I arrive back home, let myself in quietly and take off my coat. 04.36. I’m slightly earlier than I expected, but I can’t go back to sleep, not now. I feel dirty, contaminated, so I head upstairs to take a shower. I lock the bathroom door and turn to face myself in the mirror. I don’t like what I see, so I close my eyes. I unzip the body of who I used to be and step outside of myself; a newborn Russian doll, a little smaller than I was before, wondering how many other versions of me are still hidden inside. I turn on the shower and step beneath it too quickly. The water is freezing cold but I don’t flinch, I let the temperature rise slowly so that I almost don’t feel the water burn my skin when it gets too hot. I don’t know how long I stand like that, I don’t remember. I don’t remember drying myself or wrapping my robe around my body. I don’t remember leaving the bathroom or coming back downstairs. I only remember being back in the lounge, looking in the big mirror above the fireplace and liking the look of the woman who stared back at me. I pick up Digby and sit with him on my lap, stroking his soft black fur in the dark. All that’s left to do now is wait.
One of the twins starts crying. I pop Digby down on the carpet and rush up the stairs to comfort them. Earlier when I was trying to record the sound of them screaming they were all smiles, but we got there in the end. It’s light in their room now. I pull the curtains back and look out at the new dawn spreading itself over the streets and houses below. Paul is still sleeping, so I take the twins downstairs and make them some breakfast. I sit them in their high chairs and worry about them being too cold in our old house. I have another idea and decide it’s a good one, don’t know why I didn’t think of it before really.
The flames dance in the fireplace, throwing their light and warmth around the room. The twins look on transfixed as though they’ve never seen a fire before and I realise that maybe they haven’t. I pick up the diaries one at a time, looking through a few pages before I throw each one onto the flames. I pause briefly over the final one, run my index finger over the 1992 written on the front, then turn to the last few pages at the back. I can’t read the words at first, they stick in my throat, but I make myself do it. Just one last time I let my eyes translate Claire’s words from that night, the night that changed everything.
Taylor told me to do it.
I tear out the page and screw the paper into a ball before throwing it in the fire. After I have watched it burn to nothing, I throw on the last of Claire’s diaries. The twins and I sit and watch until everything their mother wrote is nothing but smoke and ash.
Later
Spring 2017
I’ve always delighted in the free fall between sleep and wakefulness. Those precious few semi-conscious seconds before you open your eyes, when you catch yourself believing that your dreams might just be your reality. For now, for just a second longer, I’m enjoying the self-medicated delusion that permits me to imagine that I could be anyone, I could be anywhere, I could be loved.
I sense a shadow cast itself over my eyelids and they immediately flick open. The light is so bright that at first I don’t remember where I am. For a moment I think I’m back in the hospital room, but then I hear the sound of the sea, calm waves gently lapping at the edge of the white sand in the distance. I hold my hand up to shelter my eyes from the sun. I find myself staring at the branches of lines etched into my palm and the fingerprints my skin has remembered for all these years. It knows who I am, my skin, no matter how uncomfortable it has been to wear.
I sit up when I hear the children, their infectious laughter dancing inside my ears until a smile spreads itself across my face. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t give birth to them, they are mine now and I know that water can be thicker than blood if you let it. I scold myself for falling asleep when I should have been watching them, but I relax a little once I’ve looked around the beach. Apart from a couple of palm trees, we have the place to ourselves. There is nobody else here. Nobody to be afraid of. I try to relax. I lean back in the chair and knit my hands together, resting them in my lap. When I look down, it’s my mother’s hands that I see. I look back over at my niece and nephew and decide that I will always love these children the same, no matter what they do, no matter how they change, no matter who or what they grow into.
The hot sun warms my skin and lights our new life. Our own little corner of paradise for a couple of weeks, a stopover before Paul needs to be in America. I turn back towards the hotel, wondering where he is. We booked a room on the ground floor, right on the beach so that we could just step out into the sun during the day and sit beneath the stars at night. It’s enormous, more of a suite than a room really and we hardly ever see anyone. There aren’t many other guests due to it being rainy season, not that it’s rained once since we arrived.
The shutters are all open and I can see the shape of Paul inside, sitting on the bed. He’s on the phone. Again. He hasn’t adjusted to our new life as quickly as I hoped he might, but he adores the children, loves them as though they are his own. I have finally given him the family he wanted and nobody can take that away from us now. I glance over at the children once more. They’re fine. I peel myself up and off the sunlounger to check on Paul, I keep reminding myself that he needs watching over too.
Paul hangs up the phone on the bedside table as soon as I step inside the room. He doesn’t look up and I feel like I have interrupted something.
‘Who was that?’ I ask.
‘No one,’ he says, still avoiding eye contact. The bed is buried by a patchwork of white A4 paper, covered in black type and red ink. The never-ending edit has taken over again.
‘Well, it must have been someone.’ I struggle to hide the irritation in my voice, this is supposed to be a holiday. A chance to spend time together as a family, not hide away in here staring at words and speaking to his agent. I look back out at the children, they’re fine, so I turn back to Paul. He’s looking at me now, the corners of his mouth turned upwards.
