Her Last Lie: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist!

Without a second’s delay – not even the nagging memory of six years ago made me pause for thought – I took my jacket and bag from the chair next to me, and said, ‘No, no it’s free. It’ll be great to have the company.’

We started talking. And as though we’d known each other for ever, I spilled my life. Told him what happened in Sydney. How it had made me feel. How it still makes me feel. I’d talked about it all before, but somehow Andy made me feel safer than I ever felt possible.

We drank wine, and I told him where I was staying. He was travelling on business, and renting a place nearby.

That night we made love. And the next.

Oh God, the guilt is bubbling up now, making me uneasy, faint and unsteady. My fingers are trembling on the keyboard. Should I have slept with Andy without talking things through with Jack first? Did I have a choice? Does anyone have a choice when the passion is so strong?

Andy cancelled his business meeting, and over the next few days he was right there by my side, the smell of him making me delirious, his dark eyes melting me.

He told me how he’d grown up in Toronto, an only child of two university professors. He loved the summer there, he said, but the winters were so cold day and night, sometimes dropping to minus twenty-five. He took me to places I might never have found alone. Graffiti Alley, just south of Chinatown, was the most remarkable. The vibrant colours and stunning pictures of the murals painted by street artists on the walls of connecting alleyways were incredible. I got carried away and took far more pictures than I will ever need. As we walked, Andy nodded down a narrow alley, closed off by a fence.

‘That was once the site of the secret swing,’ he told me. ‘I remember it.’ He’d paused, clearly thinking back. ‘The swing had a kind of cold, haunted feel about it, hanging there between the walls. I can see it clearly, even though it’s not there any more.’ He’d slipped his arm around my waist, and I was glad I wasn’t alone. That I was with him.

The following day we travelled to Niagara Falls, and shared a hotel room. Our passion grew stronger, which I never dreamt possible.

We screamed with laughter when we took a boat trip, and the cascading waterfall sprayed our bodies.

For a month he travelled with me – the train journey through the Rockies was the best experience of my life.

At the airport, just before I headed for home, I felt as though I was about to leave part of myself behind. I felt bilious and delirious at the same time.

He’s texted me already to check I landed safely, and my heart ached as I read his words. He said he can’t go another moment without seeing me. That he’s desperate to come over, and will jump on the next plane.

I must tell Jack about Andy.

I know that.

God, I’m crying. The woman opposite is rummaging in her bag – bringing out a pack of tissues, handing me one. She’s probably wondering about the weird woman tapping away on her laptop.

I dab my cheek with the tissue. The self-hatred bouncing against the ecstasy is impossible. But I have no choice. It’s such a mess.

But surely you should be with the person you love. Life is too short. We’re a long time dead, as my mother once said.

Andy is my drug – my cocaine, and I need to hold on to this feeling. I refuse to let it go at any cost. Surely, I deserve happiness after everything I’ve been through.

I know I’m supposed to be on my blog to tell you about Canada, because that’s what it’s set up for – to talk about my travels. But I’m tired, and my head feels fuzzy. So, for now, I’ll point out the stunning shots of Graffiti Alley, and my favourite photograph of Niagara Falls. Those cascading waters took my breath away. They’re to die for – like Andy.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_fced4e37-7264-5d1a-8f76-f085ff79f12b)

Tuesday, 25 October

Isla emerged from Letchworth Garden City Station just before midnight, dragging her case behind her. Her carry-on bag, laptop and camera inside, draped over her shoulder. If only her apartment was closer. She was exhausted.

A taxi was parked next to the entrance, and as she headed towards it, the driver got out, took her case from her and put it into the boot.

‘Where to, love?’ he said with a smile, slamming the boot closed, and walking round to the driver’s side.

‘Oakley Court. It’s an apartment block in . . . ’

‘I know it,’ he cut in, as she climbed into the back seat. ‘My daughter lives near there.’

Once in the taxi, the driver accelerated away. The journey would only take five minutes, but the thought of being sealed in with a man – even a pleasant-faced man in his fifties wearing a turban –prodded at Isla’s anxiety. It was probably because she was tired. When she craved sleep, thoughts she could normally control encroached. Was it really safe to get into a car parked outside a railway station with a man she didn’t know?

‘You been on holiday?’ the driver asked.

Oh God, he was going to be a talker. She could do without a talker right now.

‘Yes,’ she said, cursing the fact she’d been brought up to be polite. Never wanted to offend.

He indicated and pulled onto the main road. ‘Somewhere nice?’

Please stop talking. ‘Canada,’ she said.

‘Very nice indeed.’ He nodded, approvingly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go. Did you see Niagara Falls?’

‘I did, yes.’

‘I read on the Internet that five thousand people have committed suicide there.’

Why would anyone say that? ‘Yes I know, it’s awful.’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry, not a very cheerful subject.’

No, no it’s not.

His brown eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror, and even though his tone was light and friendly, her neck tingled, and anxiety bubbles rose in her chest. She ran her finger over the band on her wrist, and averted her eyes.

‘And there was that woman who went over the waterfall in a barrel and survived. I saw a documentary on the telly-box.’ He paused. ‘Not that I watch documentaries very often. I like gardening programmes. Alan Titchmarsh is my favourite. Do you like Alan Titchmarsh?’

‘I don’t mind him.’

‘It’s my wife who’s the documentary addict. If there’s been a documentary about it, she has watched the documentary. Ooh, I seem to have said documentary rather too much.’ He laughed, as he indicated and turned a corner. ‘We saw that documentary on Netflix about the chap who got charged with murder and went down for years. He didn’t do it, so they got him out again. Then he got banged up again for another murder, would you believe? And now they’re trying to get him off again. He must feel like he’s doing the murder hokey-cokey – in, out, in, out, shake it all about. You seen it?’

Thoughts of Carl Jeffery pushed into her head. Would it be better if she knew the outcome of his appeal? She shook away the thought. If he was out – free to kill again – the knowledge would break her.

‘Santa’s beard,’ the driver said. ‘Who’s this pillocky person behind me?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Some ruddy moron’s gating my tail.’

Isla glanced over her shoulder, and squinted. The back window was filled with the full beam of a car’s headlights, far too close.

The taxi driver slowed, and whoever was behind heeded, putting some distance between them.

‘Sports car,’ the taxi driver said with a grumble. ‘Some idiot going through a midlife crisis, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably bought a guitar too, and wants to be the next Bryan Adams.’