An excited, happy shriek from the garden jolts her back to the present. It’s a relief that Evie and Dale are on easy terms after a cagey start. Not that Evie has spoken against Dale (she is far too timid for that), but Susanne has seen Evie’s crushed expression whenever Dale insists on banging on about their past antics at school. Stories often wildly embellished and which make the pair of them sound like extras from a St. Trinian’s film.
And then there’s the Harry Factor. Susanne had expected a naïve boy, but instead she’d been confronted with an urbane, attractive man, mature for his years, as well as clever, well-mannered and accommodating. After all, he’d been there first, had expected to be alone all summer, and to come and go as the mood took him. Then, bam! Three older women rock up to cramp his style. Under the circumstances, it is a mark of his considerable maturity that he hasn’t spent the last week sulking. Instead Harry seems relaxed in the women’s company, choosing to sunbathe poolside with them during the daytime, sporadically putting down his paperback or removing his headphones and joining in their conversation. And on the nights when Harry stays in rather than seeking the company of his mysterious friends (as Susanne thinks of them), he is content to drink wine in the kitchen, and even to help with dinner preparations which the women share equally.
To everyone’s delight, they’ve discovered a rustic pizzeria nearby. Gino, the owner, is happy for them to order a nominal amount of food and copious amounts of wine. They’d spent a giggly evening getting drunk on Frascati and limoncello shots, before Harry had driven them home, having consumed only a beer. And yet, for all his acts of chivalry and friendship, something about him disconcerts Susanne.
It doesn’t help that Harry creeps into her dreams; dreams so real that she wakes up confused as to whether the events have actually taken place or not. In one – on the night of the pizzeria visit – Susanne had woken with a start, slick with sweat, confused and dehydrated, to find Harry at the foot of her bed. Then he’d gone to the window, pulled back the drapes and whispered, ‘Come skinny-dipping with me, the water is perfect.’
In the morning, she’d been woken much too early by sunshine falling across her face. Surely she’d closed the curtains, even in her drunken state? Then in a fuzzy, surreal gush, the vision had come back to her, leaving her rattled for most of the day.
Even before the dream, Dale had called her out, asked her if she fancied Harry – and in front of Evie, too. Susanne had denied it of course, and told Dale not to be so bloody silly, claiming that any feelings she had for Harry were strictly maternal, given that her own son was only nine years younger.
A soft knock at the door interrupts Susanne’s thoughts.
‘Just a minute,’ she calls.
She is surprised to see Harry, dressed in an open shirt, ripped blue jeans and flip-flops.
‘Hi. I thought you were Dale.’ Her voice catches and she clears her throat. ‘Everything okay? Sounds like you’re having fun in the garden.’ Susanne attempts a smile, but it feels stiff and mask-like.
‘We’d have a better time if you joined us. Susanne, are you all right? You seem a bit sad today. What can I do to help?’ Harry’s voice is soft and low.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine. I’m missing my son – he’s not brilliant at keeping in touch. Anyway, I’ve just heard from his dad, and they’re having a great time, so panic over,’ Susanne says with a nervous, wobbly-headed laugh.
‘I’m sorry. It must be a wrench, being away from someone you love so much. If I were Cody, I wouldn’t want to leave you for a moment.’ Harry’s voice is a whisper. He takes a step towards her and is so close now that Susanne can see the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, smell his green, woody fragrance. She feels her heartbeat quicken as their eyes lock; any closer and Harry’s face will brush hers…
‘Hello-oo?’ Dale’s voice. ‘Oh, has the party moved in here?’ Her tone is suspicious.
‘Hi! No, I’m on my way. Thank goodness Harry came looking for me, I’d fallen asleep,’ Susanne lies, wondering if Dale can tell how flustered she is.
Dale hesitates, opens her mouth to speak, then wordlessly turns on her heel and stalks off down the corridor.
Harry smiles but without warmth; a strange, wonky grin that Susanne has never seen before.
‘See you on the terrace then,’ he calls over his shoulder as he walks away, laughing softly.
Susanne shuts her bedroom door and tries to compose herself. What the hell was that? Had Harry been about to kiss her? Heart pounding, she goes into the bathroom and splashes cool water on her hot cheeks.