‘It was supposed to be a surprise,’ he says, standing up and coming over to kiss me. ‘Your shoulders are red, do you need some more cream on?’
‘What was?’
‘I’ve ordered a little something from room service.’ I still don’t believe him.
‘What? Why? It’s only a couple of hours until dinner.’
‘That’s true, but we normally have champagne on our anniversary.’
‘It’s not our anniversary . . .’
‘I didn’t say wedding.’ He smiles. I know the anniversary he means and I smile too.
‘I thought you were speaking to your agent again.’
‘Not guilty this time,’ he says holding up his hands. ‘But you have just reminded me of something. I might Skype her, just for a quick chat before the drinks come, then I’m all yours.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Just five minutes, surely you can forgive me that?’
‘Fine, five minutes,’ I say and kiss him on the cheek.
I want to freshen up but I look out and check on the twins first, they’ve become my latest routine, something I must check three times. They’re exactly as I left them, building castles of sand, squashing them and starting again. They are so content in each other’s company. I wonder if that is unusual. I wonder if they will always be that way.
‘Look at this,’ says Paul. He’s already moved to the small desk in the corner of the room, his laptop open in front of him. I notice that the label is sticking up from the neck of his t-shirt. I walk over and reach to tuck it in, then change my mind. I’m not sure why. I peer at the screen over his shoulder instead. ‘The dog sitter sent it, looks like Digby is having a nice holiday too.’ I smile at the photo. The dog is panting but it looks like he’s smiling at the camera.
‘I know you miss him, we’ll see him soon enough,’ I say. Paul loves that dog, hates leaving him behind. We all have to have something or someone to love, otherwise the love inside us has nowhere to go. ‘Will you keep one eye on them while I have a quick shower,’ I say, looking back out at the twins.
‘Of course.’
On my way to the bathroom I notice that Paul has left the TV on again. It’s on silent but a familiar image catches my eye and I stop, unable to look away. I see a news correspondent I used to know standing outside a court house, TV crews and more reporters jostling for space on the pavement around her. The picture changes to the image of a police van driving through a gate to get inside the building. Then I see the shots of Claire’s house, the house we grew up in, blackened and burnt. I read the words scrolling at the bottom of the screen, a string of capitals silently screaming at me:
MADELINE FROST’S MURDER TRIAL BEGINS.
Even with the mute button switched on, the TV is far too loud. I don’t know why he insists on having it on in the background all the time, it’s like an obsession. I switch it off and turn back to say something to Paul, but he’s already started the Skype call. The sound of it dialling up that has become so familiar stops and he starts speaking at his laptop before I get a chance to say anything. I leave him to it and step into the bathroom. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I look good. I look like the me I am supposed to be, living the life I was supposed to live. The life that was stolen from me.
I close the door and turn on the shower. I’ll be quick. Just want to get the sand and cream off my body, wash my hair and change into something else. I take off my bikini and step inside, letting the jets of cool water slap my face. I hear the knock on the hotel room door and curse their timing.
‘Come in,’ says Paul. I can hear that he is still on the call to London but I’m relieved he is dealing with it, five minutes on my own has become a rare indulgence that I no longer take for granted. ‘That’s great, thank you, just leave it over there,’ he says. His words are muffled by the shower, but he sounds distracted, borderline rude and I hope he’s remembered to give them a tip.
I dress myself quickly, rushing a brush through my tangled hair and slapping some aftersun on my face and shoulders. Paul is already sitting on the decking just outside the room, facing out to a turquoise sea. He’s brought the children a little nearer to us so that they are sitting on a blanket in the shade and I love him for loving them the way I hoped he would.
‘Here you are, thought you might have drowned,’ he says as I step outside to join them. ‘Drink, madam?’ he then asks, taking a bottle of champagne from a silver bucket on a tray on the table.
‘Lovely, yes, please.’ I sit down next to him, feeling the heat from the wooden chair through my skirt. Katie turns as she hears me and smiles.
‘Mummy,’ she says, then carries on playing. She’s never called me that before and it makes me feel so happy. I was their godmother, after all; is it so wrong to want to be more than that? Paul uses the nail on his thumb to cut into the gold foil around the neck of the bottle. He tears it off before his fingers twist the metal holding the cork in place, then he removes it expertly. No pop, no fuss, no mess. He fills our glasses and I realise I am happy. Things are so much better between us now. Back to how they used to be. This is all I ever wanted. I am in paradise with my family and this is what happiness feels like. I’m not sure I have ever truly known it before.
He puts the bottle back on the round tray and I spot something next to it that catches the light.
‘What’s that?’ I say, looking down at the slither of gold on silver.
‘What’s what?’ he asks, following my gaze. I smile, thinking this is another surprise, a gift, a game.
It isn’t.
For a moment the words won’t form.
‘Did you see who delivered this to our room?’
‘I was still on Skype, they just came in and left it on the side. Why? What’s wrong?’
I don’t answer. I’m transfixed by the thin bracelet on the tray, small enough for a child’s wrist. It’s held together with an old, slightly rusty safety pin and my date of birth is engraved on the gold.
