The Perfect Liar: A completely gripping thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Beverley Harvey

  Brandon rakes a hand through his hair. ‘We’re being evicted, Star – with immediate effect.’

  Harry’s grin is tinged with smugness. ‘Well, that settles it, then: you’re coming with me for the rest of the summer. It’s a no-brainer.’

  Star is bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes shining. ‘Wow! We’d love that, Harry – wouldn’t we, Brandon?’

  But Brandon isn’t convinced. He’s neither ready to reveal himself to this irritating, hyper-confident rich kid – which could mean either a total suspension of income, in which case, how would they live? – nor prepared to live an elaborate deception, while he cruises the medieval towns of Tuscany, looking for wealthy women of a certain age.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Harry – really generous, but we can’t impose like that,’ he says, his voice measured.

  ‘Impose?’ Harry winks at Star. ‘Your brother’s gone all Victorian on us. Come on, you’d be doing me a favour. I’ll be bored shitless rattling round that huge villa and swimming in the pool all by myself.’

  Brandon gives a slow shake of his head. ‘Harry, thanks – but no thanks. Maybe it’s time for Star and me to go home.’

  Star pouts. ‘Oh, come on, Brandon… please? We’ve only got two days to get out of the flat!’

  Harry feigns indignation. ‘Two days? That’s outrageous. Or, maybe it’s a message from the universe.’

  ‘Actually, it’s a message from our landlord’s mother; she’s arriving in Rome in forty-eight hours – no prizes for guessing where he’s planning to put her.’

  Harry’s grimace and slight shudder is comical. ‘Oh, well – that is serious. Look, why don’t you stay at Veronica’s villa while you figure out what to do next.’

  ‘Can we, Brandon? Please?’ Star wheedles. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Tuscany, see if it’s like the films.’

  Brandon throws up his hands. ‘Looks like I’ve been outvoted. Okay, Harry, if you’re sure. Just for a few days.’ He turns to Star, who is beaming happily, hands clasped.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Harry smiles. ‘It’s a four-hour drive. I’ll sort out a car and pick you up tomorrow at noon.’

  ‘Great. I’ll chip in for the car and Star and I will pay for all the food.’

  Harry waves his suggestion away. ‘Certainly not. You’ll be my guests – although technically, we’ll all be Ronnie’s guests and she’s loaded, so please, don’t give it a second thought. There is something, though. I promised my folks that I’d learn Italian; it was kind of a condition of bumming around here all summer. You couldn’t give me a hand with that, could you, Brandon? I’ve noticed you speak a little.’

  Brandon makes a face. ‘Yeah, very little… but, you know, maybe we can practise together?’

  Harry nods. ‘You’re on.’

  He can hear Star singing as she’s packing – throwing brightly coloured, childlike garments into two nylon bags. His brow puckers. Are they doing the right thing? They know nothing about Harry, other than the fact that he’s a spoilt rich bastard who likes to ask a lot of nosy questions. And it will mean never letting their guard down and limiting the conversation about their background and how they’ve been living of late.

  On the other hand, business has been brisk all summer and he’s managed to save nearly seven thousand euros, meaning he can afford to chill out at the villa and swerve the ladies for a while.

  As if reading his mind, Star stomps into his room and squats among the neat piles of clothing on his bed.

  ‘Bran, have we got any money?’ she says, straight to the point.

  ‘Enough. I’ve been saving up. We’ll be okay for a couple of weeks. Maybe we can treat this like a proper holiday, you know? Swim, sunbathe…enjoy the scenery.’

  Star’s eyes shine. ‘Oh, that sounds so amazing. I’m sick of working at the restaurant anyway, so good bloody riddance to that!’ She chews her lip, hesitates for a moment. ‘Do you think Harry fancies me, though? Only, I like him and everything – and obvs I’ve already snogged him – but I’ve decided that I could never shag him.’ She wrinkles her nose and begins searching her hair for split ends.

  Brandon sighs and shakes his head. ‘Gross. Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up, but why are you telling me? Has he tried it on with you yet? No? Right, well, if that changes, you just tell me, and I’ll kick him into touch.’

  Star clambers off the bed, scattering Brandon’s clothing to the floor, before throwing her arms around him. He’d complain, except that now he can’t speak for the lump in his throat.

