The Last Lie: The must-read new thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author

It was Henry Bryant.

He even developed Bryantisms; mannerisms and affected patterns of speech – a pursing of the lips and drawing out of vowels – that he only did when he was being Henry. In some ways – and this was worrying – he preferred Henry. He was funnier, more relaxed. Moreover, he didn’t have to be the soft, unthreatening little bitch that Alfie Daniels pretended to be.

He could be whatever he wanted, and he was. He cancelled at the last minute (on the occasions when it was too risky to go), drank hard when he wanted and was rough in bed. Most of all he didn’t apologize, didn’t simper and coo, and didn’t sing any fucking stupid songs.

It was wonderful. And it was the only thing that was keeping him sane.

He became aware of a tapping on the window. He looked up. Claire was beckoning him inside.

Christ. He’d almost forgotten. He glanced at Jodie’s buttocks; she was wearing a pair of very tight jeans. He pictured peeling them off, revealing some expensive underwear, an image which allowed him to force a smile on to his face. He waved at Claire, then blew her a kiss; she mimed catching it and planted it on her cheek.

It was sickening.

Inside, he kissed Claire for real, then hugged Jodie, enjoying the press of her breasts against his chest. She gestured at the guy standing with them.

‘This is Trevor.’

Alfie shook his hand. He had a fixed, goofy grin. If this idiot was fucking Jodie he didn’t think he could take it.

‘We were on our way out,’ Jodie said. ‘I have to go and meet a friend. She’s not doing so well.’

‘Oh,’ Alfie said. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Boyfriend troubles.’ Jodie took out her phone. ‘Quick photo before I go?’

She handed the phone to Trevor, who looked put out she didn’t want him in the picture. Alfie thought it might be deliberate. Maybe he wasn’t getting any with Jodie, after all.

The three of them lined up and Trevor took a few snaps. When he was done, he gave the phone back to Jodie.

‘Nice to see you,’ Alfie said. ‘And good luck with your friend. I’m going to grab a drink.’

As he walked away, Henry Bryant’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Pippa, again. Obviously, despite how clear he’d been, she hadn’t got the message. He’d reply later and get rid of her once and for all, before she became a problem.

Henry Bryant would never let her become a problem. He dealt with things, decisively. He would never have put up with what Alfie put up with. He would have found a way to deal with Claire.

And Alfie needed to. He just had no idea what to do.

Claire (#ulink_f04c789a-4873-52b7-ab0e-ca35198812d3)

Dr Singh sat opposite Claire and studied his notes. He looked to be in his sixties and had small, precise features. She had googled him and, as her dad had said, he really was an expert in the field of fertility; he had pioneered a number of treatments with spectacular results, which probably explained the fee her dad was paying.

It was the second time they had met that day; in the morning he had asked her a bunch of questions and discussed her goals, and then he’d sent her into the room next door where a nurse had drawn blood and performed an ultrasound scan, along with some X-rays.

We’ll have the results shortly, he said. But you’ll have to see when Dr Singh is free to take you through them.

Dr Singh was free that afternoon, and Claire had left work to come and meet him. She’d had to move a couple of meetings around, but as a partner she had that flexibility. Besides, she had been thinking about it all day, unable to focus on anything other than what the doctor might tell her.

‘Well …’ He smiled. ‘So far, it’s good news.’

‘What do you mean “so far”?’ Claire said.

‘I mean the tests we did showed no abnormalities, but there are more procedures we can do. However, I’m not sure they’re warranted, at this point. I see nothing wrong.’

He pulled a piece of A4 paper from a file and handed it to her. ‘These are the results of your Hysterosalpingography – that’s the fancy name for the X-ray we took of your uterus and fallopian tubes. As you can see, nothing showed up.’

She studied the paper. There was a lot of text, but her eyes settled on the only words that mattered to her.

Abnormalities: None

‘What about the other test?’ she said. ‘The one about the eggs?’

‘The ovarian reserve test,’ Dr Singh said. ‘That, too, was fine. You have a normal egg supply, and they are of good quality.’ He laced his fingers together and leaned forwards. ‘As far as I can tell, there is no problem with your fertility. We could do further imaging, or even a laparoscopy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a procedure to take a look inside the uterus. We make an incision in the navel and put a camera in there. If there was anything going on – endometriosis, scarring – it would show up. But, like I said, there’s no reason to believe there is anything.’

Claire met his gaze. ‘Then why can’t I get pregnant?’

‘Sometimes it takes a while,’ Dr Singh said. ‘And the stress caused by worrying about it can make it more difficult. If you can relax, take your time, that would probably help.’

She already knew this. Every one of the myriad of websites about pregnancy and childbirth mentioned it. Make sure you stay relaxed. The body is less likely to conceive when under stress. A relaxed body is a body ready to have a baby. All very well; the problem was that when you tried to relax the trying got in the way of the relaxing. It was like telling somebody not to think of an elephant; as soon as you said it an elephant popped into their mind.

‘It’s hard,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop worrying that something’s wrong.’

‘There’s nothing that I can see.’ Dr Singh twirled his pen in his fingers. ‘At least, not with you. There is, however, one other avenue to explore.’

‘Which is?’

Dr Singh took off his glasses. ‘Has your husband had his sperm tested?’

Claire nodded. ‘A couple of months ago. It was fine.’

When she hadn’t got pregnant after the first few months of trying, Alfie had declared that he was going to take a test.

I don’t want to waste any time, he said. If there’s something wrong, I want to know so I can fix it.

She had asked if he thought she should get tested too.

Not yet. You’ll need to go to a doctor. I can do a home test. It’s easy. And I want peace of mind that everything’s OK with me.

And it was. She was at work when he did it, but when she came home he was beaming: sperm count was normal. She was pleased for him, but it only made her feel worse. If there was a problem then it was with her, and not him.

‘Where did he have it done?’ Dr Singh said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking. You don’t have to say, of course.’

‘It was a home testing kit.’

‘Ah.’ Dr Singh pursed his lips. ‘Those kits are perfectly accurate, if correctly used, but there is scope for error. Do you know if he kept it?’