A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  Dora shook her head. ‘I’m not sure that I do. It all happened a very long time ago now, it’s done, over. I’m not that person any more.’ She glanced at him, and realised she had been unnecessarily abrupt.

  Jon strode towards the pub doorway, fingers still in a weave with hers.

  ‘Okay. You’re the writer – tell me a story.’ He sounded slightly drunk and Dora was suddenly convinced that he really had been waiting all those years to kiss her.

  Mac’s was a pseudo-traditional pub with a wealth of dark stained oak, green leather and brass studs. A small gaggle of older customers stood talking around the bar, while in one corner a juke box quietly reeled off middle-of-the-road standards. At least they could hear themselves speak.

  Jon found a table in a secluded alcove and went to get a drink. Dora ordered martini and lemonade, while Jon returned cradling what looked suspiciously like a glass of orange juice. He grinned and drank their good health.

  ‘Driving,’ he said, in answer to her unspoken question as they clinked glasses. ‘Now tell me.’

  Dora focused on the ceiling. ‘I’m not sure how scintillating this will turn out to be. Remember, you’ve only got yourself to blame if you’re bored senseless.’ She took a deep breath, feeling hot and painfully self-conscious.

  ‘Teenage girl is whisked into matrimony by an older, more sophisticated man. Once she’s married to him, it turns out he’s mean, foolish, insecure, overbearing, and assumes his child bride won’t notice. Which of course she doesn’t, not to begin with anyway. They have a daughter. By the time the wife wakes up it seems there’s no way out. She writes and that lets out all the tight bitter little feelings inside. Writing helps her to feel in control and make sense of life. She waits for years, bides her time.’

  Dora stopped and took a long hard pull on her drink, afraid to look at Jon but not quite sure why. ‘Are you sure you really want me to go on?’

  Jon nodded. ‘We’re bypassing the social niceties for this –’

  Dora grinned. ‘Okay. The little wife gets three romances published and suddenly she’s earning money, feeling better about herself. She’s grown up without her husband noticing and discovering the world outside is full of bright shiny possibilities. His words are no longer hewn from the living rock and he doesn’t like it. He’s afraid that once she’s had a bite of a few more cherries she’ll get bored and leave him. He starts making demands, after all she loves him, she should do what he asks. He hopes if he claws her back, shuts her back up inside his life, that everything will be the same as it was between them and she’ll forget what she’s seen outside. He doesn’t understand that by caging her up she’s more likely to think about escaping, not less.’

  Dora stopped and glanced across at Jon. ‘Am I boring you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, not at all, what does our heroine do next?’

  Dora swirled the martini thoughtfully in the tumbler. ‘Well, he’s made redundant and starts to talk about the restaurant he’s always wanted. Of course, she won’t mind giving up her writers’ club and workshops, to concentrate on building up their new business. They’ll finally both be doing what they really want. Their future looms with terrifying clarity. All those little things in the past she has agreed to, all those soul-destroying compromises to keep the peace, come back to haunt her. Unless she leaves him she’ll end up baking buns and pasties for a living –’

  Jon leant forward, watching Dora’s face. ‘And so she leaves him?’

  Dora took a mouthful of martini and shook her head. ‘Not then. It takes a while to find the courage. One day they go for a walk and talk about emulsion. Only they both know it isn’t really about emulsion. If she agrees with him she’ll be giving up everything she’s worked for. They won’t reach a compromise. She leaves him, takes their daughter. He convinces himself she is seeing someone else. It’s far easier for him to understand that, he can’t quite believe that she has left him just because she’s had enough.’ Dora stopped, hearing her voice crackle unevenly with emotion. ‘And I think that’s about it,’ she said unsteadily. ‘It’s all much tidier with hindsight, at the time I couldn’t tell black from white or up from down’.

  ‘So that’s the story,’ Dora said, sinking the rest of her drink in a single gulp. ‘A bit melodramatic for the current market.’

  ‘You didn’t mention the dashing young police officer.’

  ‘My God, you really are an egotist, aren’t you?’ Dora laughed. ‘He was sub-plot, a tantalising possibility.’

  ‘But did she fancy him?’ Jon purred mischievously, sliding closer to her, eyes alight.

