Liars: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Frances Vick

‘Well, yes. He’s not a bad person, David, he really isn’t. He just gets carried away, and he can be a bit over the top, but his heart’s in the right place.’

  David shook his head. ‘No, I think you’re giving him too much credit. He comes to my house, pumps my mother for information, upsets her… upsets you, tells you lies about me. No. He’s not someone I trust—’ His voice was rising, loud enough to attract the attention of the waiter, who started their way, his face fixed in equine dismay.

  ‘David, calm down. Please.’ She glanced at the waiter, shook her head, watched him back away. ‘I really don’t think he pumped Catherine for information, I think she just mentioned Hazlewood, that’s all, and he remembered the name and—’

  But David didn’t calm down. ‘And tried his best to split us up by telling you I’m mad. That’s what he did, didn’t he? He doesn’t want you to be happy if he isn’t, so he’s sabotaging us; it’s as simple as that. Why would I want to know someone like that? Why would you?’

  ‘He did handle this very badly,’ Jenny admitted. ‘I told him that, and he seemed to take it to heart. I’ll explain—’

  David put one hand up. ‘No. I don’t feel like… exposing my past to him or anyone. Apart from you. I’m not talking about him any more.’ He looked at Jenny with something like challenge.

  ‘All right, but we’ll have to talk about him sometime—’

  ‘No. No we don’t.’ David’s voice was childish again, peevish. ‘Anyway, our table must be ready.’ He waved at the waiter, stood up, and soon they were sitting at a too-large round table, beneath another gory Caravaggio. ‘I used to come here with my parents, years ago. It’s special. That’s why I wanted to bring you here.’

  Jenny looked around at the painting hanging above, the heavy wood panelling, the deep pile carpet over which the waiter’s footsteps whispered. ‘Not a very family-friendly place. Very formal.’

  ‘My father liked it. He liked the steak. He always ordered the steak,’ David said evasively. His eyes were far away.

  Jenny looked at him, considered bringing the conversation back to Freddie, but the thought of doing that was too enervating. When David was like this, it was best to just back away. ‘What did you eat? When you came here with your parents?’ she asked.

  David thought for a while. ‘D’you know, I don’t remember eating anything. Funny.’ There was a pause. ‘All I remember is the ice cream. They used to make this wonderful chocolate sundae. I was very rarely allowed one though.’

  Jenny picked up her glass. ‘OK, this is what’s happening then: we’ll have steak in honour of your dad, and chocolate sundaes for dessert. And we won’t talk about Freddie, or Ryan, or anything… anxiety-inducing. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ He smiled at her.

  ‘So now we have to clink glasses. That’s the charm.’ She held out her glass.

  ‘Will you promise me that you won’t call him? I don’t want to feel like this again anytime soon, and all he seems to do is upset you.’ He held his glass up too. ‘Can we have a break from Freddie altogether, at least for a few weeks? That’s all I’m asking.’ He looked at her; a supplicant before an angel. ‘In a while I’ll get over it, but at the moment my feelings are so hurt…’

  Jenny nodded. David smiled thankfully.

  They looked into each other’s’ eyes. Clink clink.

  27

  Freddie and Jenny didn’t see or speak to each other for three long weeks. Freddie had already noticed that she’d stopped posting on the blog, but her social media – relatively dormant for the last year or so – had suddenly come to life with artfully filtered photographs. One, of a smiling Jenny and David underneath a cherry tree, was captioned: ‘Spring has sprung!’

  A saccharine cliché like ‘Spring has sprung’? Really? Freddie shuddered. And the posts only got blander: ‘Homemade gnocchi! Yum #spoiledgirl’. A photo of Claudine stretched out on a rug that Freddie recognised as the one he’d almost ruined with wine was captioned ‘#Happy Kitty + Happy me = awesome’.

  Jesus.

  Normally, when he saw something truly nauseating like this, he’d immediately share it with Jenny, in full knowledge that she’d also hate it, and probably hate it more. Now, all the caustically funny responses had built up in him as usual, but he had no one to share his hatred with: Jenny was the origin of this kitschy horror.