11
Evie
After ten days of relentless cobalt skies and golden sunshine, Evie feels a surge of energy and a lightness she hardly recognises.
Her skin has lost its usual pallor and is lightly tanned. Freckles decorate the bridge of her nose, giving her a youthful glow, and her hair has gained natural highlights that sparkle in the sun. Adamant not to let the pounds pile back on, Evie has taken to power-walking before breakfast, picking a stony path down to the local village and winding back up through vineyards beaded with golden grapes.
Dale is first to comment on her modest transformation. ‘Bloody hell, Evie, Tuscan life suits you. You look disgustingly healthy,’ she says, slathering on sun cream, ready to top up her tan.
‘Thank you, Dale. I’ll never be as slim or as brown as the two of you, but I—’
‘Hey, stop it! Enough with the self-deprecation. Learn to take a compliment, woman. You look fab – doesn’t she, Susie?’
Susanne puts down her paperback. ‘Yes, you do look very well, Evie.’ She stretches like a cat. ‘We need to find you a lovely man now, to go with your hot new image.’
Evie shakes her head. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s on the cards. I’ve never had much luck with blokes.’
Dale sniggers. ‘You and me both, hon. But you’ve had boyfriends, right?’
Evie chews her lip and considers, ‘Well…’
Dale shoots upright, a look of incredulity on her face. ‘Oh my god. Evie, you have had relationships, haven’t you? What are you – forty next birthday? Please tell me that you’re not a virgin.’
Evie studies the pattern of her sarong. ‘No, I’m not… one of those…’ She squirms on her lounger. ‘Actually, there have been two… men, I mean. One was Paul, a mechanic from Orpington. He had a nice smile and he was kind, you know? Thoughtful. We were together for seven years. My mum always liked Paul; she thought we’d get married. So did I, I suppose… but in the end, we just fizzled out.’
Susanne rolls her eyes. ‘Well, he doesn’t sound very exciting. What about the other guy?’
‘Um, he was a mistake.’ Evie says in a small voice, a deep furrow appearing in her brow.
And she is back there – in the bland, stale-smelling hotel room in Maidstone, with its cheap, standardised MDF furniture and its big bed with a too-thin duvet, a chorus of goodbyes and shouts of ‘Merry Christmas’ rising from the car park below, as friends and colleagues pile into taxis. Wishing she were one of them, Evie eyes her green party dress, reduced to a crumpled rag beside rolled-up tights on the burgundy carpet.
There’s a flushing sound, then a minor crash as Roland Pincott, lips puffy and wet, shirt open and flies undone, stumbles into the room where Evie waits in bed, a sheet clutched around her quivering body.
‘Yum-yum, pig’s bum,’ Roland mutters, falling against Evie, his winey breath hot against her cheek. With a revolting slurping sound, he kisses her, then pushes her against the bed and lollops on top, forcing her arms above her head with his own. His breath is ragged, he’s repeating her name, thrashing and groaning, before he stops abruptly and levers himself off with a protracted sigh.
‘You’re a cracking girl, Evie; I’ve always fancied you,’ Roland growls. ‘Discreet, too,’ he adds, before turning over and snoring like a wart-hog.
‘Evie?’ Susanne’s voice is gentle.
‘I’m fine. It’s just… such a cliché,’ she looks fro
m Susanne to Dale knowing they are waiting for her to go on. She puffs out hot cheeks. ‘The solicitors’ where I used to work… One year, there was a big Christmas party at a hotel and quite a few people had rooms. Anyway, one of the partners… we’d been dancing and chatting for most of the evening and then at the end, he invited me up to his room for another drink. I knew what he meant really, but I was drunk by then, too, and it just seemed—’
‘Like a good idea at the time? Yeah, alcohol does that.’ Dale nods kindly. ‘Evie, don’t feel bad, we’ve all been there. Everyone’s got a few drunken one-night stands in their closet. It’s nothing.’
Susanne agrees. ‘She’s right. We all have to kiss a few frogs before the Prince comes along.’
‘Or Princess,’ Dale says with a wink.