  Dora groaned, leaning against his shoulder. ‘She was besotted with him, but afraid that if she got involved she’d be cheating herself out of a bright new beginning.’

  ‘And now?’ His voice had dropped an octave, his dark eyes flashed invitingly.

  Dora stood her empty glass on the table. ‘He’s going to let me buy him an orange juice, and prepare himself for the fact that he may have to carry our heroine back to the car if she carries on drinking like this.’

  Jon got to his feet and headed back to the bar. ‘We’ll have this and then eat?’

  Dora nodded. She needed something to soak up the alcohol and the memories.

  The fried chicken restaurant down on King’s Street seemed busy for a weeknight; obviously it was the new place to be. Jon and Dora waited to be shown to their table, while around them a bow wave of customers cheerfully consumed huge quantities of chicken and salad.

  It smelt delicious, making Dora painfully aware that she had hardly eaten all day and the alcohol was trickling mischievously through her bloodstream. The dining area had a crisp, clean brightness about it, with cheerful red-and-white checked gingham tablecloths and blonde-wood panelled walls. The waiting staff were done up in matching gingham shirts and kerchiefs, all set off by denim dungarees.

  Dora leant back against the wall. ‘My God, we’ve walked onto the set for Oklahoma,’ she whispered in an undertone.

  To her surprise, Jon blushed. ‘Sorry about this. I got out of the habit of eating out. I didn’t know where to take you, one of the lads in the office recommended this place. By the look of it he must bring his kids here at weekends.’

  Before Dora could reply, a breezy blonde cowgirl with a broad Norfolk face came over, smiling cheerfully. ‘Evening, folks,’ she said, in a passable American accent. ‘If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you to your table.’

  When they were settled, the girl slapped a menu down in front of each of them and flounced off to round up the rest of the queue.

  The fried chicken was good.

  ‘Right,’ said Dora, between forkfuls of coleslaw. ‘What about you? Talk to me. Fair’s fair. I want to hear about you now.’

  Jon peeled delicate white chicken off the bone. ‘Nothing much to tell really.’

  Dora groaned. ‘Oh, come on, I told you all my edited highlights.’

  Jon played with his chicken thoughtfully. ‘I love my job and I loved my wife. I tried very hard to put a lot of energy and effort into both, but sometimes – to be fair – most of the time, the job won on points. I never could strike any sort of workable balance, and by the time I realised how bad things were between us it was just too late. Nita wanted me to be at home more, be there with her and the kids. I suppose I missed one sports day too many.’

  He cut a sliver of chicken breast into rough squares. ‘She was right. Hindsight is great stuff. I missed out on a lot of things when the kids were small. I was never there when she needed me. But, we just couldn’t get it back to how it was. Then she met Sam. He’s a really nice guy, very straight up and down. She says she knows where she is with Sam. Production manager, forty hours a week, no overtime and his wife left him because he was so dull.’ Jon snorted. ‘Funny things, people.’ A sharp persistent bleep cut through the air. ‘Oh, shit. Hang on, I’ve got to find a phone.’

  Jon slid out from the table, wiping his lips, and hurried over to the bl
onde cowgirl. Dora watched as the waitress directed him to the pay phone, and then set about consuming her chicken. She had a feeling that unless she ate it now she might not get a chance to eat it at all.

  When Jon reappeared a few seconds later he looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to nip back to the station.’

  Dora nodded, laying her knife and fork down. ‘Not a problem. Do you want to get a doggy bag for yours?’

  Jon shook his head and headed off to settle the bill. As he slid the notes over the cash desk, Dora wondered how she was going to get home.

  Jon hurried back to the table. ‘Look, this shouldn’t take too long. If you want to come with me I can get you a coffee or something, if you don’t mind hanging around?’

  Dora nodded. ‘That’s fine, but I could get a taxi home if you’d rather?’

  Jon held out his hand and closed his fingers around hers. ‘No. It really shouldn’t take very long.’ His expression suggested that he was wrestling with whether to say something or not.

  Dora tipped her head on one side in mute enquiry.

  ‘It’s Lillian Bliss,’ he said, in a monotone. ‘Her new flat has been broken into.’