  He understood, finally, that annoyingly precious euphemism ‘My Other Half’. He felt as if he’d lost a huge part of himself. He was like an amputee, still feeling the itches and aches of their missing limb, trying and failing to work with something that was no longer there.

  When they eventually met, accidentally, just outside Freddie’s office, he almost didn’t recognise her. Jenny was wearing an unfamiliar silk striped shirt paired with slim black trousers, and her hair fell in silky, precisely managed waves. They stopped in the middle of the street, buffeted by passers-by, and both were hesitant, shy. She said she’d just left work. Tax Office, Andreena’s department.

  ‘And how’s Dree?’

  ‘Good.’

  There was a pause. ‘You look lovely,’ he told her.

  ‘Do I?’ She pinkened. ‘I just got this top. David bought it.’

  Another pause. ‘It’s lovely. So. How’s David then?’

  ‘He’s good. Yeah.’

  The town hall clock struck five. Freddie thought, if this was a sitcom, we’d both start speaking at the same time, and then apologise, and then start speaking at the same time again.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘This is like a rom-com, isn’t it? We should talk over each other, saying the same thing.’

  And Freddie laughed. ‘Yeah, and then we’d go for drinks and there’d be a montage. What would the music be?’

  She thought for a minute. ‘Van Morrison. “Brown Eyed Girl”,’ she said decisively.

  ‘Now, you see, I was thinking something more Motown-y, Diana Ross-ish.’

  ‘What’s that Michael Jackson song about a rat?’

  ‘“Ben”. And I could take that as an insult.’ Freddie smiled.

  Jenny smiled back. ‘I’ve missed you, Fred.’

  ‘Me too.’ He felt tears in his throat. ‘It’s been awful.’

  She nodded at him seriously. ‘I thought you sort of hated me.’

  ‘Hated you? God, no! No. I’ve called and emailed so many times, though I thought you hated me. Then your number changed, and I couldn’t get hold of you. I even went to your old flat—’

  ‘Oh God, what did Matt have to say about me?’ She shook her head. ‘I left halfway through the lease, you know. David went to collect my things and he said Matt was nuts. Spitting mad.’

  Freddie remembered Matt’s decidedly un-nuts manner when he’d turned up on his doorstep last week. Rushed, slightly pissed off about being left in the lurch, but not weird in any way. Could this be another one of David’s little lies?

  ‘Anyway, Fred, let’s go and get a drink? What’s that old-man pub that used to do karaoke? The one by the canal? Let’s go there, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Freddie’s smile was wide, foolish. ‘OK!’

  The Narrowboat, previously catering to stoic all-day drinkers and the mentally ill, had, in recent months and with touching hope, rebranded itself as a gay bar – all infused gins and ironically chosen adverts from the 1970s. A few hardened alcoholics remained, resolutely standing in the place where their favourite tables used to be, a shaky, odorous stand against progress. There was no karaoke any more, but there was a jukebox that pumped out 80s and 90s hits with a leaning towards power ballads. Freddie and Jenny sat in a corner booth, ate chips, drank weak cocktails and gradually became used to each other again. By the third drink, and the second playing of Heart’s ‘Alone’, though, Jenny still hadn’t explained about Matt, and he was ready to ask questions.

  ‘OK, Matt told me you’d moved out, left him with unpaid bills. What happened there?’

  Jenny swirled her straw in the gin-y ice. ‘Well, you remember that he
was going into my room?’

  ‘I remember you thinking he was going in your room, yes. Did you catch him at it?’

  ‘I didn’t, David did. He saw him coming out of my room holding my underwear – can you believe it? So David had it out with him, and Matt couldn’t really deny it, could he? So David packed my things up and took them to his house. I’m staying there until I sort myself out.’ She shook her head. ‘It sounds funny now, but at the time it was awful. Just the thought of him going through my stuff and everything being all leery and—’ She shuddered. ‘David made me change my number so he couldn’t contact me again. It was sort of horrible.’

  David made her change her number? ‘Oh,’ Freddie answered carefully. ‘So your number changed?’

  She nodded. ‘So yes, if you’ve been trying to call and couldn’t get through, that’s why. Sorry.’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘I only got the new number a bit ago, and, you know, all my contacts aren’t in my new phone, and – look, I’ll call you now, so you have my new number.’