  41

  Brandon

  Tuscany, July 2019

  They leave their apartment owing two weeks’ rent and without cleaning up, even leaving dishes in the kitchen sink. It was a hovel anyway, Brandon reasons, and their landlord, Signore D’Angelo, had taken quite enough from them already.

  But as Harry pulls up in a black open-topped jeep, Star panics. ‘Brandon, what if D’Angelo goes to the police?’

  ‘And waste their time? It’s much too trivial. Come on, smile for our host.’ Brandon waves. ‘Ciao, Harry!’

  With their bags loaded into the car, they set off and Harry puts his foot down, shaving half an hour off the journey. In the back of the jeep, Star squeals with excitement as they approach every bend or steep hill, exhilarated and unaccustomed to travelling with the top down, her hair whipping about her face.

  Finally, Brandon begins to relax. Maybe Harry is okay after all and Brandon has just been unfair. He muses that Harry is certainly generous – having been adamant that Brandon and Star need not contribute.

  ‘The three of us will have a blast and I told Joe and Sander to swing by when they reach San Gimignano in a few days, so we’ll be quite the party,’ Harry had said.

  ‘Jesus, Harry,’ Brandon had replied, ‘what will your godmother say when she finds out there are three strange blokes and a teenage girl squatting in her house?’

  Harry had smirked and winked. ‘Well, I won’t tell her if you don’t.’

  At Villa Giardino, Star is running from room to room, her bare feet drumming on the tiles.

  ‘Wow! Are we really staying here? It’s like a film set! Harry, I love it. Your auntie must be minted,’ she squeals, eyes shining.

  Harry laughs. ‘Ronnie’s not exactly my aunt, she’s a cousin of my mother’s. Anyway, I told you, she’s my godmother. But I can’t fault her taste, this place is rather fabulous, isn’t it? Come on, I’ve saved the best till last.’ Harry beckons them into the garden, where the late afternoon sun caresses the ivory stone terrace and the neatly trimmed herbaceous borders create an artists’ palette of pastel colours.

  Despite his attempts to play it cool, Brandon’s face breaks into a huge grin as he spots the swimming pool shimmering in the sun.

  ‘Cheers for this, Harry – so kind of you to let us stay,’ Brandon concedes, longing to peel off his shirt and dive into the crystal water.

  ‘Yes, Harry – thank you soo much. It’s amazing!’ Star echoes, kissing Harry on the cheek with a loud mwah.

  ‘Well, why don’t we unpack, then have a dip before dinner – there’s a cracking little pizzeria in the village.’

  ‘Think I’ve changed my mind,’ Star hisses once Harry is out of earshot, ‘I might actually marry the guy after seeing all this.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s not his, just remember that. Come on, the sooner we unpack, the sooner we can dive into that pool,’ Brandon says, striding off to his room.

  By day three, after an initial burst of activity which had mainly revolved around stocking the house with food and booze, Brandon and Star have fallen into a languid stupor, content to read, swim and sunbathe. But Harry seems restless, keen to explore and sightsee.

  ‘You know Tuscany’s got some incredible local wines, don’t you? In fact, my father knows someone who owns a vineyard near here – we should check it out.’

  Brandon shrugs. ‘I’m not really a wine buff, to be honest.’

  From the comfort of two loungers placed
for maximum sun exposure, Brandon and Star watch as Harry springs up and goes inside, muttering something about Ronnie keeping a good library in the study.

  ‘Why can’t he just relax? The guy’s got the attention span of a gnat,’ Brandon grumbles in a low voice. ‘My father knows a vineyard owner,’ he mimics. ‘Pretentious arsehole.’

  Star wrinkles her brow. ‘Brandon, shut up. He’s not like us, is he? He’s cultured. Anyway, I could get used to this… and drinking fancy wines. Closest we ever get is buying whatever’s on special at Tesco.’

  Harry returns, holding up a fat volume with a glossy cover.

  ‘Found this on Ronnie’s bookshelf. I knew it. There’s a place about twelve miles from here where they do tastings and everything. Oh, and there’s a disused monastery I’d like to see on the way. It’s fifteenth century, or older.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Brandon says, throwing a glance at Star who is also feigning interest.