  6

  ‘And now for the local news …’ In his study, Lawrence Rawlings sat back in his armchair, cradling the remote control in one hand and a brandy and soda in the other. The room was in shadow, only the TV giving any light, one-eyed and invasive.

  On screen, the reporter shuffled a sheath of papers. ‘Our main story this evening. Guy Phelps has been officially named as the new Conservative candidate for Fairbeach in Norfolk. Mr Phelps, described by political commentators as being just right of centre, was selected after the tragic and unexpected death of Conservative MP, Jack Rees.’

  Lawrence stifled a yawn, as the reporter continued, ‘Candidates from both the other main parties, Freda Haleworthy, Labour, and Tom Fielding, for the Liberal Democrats, will be in our Norwich studio tomorrow evening, in our main six o’clock programme. Local political pundits –’

  Lawrence sniffed and switched channels. He was already sick of the by-election campaign though it had barely begun. Shame Tom Fielding couldn’t be persuaded to change horses. His instinct was that Fielding’s enthusiasm and good humour would be ideal for Fairbeach. Certainly his unforced common touch lifted Tom Fielding head and shoulders above that little bastard Guy Phelps and that dreadful socialist woman, Haleworthy. Fielding had something of the old Jack Rees charisma about him. Lawrence allowed himself a narrow smile – a trait that might be a mixed blessing.

  There was some sort of adventure film on four. He stood the brandy balloon down on a side table and snapped on the lamp. The newspaper was around somewhere.

  Years before, Tom Fielding and Lawrence’s daughter, Sarah, had moved in the same social circles, though never as a couple to his knowledge. He paused; actually that would have been another ideal match. The thought surfaced unexpectedly and took him by surprise.

  He glanced at the photos on his desk – Sarah and the girls and that moron she was married to. Calvin Roberts, dressed in an expensive tweed suit, grinned sheepishly for the camera, plump fingers resting on his rotund belly. He looked like a well-buffed country squire, master of all he surveyed. Lawrence’s eyes narrowed.

  Lawrence Rawlings would not have chosen a bastard like Calvin Roberts as a son-in-law in any of the seven levels of hell, though he could well understand his daughter’s infatuation when she had first met him. Ten years older than Sarah, straight down from London, Calvin Roberts had appeared to represent something more sophisticated than Fairbeach usually had to offer.

  Sarah had met Calvin at a dinner party, while he was busy trying to make the right local connections. He’d got one decent suit, a car he couldn’t pay for and a good line in lip. He’d taken Sarah out a few times, and then she’d told Lawrence she was pregnant. There was no chance of a discreet trip to Harley Street, Sarah wouldn’t have agreed to that. No, it was straight down the aisle in a specially tailored wedding dress, two weeks in the Seychelles and a lot of carefully engineered surprise when their firstborn arrived a month or two early.

  Lawrence wished with all his heart it hadn’t been that way. He sniffed. Sadly, Calvin Roberts had had other ideas. Lawrence glanced around the elegant room wondering where he’d left the damned paper.

  From an oil painting above the fireplace, Lawrence’s father looked down with measured disinterest. Like most of God’s finer creatures, the Rawlings were not great breeders. On the whole, they produced their offspring late in life and sparingly, if at all. Frail in childhood, robust in old age seemed to be a Rawlings family motto.

  Lawrence’s own baby brother had died of some respiratory complaint before he was out of infancy. Sarah’s mother had had to endure months of bed rest before Sarah’s arrival. Sarah had had a terrible time carrying the girls – and, of course, she had been the last of the Fairbeach Rawlings.

  He did have his granddaughters, angelic little creatures, Imogen and Morwenna. Both, thank God, favoured their mother, but they were Roberts not Rawlings. Lawrence often wondered, as he watched them play, what genetic bear traps lurked beneath the faces that reminded him so poignantly of their mother.

  Lawrence refilled his brandy balloon.

  He wouldn’t see Sarah hurt for all the world. A tight little fist formed in his belly. Calvin Roberts’ grinning face seemed to be a personal insult. Lawrence settled himself behind his desk, picked up the phone and banged in a local number.

  ‘What have you got on the Bliss girl?’ he said flatly to the man at the far end of the line.