  She could have emailed. She could have come round to his flat. She could have— Stop it. Stop it Fred. She’s here, safe and happy, and you’re having a drink and a gossip like old times. Don’t ruin it. Don’t scare her off.

  ‘It’s OK. You’re super-busy.’ He took a sip of gin. ‘And You Can’t Go Home Again? No new posts for a while?’

  ‘I’m still writing posts, but I’m not posting them. You’re right, I’m too busy. Work, college, same old same old. Travelling in from the village takes a while – David drives me most days, but if he can’t I take the train and that adds ages onto the journey. And Catherine needs a lot of attention, of course.’

  David brings her in. Of course he does. ‘So Catherine? How is she?’

  ‘Not great. In fact, today David had to take her to the hospital; she had a fall. He normally picks me up from work, so today I was supposed to get a taxi straight to the station, but I went rogue and did some shopping instead. I better call him actually, let him know where I am. I’ll just pop outside.’

  Why outside? Why not here? Freddie hesitated, almost said something, but didn’t.

  When she came back, she was shivering and her hair was dusted with fine rain. ‘Freezing out there.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Well I had to leave a message. He’s probably still at the hospital, or driving, or–’ she frowned. ‘I’ll text him too. If I’m not there when he gets home he’ll worry—’

  ‘Jenny.’ Freddie’s voice faltered. ‘If you’re going to… get into trouble… for staying out with me… I don’t want to cause any—’

  Jenny put up one hand. ‘No. You know what, it’s time we all put this behind us. All the stuff that happened between you and me, we should just get over it.’

  Freddie nodded dumbly. ‘But I know that David probably doesn’t like me, especially after—’

  She put up a hand again. Her nails, he noticed, were long, glossy, manicured. As long as he’d known her, she’d never been able to stop biting her fingernails. Now they were so perfect that they had to be fake. ‘Here’s the thing. I’m David’s first serious relationship.’ She frowned. ‘I’m his… first, full stop. You understand?’

  ‘What? He was a virgin—’

  She nodded. ‘Don’t, for God’s sake, tell him I told you that, OK?’

  A foolish smile eked its way over Freddie’s face. ‘Wow. Really? That explains quite a lot actually.’

  She nodded. ‘He was in hospital at the time most of us start the boyfriend/girlfriend thing and his home life, Fred, it was... bad. Really bad.’

  ‘So he was in a mental – sorry, psychiatric place! How? I mean why? What happened?’

  Jenny frowned at her manicure. ‘I can’t really go into that. It’s not fair to David, but’ – she raised her eyebrows and gave a grim smile – ‘let’s just say we have a lot in common, me and David. And in many ways he had it worse than me.’

  ‘But why didn’t he tell you? Why make up that lie about the stroke?’

  ‘He panicked,’ Jenny told him. ‘He was embarrassed and scared and he didn’t want to lose me. You can understand that, right? So he told a lie, and, because he’s not very good at lying, you saw through him and assumed the worst.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’ Freddie was eager with gin. ‘You never researched the Hazlewood thing, you never had any idea?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not great at lying either, so I can’t tell when people are lying to me. Not lying, but you know, hiding the truth a bit.’

  Freddie let the air out of his lungs through pursed lips. ‘So, is he OK now?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine! He’s just… slow to trust. He’s insecure. So, I… represent a lot to him. I’m on a bit of a pedestal, and when he met you, he felt jealous.’

  ‘He knows I’m gay though?’

  She rolled her eyes at him. ‘He’s inexperienced. He’s not brain damaged. Anyway, all this time I’ve gone with it. He wants to make a fuss of me, he wants me all to himself and I can understand that.’ She stared into the gloom of the bar. ‘But, yesterday, I had a long conversation with him. I sat him down and I told him that if he loves me as much as he says he does, he has to give you another chance.’

  ‘You said that?’ Freddie almost felt tears. She nodded. ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He agreed with me. That’s the thing about David, he really does want to… get better at stuff.’

  ‘“Get better at stuff”? Sex stuff or friendship stuff, or—’

  ‘Stuff,’ she said tightly. ‘Let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘So…’ Freddie, touched, a bit overwhelmed, reached, as he always did in times of confusion, for facetiousness. ‘Could this be the start of a beautiful friendship?’