My name is Amber Taylor Reynolds. There are three things you should know about me:
1. I was in a coma.
2. My sister died in a tragic accident.
3. Sometimes I lie.
Acknowledgements
There are many people I would like to thank for bringing this book to life.
Firstly, I would like to thank my amazing agent, Jonny Geller, for taking a chance on me. I would also like to thank Catherine Cho, Kate Cooper and all the lovely people at Curtis Brown. Kari Stuart at ICM is a legend and I am forever thankful to her too.
I feel incredibly lucky that Sometimes I Lie found a home at HQ/HarperCollins in the UK and Flatiron/Macmillan in the US. I have two wonderful editors who I will always be indebted to: Sally Williamson in the UK, who believed in this book so passionately and has the most wonderful laugh; and Amy Einhorn in the US, who is a whirlwind and a magician of words.
Next, I’d like to say a word or two about the best teacher I ever had: Richard Skinner. He taught me too many things to list here, but above all, he taught me to believe in myself enough to keep going. I am forever in your debt.
I would also like to thank all the Spring 2016 Faber Academy graduates – you have all been a part of my writing journey, and I’ve made some friends for life. Thanks in particular to Kelly Allen, Dan Dalton, Giles Fraser, Alison Marlow, Trisha Sakhlecha and Helen Trevorrow for being my first readers and giving such brilliant feedback.
Thank you to the staff at Milton Keynes University Hospital for allowing me into your world and answering my many, many questions, especially Maureen Peskett, Josie Warner and Amanda Wilson. And thank you to Wayne Moulds for your advice and help with research.
Thank you to my parents for encouraging me to read and love books from a young age – you cannot be a writer if you are not a reader. Heartfelt thanks to the rest of my family and friends for your ongoing love and support. Special thanks to Charlotte Essex, my oldest writing friend, for pushing my bottom up a cliff in Bolivia many years ago and continuing to push me to do things I’m afraid of ever since. Thanks to Jasmine Williams for believing in me and to my dear friends Anna MacDonald and Alex Vanotti for making me laugh, keeping me calm and always being there when I need you.
Lastly, I’d like to thank my husband, Daniel, a fellow writer who knows just how long this journey has been. There is nobody I would rather have made it with. My first reader, my best friend, my everything, I wouldn’t be here without you. Thanks for putting up with me and for loving me back.
Reading Group Questions
(contains spoilers)
1. ‘Sometimes I lie.’ Amber lies to so many people throughout the novel – her husband, her sister, her colleagues, even herself. Do you think she always knew when she was lying? Don’t we all tell lies from time to time? Is it just human nature to tweak the truth?
2. ‘It took a lot of love to hate her the way I do.’ Amber spent over 20 years believing that Claire was keeping her safe, but does she love her? In Claire’s mind, the way she isolates and controls Amber is love, she genuinely thinks she is protecting her. But is it love or fear that destroys their relationship in the end?
3. Who is the real villain of this story? Madeline? Edward? Claire? Or Amber?
4. ‘I stand in front of the large range oven with my arms bent at the elbows. My fingers form the familiar shape: the index and middle finger finding the thumb on each hand. I whisper quietly to myself, whilst visually checking that everything is switched off, my fingernails clicking together. I do it again. I do it a third time.’ Amber’s OCD started after the fire in 1992. What other displays of OCD can you remember from the novel? How successful is Amber at hiding it from those around her?
5. What was your favourite twist in the novel?
6. ‘People say there’s nothing like a mother’s love, take that away and you’ll find there is nothing like a daughter’s hate.’ How much are the parents of both girls to blame for who their daughters grew up to become? Did you get the impression that Claire’s parents knew what she was capable of in the childhood diaries? Can Amber’s moth
er be forgiven for taking Claire in and wanting to save her despite how it made Amber feel? ‘I am the daughter they always had.’
7. The colour red is mentioned over sixty times in the novel, (stolen red pens, red studio lights, red toothbrush, lipstick, traffic lights, wine, blood and the robin’s red breast are just some examples). What other themes did you spot in the novel?
8. ‘For today’s phone-in, we’re inviting you to get in touch on the subject of imaginary friends . . .’ Were you surprised to discover that Jo was an imaginary friend? When Jo leaves the hospital shortly before Amber wakes up, we never see her again. Why was Amber finally able to let her go at this point in her life?
9. ‘I can do ‘Amber the friend,’ or ‘Amber the wife,’ but right now it’s time for ‘Amber from Coffee Morning.’’ Don’t we all play different roles in life? Do you behave differently with your family/ friends/colleagues? Do you feel able to be yourself with everyone you know?
10. ‘His success broke him and his failure broke us.’ Paul and Amber’s marriage is in trouble at the start of the novel – his struggles with his writing, her losing her TV reporter job, their inability to have a child all seem to play a part. Why are they happier at the end? What ‘fixes’ them?
11. Did you enjoy the nursery rhymes in the book?
12. ‘I hate hospitals. They are the home of death and regrets that missed their slots.’ What regrets do you think Amber is referring to when she says this? Do you think any other characters in the novel have regrets?
Sometimes I Lie: The gripping debut psychological thriller you can’t miss in 2017 Page 25