  ‘How exciting, Harry, I’d love to go,’ she says, her tone decisive. ‘In fact, we should all go. Right, Brandon?’

  It’s almost eight o’clock when the call comes. Harry, dressed in ivory-coloured jeans and black T-shirt, is at the hob, sautéing wild mushrooms, garlic and herbs for dinner.

  When his mobile phone rings from his pocket, Harry grimaces and hands the spatula to Star. ‘It’s Veronica. Keep an eye on these, baby – I don’t want them to burn.’

  Baby? Since when is Harry using pet names for his sister? Nauseated, Brandon glares at Harry’s back as he paces out into the hallway, phone pressed tight to his ear.

  Star makes a goofy, comical face, revelling in being treated like a grown-up for a change. Then she’s telling Brandon something about an Italian recipe she’s seen in a magazine, but he puts a finger to his lips, eager to eavesdrop on Harry.

  ‘Three of them? Gosh! Righto… Well, okay. No, of course not, Ronnie… I’m sure it’ll be fine, but…’ Harry’s words trail off.

  Star’s eyes are round. ‘Three what? What’s he talking about?’

  He frowns. ‘No idea, but he doesn’t sound very happy… Shh, he’s coming back… Everything okay, Harry?’ Brandon asks helpfully.

  Harry picks up his glass, takes a mouthful of Chianti. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, reclaiming the spatula from Star and absently returning to the buttery mushrooms.

  Brandon tries again. ‘Hope it wasn’t bad news. Is there anything we can help with?’

  Harry’s smile does not reach his eyes. ‘No. Thanks, but everything’s fine. Oh, look at me hogging the wine… Top up, you two?’

  42

  Dale

  Tuscany, August 2019

  She’d been so sure. Susanne’s dress, the necklace. Star had them, she knew it. But where? And why? Susanne was right; they were hardly aspirational must-haves for a young woman – particularly one rocking a boho, festival-chic style, who most of the time looked as though she needed a shower.

  Now, hidden in the farthest corner of the pizzeria, sipping her second Americano as the first lunchtime customers begin to arrive, Dale is embarrassed and contrite. Caroline Ditton, headmistress at the school where she teaches, had once accused her of being a hothead; well thank god Mrs D hadn’t witnessed today’s outburst.

  A waitress hovers at her elbow. ‘Would you like to see the lunch menu, Madam? I can tell you the specials.’

  With a sad smile, Dale shakes her head and waves the woman away. She’s not hungry – guilt and shame have killed her appetite. There’s nothing for it but to go home and apologise. Throw herself on her sword and spend their last days tiptoeing round everyone and being as polite and meek as she can manage.

  Dale pays for her coffee, walks out to the SUV and drives home at a more sedate pace than the one she left in.

  At Villa Giardino, peace and order appear to have been restored. Susanne and Harry are sunbathing, while Evie sits in the shade, half covered by a sarong.

  ‘Hi,’ Dale’s greeting is hoarse. She clears her throat. ‘Where’s Star, I need to say sorry. I don’t know what came over me. She must think I’m completely mad… or at least very rude.’

  Harry and Susanne look up at her and say nothing. Evie smiles and gives her a little wave of acknowledgement before turning back to her book.

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll just…’ Christ, are they planning to ignore her for the rest of the day?

  As she turns back towards the house, Star emerges in her bikini, holding a magazine, flip-flops slapping the ground beneath her feet.

  Dale takes a deep breath. ‘Star – may I speak to you, please?’ Her tone is polite, formal. Teacherly, she realises, as the words leave her unsmiling lips.

  Star rolls her eyes. ‘Not if you’re going to accuse me of nicking something, no.’ She struts past Dale and pulls a chair up to where Evie is sitting.

  Shit! This is not going to be easy.

  ‘Star, I understand why you’re angry but, please, can we just—’

  ‘Whatever you want to say, you can say it here, in front of everyone.’ Star says, crossing her legs primly.

