by B A Paris
The next day I cut my hair to my shoulders, because that’s how Ellen had worn hers. I still needed to make it darker like hers so when I went into town to buy hair dye and food, using Ellen’s old bicycle, I wore her clothes and a scarf around my head.
I only realised that I was the subject of a missing person’s search from a discarded newspaper I found on a bench outside the supermarket, a week or so after I returned to Lewis. It sent me into a complete panic. There was no mention then that I was from Lewis, the article only mentioned London. A few days later, however, the police turned up, swiftly followed by a reporter. I quaked with fear that someone would know I was Layla but with my father yelling ‘Ellen’ at me, demanding to know what was going on, the only thing they asked was when I’d last had contact with my sister and to let them know if she contacted me again. The strange thing was, I already felt like Ellen, so it wasn’t hard to speak of Layla as my sister. I didn’t want to be Layla anyway. I was ashamed, ashamed that I’d blown my chance to make a better life for myself. I didn’t deserve to exist.
The reporter didn’t stay around long; the only thing he gleaned before my father told him to piss off was that Layla was a bad ’un. After, when I read in the newspaper that you had supposedly asked me to marry you, I was angry and upset. I understood why you hadn’t told them the truth – if you had, the police would have thought you’d killed me in a fit of anger. But I hated that you’d lied and in the photos that appeared in the newspapers, I thought you were faking your grief. Nevertheless, I was glad when I learnt from Tony that no charges were being brought against you. The theory put forward was that I’d been abducted and that suited me fine. So I wrote to you, as Ellen, telling you I knew you wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Layla, because I wanted to see what you would say, if you would tell the truth about our argument and express remorse. But you only spoke of how happy you’d been with me and I knew I couldn’t let you go, not completely, so I was grateful to get snippets of news from Tony, whenever he contacted me to update me with any new information.
By the time Tony suggested the memorial ceremony, I’d almost forgotten that I was once Layla. My father had been dead for nearly a year and I was renting a comfortable flat in Edinburgh, thanks to a couple of fields he had owned further down the Pentland Road, which I sold after his death. I trembled inwardly at the thought of seeing you again, worried it would bring Layla back from where I’d buried her, even though I now inhabited Ellen’s skin completely. Her mannerisms and gestures had come as easily to me as my mother’s had. When I ate, spoke, walked, stood, I was Ellen. When I slept, I slept on my back, with one arm stretched above my head, not curled into a ball as Layla had. I thought like Ellen, laughed like Ellen, smiled like Ellen, a smile less wide than Layla’s because Ellen was more serious. But something deep within me – a remnant of Layla perhaps – wanted to go to the ceremony.
Do you remember how you barely glanced at me? If you had, you might have seen Layla in me. But you didn’t – yet she saw you. She yearned to reach out and touch you, to kiss the creases at the corners of your eyes, smooth her hands over your hair as she used to do. And after, when I returned to Edinburgh, she wouldn’t leave me alone. I could feel her clawing her way back, wanting to be part of your life again. So I reminded her of what she’d done, how she’d betrayed you. He wouldn’t want you back, I scorned. But you could have him, she said craftily, making me jump, because I hadn’t heard her voice for a very long time. You could have Finn. I quaked at the thought, because wasn’t he violent, just as our father had been? If you make yourself perfect, if you never do anything to anger him, he could be yours, she insisted. And you won’t mind? I asked. You’ll go away and never come back, you’ll leave me alone, leave me to be Ellen? Yes, she said. As long as you promise to love and cherish him.
I was excited by the prospect of having you back. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life on my own. But I knew it would be a long process, and that I might not succeed. I started by keeping in touch with Harry and while I waited for my friendship with him to flourish, I doubled my efforts to get my fledgling career as an illustrator off the ground. After eighteen months of pounding the pavements of Edinburgh, Glasgow and London with my portfolio under my arm, I was eventually taken on by an agent in Finsbury and whenever I knew that I was going to be in London, I’d let Harry know. By then, you’d gone back to work for him and were living at the flat during the week, so Harry and I would meet in the bar of my hotel. I think he felt sorry for the life I’d led and because I had no family.
