. The area was fun and funky, filled with eclectic street art, and it had been a while since I’d visited the deli on North Street. If I was honest, I had another motive - Bedminster was close to Southville where Scott lived. As I shopped for stuffed olives and artichoke hearts, I battled with myself over whether to call round unannounced. What if he was one of those artists who hated to be disturbed while working? I wasn’t some double-glazing salesperson, though - I was his girlfriend. God knew I needed the comfort he could offer, and I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

  I made a decision. Within the next hour, I’d be with the man I loved. A huge grin settled on my face as I drove the short distance to Southville.

  I parked up near Scott’s house, unable to spot his Toyota. He must have left it around the corner. Parking was difficult in Southville and I’d been lucky to bag a space. As I lifted the iron door-knocker, my mind was running on his hands, how they would undress me. Another sappy grin curved my mouth. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The door opened.

  The man standing before me wasn’t Scott. The grin faded from my lips.

  We stared at each other. He was shorter and much older than Scott, his hair grey and bushy, his eyes brown, not blue. He was dressed in paint-smeared jeans and T-shirt. When I didn’t speak, a frown crossed his face.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  From somewhere I dredged up the words. ‘I, uh, I’m looking for Scott Champion. Is he home?’

  ‘That’s me. I’m Scott Champion.’

  I stared at him, unable to process the situation.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Impatience hovered in his voice.

  ‘But ...’ This was Scott’s house, where I’d seen his incredible paintings, the letters addressed to him, what seemed a lifetime ago. I hadn’t mistaken the address.

  ‘You’re Scott Champion?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. What can I do for you?’

  I stared at his jeans, spattered with what appeared to be artists�
�� acrylic paint. A sliver of understanding stabbed me, followed by denial.

  ‘I came to this house twice recently.’ My voice almost cracked with emotion. ‘To visit a man who said his name was Scott Champion. He told me he lived here.’ Once I’d spoken, I realised how weird my words sounded.

  The man’s brow creased. ‘What did he look like?’

  When I described Scott, understanding dawned in his expression. ‘That sounds like Steve Simmons. He stayed here not long ago.’

  ‘When?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Can’t remember the date he arrived. He left on Wednesday, if that helps. I get so many people passing through it’s impossible to remember the details.’

  ‘Passing through?’ I echoed.

  ‘Airbnb. Short-term rentals, you know? I let out my spare bedroom via their website. People come, they stay a while, they move on.’ He shrugged, before sympathy crossed his face. I realised how it might look. To this man, I must be a two-night stand of the other Scott, a woman who refused to accept she’d been a casual pickup. Shame filled every part of me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, before hurrying back to my car. Cocooned in its sanctuary, I sat behind the wheel, frozen with shock. Should I call Scott to demand an explanation? There had to be one. Hadn’t I lied at the start of our relationship? What if he’d done the same?

  My mind ran through possibilities. Suppose his mortgage lender had foreclosed on Scott’s home and he’d been too ashamed to admit it? Hence needing to use Airbnb? Or what if the other man claiming to be Scott Champion suffered from mental illness? Both scenarios seemed unlikely, yet my heart still clung to a sliver of hope.

  Then I remembered the paint-smeared jeans. The guy with whom I’d spoken a few minutes ago had created those incredible paintings, not the man I’d been dating. Besides, there had been his reference to Steven Simmons. However much I longed to deny it, his name was too great a coincidence to ignore. The truth slammed into my brain. Scott was a lowdown piece of shit, his duplicity unmasked by my surprise visit. The Southville address had served its purpose in convincing me he owned his own home, that he, not the real Scott Champion, was a talented artist. No doubt he planned to rent the spare room there on future occasions when it suited him and the owner was absent. How well he’d played me.