  ‘Star, I’m sorry, all right? Really sorry,’ Dale has everyone’s attention now – and not in a good way. ‘I was completely wrong to come down on you like that, but the thing is, Susanne’s stuff has only gone missing since you arrived and so I just—’

  ‘Put two and two together and made seventeen! As I said, I never touched her things and I haven’t seen them.’ Then with her face set, Star angles her chair to the sun, and pretends to be engrossed in her magazine.

  Dale clears her throat. ‘Star. I’m genuinely sorry. Please accept my apologies,’ she says, adding, ‘and now I’m going to my room, my head’s still fuzzy from last night.’

  Lying on the bed, listening to the intermittent whine of a mosquito, Dale is surprised when there’s a knock on the door. Her heart does a little skip. It’s Susanne, surely, wanting to check on her, wanting to offer support, away from the gaze of the others.

  She’s touched to see Evie, proffering a drink that rattles with ice.

  ‘You are kind, thank you,’ Dale says, taking the glass from her. ‘I expect you’re all talking about me: poor barmy old Dale – lost the plot. Evie, I swear I overheard them talking and I don’t know what happened to Susanne’s stuff, but I honestly think that Star is at the… Oh, shit. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself,’ Evie sits down beside her; Dale can feel the heat emanating from her skin and for a second, she wants to hug Evie for her kindness.

  ‘Dale, nobody is talking about you. Everyone’s just bored and hungover. Hey, I reckon you and I had the best start to the day – that little swim we had this morning was lovely.’

  Dale regards Evie’s gentle round face; the softness in her pale-blue eyes.

  ‘Evie, you’re lovely, do you know that? When we first came here, I wasn’t very nice to you… I thought you were a bit straight – boring, even.’ Dale shakes her head. ‘Well, I know better now and I could not have been more wrong. You’re a kind, honest, clever woman. And that’s worth a lot. I know we’re not exactly neighbours, but I hope we can still see each other when we get home.’

  Evie smiles shyly. ‘Of course. I’d be gutted if we didn’t. Dale, don’t hide away, it’ll all blow over. Star’s just a kid and it shows. She’ll be fine by tomorrow. And as for Susanne, she loves you. She’s just a bit embarrassed.’

  Dale nods. ‘I think you’re right. Thanks for being such a good mate, Evie, and for the drink as well.’

  Relieved, she watches Evie creep from the room, before falling into a light doze.

  ‘Hair of the dog: it’s the only way,’ Harry says, free-pouring gin over ice, before topping up the jug with tonic water and lemon wedges.

  A collective shudder ripples around the kitchen.

  ‘Ladies, trust me. It’ll be very refreshing,’ he says, filling glasses and passing them around.

  Dale hangs back, still groggy from her afternoon spent hibernating in her room, an
d is convinced she’ll be missed out. Instead, Harry hands her the first drink, his eyes locking with hers.

  ‘Bottoms up, Dale. Glad to see you’re feeling better.’ He turns to Star. ‘Are you still planning to make dinner? I’ll be sous chef if you like.’

  Above Dale’s head, a cloud lifts. She has been forgiven. Tonight, they’ll eat, drink, talk and laugh together, as though no unpleasantness has taken place.

  ‘Bloody hell, Star. This pasta is delicious,’ Dale gushes. ‘Where on earth did you learn to cook like this? I couldn’t boil an egg at eighteen,’ she says, quick to praise Star’s culinary efforts once they’re seated before steaming bowls of creamy carbonara.

  Star giggles. ‘Oh, I can’t boil an egg either. Trust me, this is the only thing I can cook. I worked in a trattoria in Rome for a while, waiting tables mostly, but one week I helped in the kitchen and I watched.’

  ‘Ah, is that where you two met?’ Evie asks, dabbing her chin.

  Star hesitates, chews her food. ‘Well, we—’

  ‘We met at another café,’ Harry says, talking over her, ‘quite near where Star was working. She, Sander and their friend Joe were having a beer in the sunshine. You know, enjoying the weather and people-watching – and we got chatting. The amazing coincidence was that we were all bound for Tuscany the following week, so after that, we stayed in touch.’

  Star has fallen silent and is studying her plate.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ Susanne’s voice is soft. ‘It must be difficult, talking about Sander. I take it you haven’t heard from him?’

  Star shakes her head.

  A silence falls, filled only by the scraping of cutlery as unsaid words hang in the air.