One day, when I had my shirtsleeves rolled up, he happened to remark that I had the same skin as Layla. I saw at once he was referring to my freckles; the ones on my face weren’t visible under the make-up I wore but it alerted me to the fact that physical traces of Layla still remained. What would happen the day you saw me without make-up? Over the next six months, I had laser treatment to even out my skin tone. I wasn’t worried about my body shape; my years of living frugally with my father meant that I weighed a stone and a half less than I’d been before. There wasn’t much I could do about my eyes, but instead of simply wearing mascara and shading my eyebrows, I started having them tinted so that they would look different.
Eventually, Harry began inviting me to stay at the flat whenever I was down from Edinburgh. You kept your distance at first but after my fifth or sixth visit, you began to relax and when I began to discuss jazz artists with you, I could see I had your interest. Then you invited me to Simonsbridge for the weekend, to meet Peggy, because I’d told you how much I loved dogs. And Peggy was so easy to love that I lost Layla’s fear of them.
I knew from Harry that you were in a relationship with Ruby and I could tell that she was more enamoured than you were. But it made me determined to move things along. So one evening, I kissed you and we ended up in bed.
We were happy together and I was elated when you asked me to marry you, because I remembered that you hadn’t asked Layla. I was curious as to whether you would have one day but you denied this and I was glad, because it meant that you loved me more than you’d loved her. But Layla wasn’t happy about our forthcoming marriage and to my alarm, she began to make her presence felt. Worried that you might decide to sell the cottage, she wanted to see it one last time. I tried to resist but she wouldn’t let it go and I thought that if I gave in to her, if I let her have this one thing, I would be able to bury her once and for all. But seeing the cottage again had the opposite effect. Not only did she refuse to go away, she also wanted you to know she was back. Then she found the letter, where you asked her to marry you, and the ring. And the fight for you began.
It’s time for me to go now. I don’t know how all this is going to end, if you’ll find me, if you’ll bring me back. But in case you don’t, there’s one thing I want you to know. I always loved you, Finn.
We both did.
EPILOGUE
Finn
I did bring Layla back. I brought her back to St Mary’s, to be buried in the little churchyard there. I was handcuffed to a police officer at the time but at least I was present, thanks to Harry, who once again pulled strings for me. He wanted to try and get me off the manslaughter charge but I wouldn’t let him. Anyway, the bruises were there on Layla’s shoulders, proof that I had gripped her, shaken her, pushed her.
I’m kept alone in a cell, on suicide watch, with plenty of time to dwell on what might have been, if only I’d understood. I deserve my life of solitude. I shun all visits, from Harry, from Ruby, from Tony. My only comfort is knowing that Peggy is loved and cared for at The Jackdaw.
I used to think it was the not knowing which was the worst; not knowing what had happened to Layla, not knowing where she was, if she was alive or dead. But the knowing is so much worse; knowing how much she must have suffered, knowing that I failed her, knowing that in the end, I killed her. Yet there’s one thing that plagues me above all else, and it’s this: if I had truly loved Layla, surely I would have known her anywhere.
It seems that the more books I write, the more people there are to thank. As always, at the top of my list are the hugely talented Camilla Wray and Sally Williamson, my agent and editor respectively. Without their enthusiasm, encouragement, and endless patience, I wouldn’t be living my dream of becoming an author. I’ll never be able to thank them enough. They really are the best. Grateful thanks also to the amazing Lisa Milton and Kate Mills.
I’m indebted to the rest of the teams at Darley Anderson and HQ, who work tirelessly to ensure that my books reach the widest possible audience, both in the UK and abroad. I’m only sorry that I can’t name each of you in person, because the list would be too long. But you know who you are!