That evening, drying her hair after a long, hot shower, Evie reflects on her confession. She’d been embarrassed to tell the girls her story – even remembering it had made her feel cheap and sordid. But they’d been lovely about it, made it sound normal and as though she was part of their club now. Not that Evie could imagine either of them in that situation. Susanne was simply too flawless and untouchable to let such a sleazy thing happen. As for Dale, she was so assertive, it was impossible to imagine her being coerced into anything she wasn’t wholly invested in.
And yet, neither were in a relationship of any description. What chance did she have of meeting anyone, ever again? She’d always hoped – expected, even – that eventually, she’d date someone kind and sincere, fall in love, get married and have children, preferably one of each. But the closer Evie gets to forty, the more remote her fairy-tale ending seems.
The future scares her.
Orphan.
Her auntie Cath had been the first person to use the word after Jean died.
After the funeral, she’d hugged Evie, then pulled away with a defiant expression in her kind brown eyes. ‘You might be an orphan, darlin’, but while there’s breath in my body, you’ve still got me – and your uncle Ken and your cousins, of course. I told my big sister I’d look after you, and I meant it. Okay, lovey? Fair enough?’
But Auntie Cath lives in Bromley; an hour’s drive away in Jean’s old blue Nissan Micra and a painful journey by public transport. Hardly conducive to spontaneous visits whenever Evie feels at a low ebb.
She swallows the fear and mounting anxiety that can suddenly overwhelm her. There is nothing for it but to put make-up on her newly sun-kissed face, pull on her favourite jeans, paste on a bright smile and join the others for dinner and drinks.
She wonders whether Harry will join them. Her stomach lurches with a mixture of dread and anticipation. His youthful demeanour, his energy and beauty make Evie feel clumsy and stolid around him. Sometimes, she can feel his eyes upon her, staring from behind the sunglasses he habitually wears; judging her, pitying her – and not in a kind way.
Worse still is that Harry makes Evie feel things she doesn’t want to. Butterflies swirl in her stomach when he smiles, walks into a room or levers himself out of the pool, muscles taut, droplets of water glistening on his deeply tanned skin, tendrils of hair framing his face.
If Harry only knew the things that went on in Evie’s head; the way she imagined him kissing her, completely naked and hard for her – his dark, lean body pressed against hers. It was embarrassing to have such ridiculous thoughts – as if someone with Harry’s looks would even notice – let alone fancy her – at any age, never mind that he was fifteen years her junior. God, how he’d laugh at her if he had any inkling… and so would her friends!
Evie takes a deep and steadying breath, spritzes scent on her wrists, slides her feet into wedge-heeled sandals and goes to find the others.
12
Dale
Stir-crazy after two days of torrential rain, Dale paces like a caged tiger. The appeal of thrashing the others at Scrabble and watching back-to-back black-and-white movies from Veronica’s vintage DVD collection has paled, and with the gardens and the pool temporarily out-of-bounds, the villa seems to shrink around her, making her waspish with the other women.
‘Girls, I’m sorry. I love you both to bits but I need to get out of here. I’m taking the car; everyone okay with that?’ she announces, shoving her wallet, keys and a paperback into her big slouchy bag.
Susanne’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Of course. But where are you going? Shall I come with?’
‘Thanks, Susie, but I fancy a few hours alone. Think I might be a bit hormonal. You don’t mind, do you? I’ll just head off and see where I end up.’
‘Ooh, you are brave, Dale. Aren’t you afraid you’ll get lost, or run out of fuel?’ Evie says.
‘No, of course not,’ Dale barks. ‘There’s a satnav in the car and I’ve got a purse full of plastic; there are petrol stations in Italy, you know. Ciao.’
Outside, Dale takes a deep breath. The air is heavy with the earthy scent of jasmine, rain and dust. Who knew it could pour so hard (and for so long) in Tuscany in August? She turns the collar of her denim jacket up and climbs into the SUV, before tearing off down hills bathed in grey-green light, stopping outside the pizzeria to programme the satnav.