  Jenny’s face relaxed a little. ‘“A man is known by the company he keeps”.’ She nodded sagely.

  ‘“Out of sight, out of mind”?’

  ‘Ah, but “absence makes the heart grow fonder”,’ Jenny replied.

  Freddie paused, then countered with: ‘“It’s an ill wind that blows no one any good”.’

  She winced at that. ‘That many double negatives hurt my brain. Can’t follow it. Gin might help?’

  ‘“A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse”,’ Freddie said, and went to the bar.

  The cute barman smiled. ‘Having a nice evening?’

  Freddie smiled back. ‘I am. Old friend. Sister from another mister.’

  ‘Double up the gins for an extra £1?’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘“A fish rots from the head down”!’ Jenny called over.

  ‘It’s a game we play,’ Freddie explained to the bemused barman. ‘Idiotic Idioms.’

  The barman opened the little tonic bottles with a flourish. ‘You Can Lead A Whore To Culture—’

  ‘But You Can’t Make Her Think!’ Freddie finished.

  The barman winked.

  Freddie made his way back to the table, ‘OK. I’ve potentially pulled, and we’re on the doubles.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘Jesus, that’s strong. That’s more like triples. We’re going to need food.’ She was texting furiously. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘What? Oh yes. Yes. Just…’

  Freddie’s ginny bonhomie lessened, just slightly. ‘David OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said it decisively, if not completely convincingly. ‘Oh, here, I need to show you something.’ She dug into one of her bags. ‘This shirt? Isn’t it lovely?’

  Freddie wasn’t good at fashion. It was one of the things he and Jenny had always had in common – an absolute indifference to designer clothes. When she handed him a plain black shirt, he handled it gingerly, with the awkward bemusement of a grandfather with a newborn. He didn’t know what to say, ‘It’s, yeah, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Stella McCartney: £500.’

  He still didn’t know what reaction she wanted, so he went for shock. ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘I know, right?’ She nodded brightly.
‘Gorgeous though, isn’t it?’

  Freddie looked at it. It was just a shirt. ‘It’s lovely. Yeah. I mean, I’d have to see it on…’ He handed it back, and she folded it up with fond glee and placed it reverently back in the bag. £500? Washed back into nervousness, he lurched towards a safer topic. ‘So how’s the job?’

  ‘Today was my last day. That’s why I treated myself.’

  ‘What? Oh, did the contract end, or…’

  ‘Nope. I quit.’ She nodded, gin-proud and pert.

  ‘What? Why?’ How could she afford £500 shirts with no job? How could she afford £500 shirts at all, come to think of it?

  ‘I walked into the office this morning and I looked around and just thought “Nope”. I mean, it was really nice of Andreena to basically get me the job and all, but £9 an hour, data entry. It’s not a dream come true, you know?’ She frowned and stabbed at her ice again. ‘And so I called David just to sort of talk it over, and he said that he knew it’d be like that, but he let me take the job anyway—’

  ‘He “let you”?’ Freddie couldn’t stop himself this time.

  ‘He didn’t say it like that. I can’t remember how he said it, but it was useful.’ She turned one hand over and met his eyes. ‘He said that he always knew I’d see my own worth, not sell myself short any more. It’s the counselling that’s really my passion. I should stop letting things get in the way of that.’ She slurped up the last of her ice.

  ‘OK, but what’ll you do for money in the meantime? Are you going to be a kept woman?’ He tried to make his voice light, non-judgemental.

  ‘No! No. I’m just going to help him look after Catherine.’

  ‘What? He’s going to pay you to look after his mother?’ A bit of ice went down the wrong way and he found himself sputtering untidily.

  She handed him a napkin. ‘Well he’s not paying me. That’d be weird. No, he suggested that, because I have caring experience, and Catherine trusts me, I could help him out. It makes total sense. I’ll have loads more time to finish my dissertation, I’ll qualify quicker and be able to set up on my own in a year or so. I’ll use one of the rooms in the house as an office.’ Jenny was sitting upright and pert, ginny eyes bright, and proud little smile forming on her face, just waiting to be congratulated.