It has been a pleasure this year to meet some of my editors in other countries, and to have participated in book festivals around the globe. Thank you not only for inviting me, but also for making my time with you so enjoyable. Special thanks to my publishers in the US, St Martin’s Press, notably Sally Richardson, Jennifer Weis and Liza Senz, and to Bertrand Pirel and Marie Dêcreme from Hugo et Cie, my publishers in France.
Huge thanks to the unsung heroes of the book industry - the bloggers and readers, retailers and librarians, whose support is so vital. Thank you for buying my books, for reading them, for recommending them, for your reviews. I couldn’t do it without you.
Thank you to my fellow authors, many of whom I’ve been able to meet this year, and who have become such wonderful friends. It’s a real pleasure to be able to talk all things book-related over lunch or tea! And to my friends outside the book-world, both in the UK and in France, for always being interested and supportive.
I owe special thanks to Nina Phipps, from the isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, who kindly suggested the Pentland Road as a possible location for the house where Layla grew up. Also to Dominique Oddon, who shared her expertise in Psychology to give me insight into personality disorders.
Last but not least, I’m indebted to my family. First of all, to my truly lovely daughters, Sophie, Chloe, Celine, Eloise and Margaux for being my first readers, and for letting me talk ad nauseum about my books. To Calum, for his unfailing support and for still making me laugh every day, no mean feat after thirty-five years of marriage! To my parents, for still being here, at 94 and 87 years old, to read another of my books – keep eating that porridge, Dad! To Christine, the best sister in the world, and my best friend. To my brothers Kevin, Francis, Philip and Dominic, for always asking about my writing, with a special mention to Francis for giving me that best and most satisfying thing in the world – the last laugh. Thanks, Frank!
Read on for an extract from the million-copy bestseller
Behind Closed Doors
Sometimes the perfect marriage is the perfect lie.
PRESENT
The champagne bottle knocks against the marble kitchen counter, making me jump. I glance at Jack, hoping he won’t have noticed how nervous I am. He catches me looking and smiles.
‘Perfect,’ he says softly.
Taking my hand, he leads me to where our guests are waiting. As we go through the hall, I see the flowering lily Diane and Adam brought us for our garden. It’s such a beautiful pink that I hope Jack will plant it where I’ll be able to see it from the bedroom window. Just thinking of the garden makes tears well up from deep inside me and I swallow them down quickly. With so much at stake tonight, I need to concentrate on the here and now.
In the sitting room, a fire burns steadily in the antique grate. We’re well into March but there’s still a nip in the air and Jack likes our guests to be as comfortable as possible.
‘Your house is really something, Jack,’ Rufus says admiringly.‘Don’t you think so, Esther?’
I don’t know Rufus or Esther. They are new to the area and tonight is the first time we’ve met, which makes me feel more nervous than I already am. But I can’t afford to let Jack down, so I fix a smile on my face, praying that they’ll like me. Esther doesn’t smile back, so I guess she’s reserving judgement. But I can’t blame her. Since joining our circle of friends a month ago, I’m sure she’s been told over and over again that Grace Angel, wife of brilliant lawyer Jack Angel, is a perfect example of a woman who has it all – the perfect house, the perfect husband, the perfect life. If I were Esther, I’d be wary of me too.
My eyes fall on the box of expensive chocolates she has just taken out of her bag and I feel a flicker of excitement. Not wanting her to give them to Jack, I move smoothly towards her and she instinctively holds them out to me.
‘Thank you, they look wonderful,’ I say gratefully, placing them on the coffee table so that I can open them later, when we serve coffee.
Esther intrigues me. She’s the complete opposite of Diane – tall, blonde, slim, reserved – and I can’t help respecting her for being the first person to step into our house and not go on about how beautiful it is. Jack insisted on choosing the house himself, telling me it was to be my wedding present, so I saw it for the first time when we came back from our honeymoon. Even though he’d told me it was perfect for us I didn’t fully realise what he meant until I saw it. Set in large grounds at the far end of the village, it gives Jack the privacy he craves, as well as the privilege of owning the most beautiful house in Spring Eaton. And the most secure. There is a complicated alarm system, with steel shutters to protect the windows on the ground floor. It must seem strange that these are often kept shut during the day, but as Jack tells anyone who asks, with a job like his, good security is one of his priorities.