Shit. She hadn’t meant to cut Susanne and Evie short and leave in such a rush. But god, she really did need her own space. Evie, bless her, had no confidence – nor much in the way of street smarts, that was for sure. And as for Susanne, between mooning about Cody, spending half her time checking her phone for messages from Scotland and surreptitiously watching Harry when she thought no one was looking, Dale hardly recognises her oldest friend.
Sitting in the bar in Tunbridge Wells when they’d first talked of getting away, Dale had pictured the three of them on a giddy whirlwind of cocktails, culture and countryside; discovering glamorous bars full of chic Italians, taking in museums and galleries, and driving through beautiful vineyards, stopping for impromptu picnics. Instead, Susanne and Evie seem content to spend their days at Villa Giardino.
She reaches across to the glove compartment for an Italian guidebook bought in London, and scans the pages, stopping at a chapter on Siena. All those magical images of the medieval city she knows so well from books and movies – it would be a crime not to visit. Using the satnav, she plots a route; only fifty-five minutes. She can have lunch in Piazza del Campo, home of the biannual Palio horse-race; shop for shoes in Via di Città and visit the cathedral, with its liquorice-striped columns and exquisite art. This is what she came to Tuscany for!
As if offering a sign, the rain slows to a light drizzle and the sun peeks through silvery clouds.
Dale finds a radio station playing rock music and puts her foot down.
The rain has stopped, the sky is a delicate wash of azure and steam rises from the sun-warmed cobbles. Sipping caffè macchiato in Piazzo del Campo, the view of its terracotta-hued palazzo and bell tower in front of her, Dale messages Susanne: Siena lovely, wish you were here. Sorry for being a grumpy cow. She attaches a selfie and presses send – and is relieved to get her friend’s text by return.
Have a fab time – love you. X
Bless Susanne and her sweet, fragile heart. Other friends may be taken in, but not Dale. She’s simply known her for too long. She’s seen the way people make catty assumptions based on Susanne’s looks and trappings of prosperity: as if money were a magic bullet against heartbreak.
Dale purses her lips. That’s what happens when you let kids (or a kid, in Susanne’s case) rule your life. Cody needs to stop acting like a selfish little shit. How dare he leave his mother out in the cold – after all she’s done for him? A thought occurs: is missing Cody the real reason for Susanne’s peculiar interest in Harry? Some misplaced and inappropriate maternal sense that is confusing her? Well, not on Dale’s watch! She’s seen the way Harry looks at Susanne when he thinks there’s no one around, and it’s not filial. Like the time she’d caught him hanging around Susanne’s bedroom. What the hell was that? She’d felt distinctly as though she were interrupting something.
; Pushing the thought firmly from her mind, Dale gestures for the bill, pays and starts to walk away. On impulse she looks back at the Piazza which is bathed in sunshine and bursting with life. Aiming her smartphone camera, she shoots – just as a dozen cooing, pecking pigeons startle into the air, their fanned wings blurred by motion. It’s a classic photograph. Laughing with joy at her lucky strike, Dale texts it to Susanne.
‘You should get them. They look ah-may-zing.’ The voice is American, cultured – East Coast perhaps.
‘You think?’ Dale answers, taking in the woman’s chic, relaxed style. ‘I don’t know… I’d never pay that much for shoes at home.’
‘All the more reason to treat yourself. First time in Siena?’ The woman’s grey-green eyes crinkle as she smiles.
‘First time in Tuscany,’ Dale admits. ‘Always wanted to visit though.’ She gazes in the mirror, turning her foot this way and that, admiring the black-and-tan faux-python ankle straps from every angle and grins. ‘Maybe you’re right. They do look pretty special, don’t they?’
‘You know you want to,’ the woman drawls, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Dale mimes her arm being twisted up her back. ‘Okay, you talked me into it. Just hope I can find an excuse to wear them.’
‘Well, here’s an idea: how about you join us for cocktails this evening. There’s a terrific bar a couple of blocks away.’
Dale pauses. So many issues raised in one throwaway invitation – and all under one overarching question: is the woman hitting on her?
‘I’m afraid I won’t be here this evening,’ Dale says, before she can overthink things. Thanks for the thought, er—’
The Perfect Liar: A completely gripping thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 5