  There was a heavy pause. ‘Not enough yet, gov,’ was the infuriating reply. ‘And something else. I know it sounds bloody daft, but I think I’m being watched. Have you got someone else on the job, as well?’

  ‘Is that some sort of joke?’ snapped Lawrence.

  The man coughed. ‘I know, it sounds paranoid, but two or three times when I’ve been out and about, I’m sure there’s been someone else there as well.’

  Lawrence sniffed. Across the desk Calvin Roberts was still grinning.

  ‘Get a grip, man,’ Lawrence snapped and hung up.

  Keelside police station was quiet, though it seemed that every light in the building was on. Jon Melrose opened the door to his office, where Neil Rhodes, his detective sergeant, was hunched over the desk, cradling the phone on his shoulder. As Jon came in, Rhodes looked up in apology.

  Jon snorted. ‘My night off?’

  Rhodes held up his hands in surrender. ‘I thought you’d like to know about this, sir.’ He handed Jon a slim manila folder. ‘Same MO as before. So far it looks like nothing was taken, plenty of mess though, same graffiti. The show flat was trashed at the same time, but none of the other residents heard or saw anything suspicious. Whoever’s doing this doesn’t fit your usual vandal profile – no messy entry, no noise, no witnesses. And no-one knows where this Lillian Bliss woman is. I’ve just been on the phone to her agent, trying to track her down.’

  Jon looked up at Rhodes with renewed interest. ‘And?’

  Rhodes glanced at the pad on the desk. ‘Nothing. Her agent, Calvin Roberts, said she had no bookings for appearances tonight. Says she might have gone home to her old flat – he’s going to ring back with the address if he can find it, or he suggested perhaps she might be out with friends.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Outside, Dora Hall was sitting in the little waiting area.

  ‘That your date?’ asked Rhodes, glancing in her direction.

  Jon nodded as he skimmed through the incident report; no more than bare bones, it told him nothing that Rhodes hadn’t already said.

  Rhodes pointed his pencil towards the corridor. Behind the glass Dora was studying a poster on the wall. ‘Is she the one that writes those books?’

  ‘She is.’

  Rhodes grinned. ‘Using you for research is she, sir?’

  Jon snorted, throwing the folder back onto the desk. ‘Chan
ce would be a fine thing. Half a chicken dinner and you page me, not really the stuff of great romance, is it, Rhodes? So what else did Mr Roberts have to say for himself?’

  ‘I got the impression he thought it was odd that Miss Bliss wasn’t at home. He got very short with me when I suggested she might be out on a date, and he sounded a bit ruffled about what we might find at her new apartment, said he could meet us down there if we wanted. I told him there was no need, our scene of the crime boys were already on their way.’

  Outside in the corridor, Dora Hall was idling through a magazine. Jon knew she couldn’t see him through the obscure striped glass. At a distance she looked deceptively small, dark brown hair cut into an unruly bob framing her oval face. Here and there the odd pure white hair twinkled under the unforgiving strip light.

  She was as slim as when they’d first met. Her diminutive appearance was at odds with her personality. For a second he wondered what it would be like waking up next to her. The thought surprised him. As if sensing what was on his mind, she looked up.

  At the desk, Rhodes shuffled a sheaf of papers, breaking Jon’s chain of thought.

  ‘And that, as they say, is about it, gov. I’ve asked the scene of crime mob to call us if they turn up anything interesting, and told them you’ll be dropping in. Looks as if your hunch that there’s a link between these breakins is spot on.’ He pulled a photocopied sheet out of his in tray. ‘And your friend Mrs Hall’s right, Calvin Roberts did report his filofax was missing.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Right. Now all I’ve got to do is convince the superintendent.’

  Rhodes grinned. ‘Want me to write you a note?’

  On the drive back to Fairbeach, Dora tried hard to settle down. She wished she knew Jon well enough for them to feel comfortable with each other. As it was, she felt as if she was on approval, slightly ill at ease, still with a prickle of tension in her stomach.

  Jon pulled out into the flow of late-evening traffic.

  ‘I’m really sorry about tonight.’

  ‘It’s all right, can’t be helped, I don’t mind.’ Dora hesitated. ‘Well, not much, anyway. I’m not very au fait with how dinner dates are supposed to go these days.’