We have a lot of paintings on the walls of our sitting room but people are usually drawn towards the large red canvas that hangs above the fireplace. Diane and Adam, who have already seen it, can’t help going over to have another look, and Rufus joins them, while Esther sits down on one of the cream leather sofas.
‘It’s amazing,’ Rufus says, looking in fascination at the hundreds of tiny markings that make up most of the painting.
‘It’s called Fireflies,’ Jack offers, untwisting the wire from the bottle of champagne.
‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’
‘Grace painted it,’ Diane tells him. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘You should see Grace’s other paintings.’ Jack eases the cork from the bottle with only the slightest of sounds. ‘They really are quite something.’
Rufus looks around the room with interest.‘Are they here?’
‘No, I’m afraid they’re hanging elsewhere in the house.’
‘For Jack’s eyes only,’ Adam jokes.
‘And Grace’s. Isn’t that right, darling?’ Jack says, smiling over at me.‘For our eyes only.’
‘Yes, they are,’ I agree, turning my head away.
We join Esther on the sofa and Diane exclaims in pleasure as Jack pours the champagne into tall glasses. She looks across at me.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ she asks.‘Grace couldn’t make lunch with me yesterday because she was ill,’ she explains, turning to Esther.
‘It was only a migraine,’ I protest.
‘Unfortunately, Grace is prone to them.’ Jack looks over at me sympathetically. ‘But they never last long, thank goodness.’
‘It’s the second time you’ve stood me up,’ Diane points out.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise.
‘Well, at least you didn’t just forget this time,’ she teases.‘Why don’t we meet up next Friday to make up for it? Would you be free, Grace? No dental appointments for you to suddenly remember at the last minute?’
‘No, and no migraines either, I hope.’
Diane turns to Esther. ‘Would you like to join us? It would have to be at a restaurant in town because I work.’
‘Thank you, I’d like that.’ She glances over at me, maybe to check that I don’t mind her coming along and, as I smile back at her, I feel horribly guilty, because I already know I won’t be going.
Calling everyone to attention, Jack offers a toast to E
sther and Rufus, welcoming them to the area. I raise my glass and take a sip of champagne. The bubbles dance in my mouth and I feel a sudden flash of happiness, which I try to hang on to. But it disappears as quickly as it came.
I look over to where Jack is talking animatedly to Rufus. He and Adam met Rufus at the golf club a couple of weeks ago and invited him to join them in a game. On finding Rufus to be an excellent golfer, but not quite excellent enough to beat him, Jack invited him and Esther around for dinner. Watching them together, it’s obvious that Jack is out to impress Rufus, which means it’s important I win Esther round. But it won’t be easy; whereas Diane is simply admiring, Esther seems more complicated.
Excusing myself, I go through to the kitchen to fetch the canapés I made earlier, and to put the last touches to the dinner. Etiquette – Jack is pedantic about it – means I can’t be gone for long, so I quickly whisk the egg whites that are waiting in a bowl into peaks, and add them to the soufflé base I made earlier.
As I spoon the mixture into individual dishes, I glance nervously at the clock, then put the dishes into a bainmarie and place it in the oven, noting the exact time. I feel a momentary wave of panic that I might not be able to pull everything off, but reminding myself that fear is my enemy, I try to remain calm and return to the sitting room with the tray of canapés. I pass them around, accepting everybody’s compliments gratefully, because Jack will have heard them too. Sure enough, with a kiss to the top of my head, he agrees with Diane that I am indeed a superb cook, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
Determined to make some headway with Esther, I sit down next to her. Seeing this, Jack relieves me of the canapés.
‘You deserve a rest, darling, after all the hard work you’ve done today,’ he says, balancing the tray on his long elegant fingers.
‘It wasn’t hard work at all,’ I protest, which is a lie, and Jack knows it, because he chose the menu.