The Lie

“Mum, can you just … never mind. Look, I can’t make it to Henry’s show tonight.”

There’s an audible intake of breath followed by an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, Emma.”

There it is, her disappointed tone, the one perfectly pitched to make me feel like utter shit.

“I’m sorry, Mum. I really wanted to make it but—”

“Henry will be disappointed. You know how much work he’s put into his one-man show. Tonight’s the night he’s invited lots of agents along, and it’s so important that the audience is on his side and—”

“Mum, I know.”

“He wants to take it to Edinburgh, you know that, don’t you? We’re ever so proud.”

“Yes, I do know that, but Geoff—”

“Can’t you ask him nicely? I’m sure he’d understand if you explain why.”

“I have asked him. He said I have to work until seven because I was late this morning.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. So it’s your own fault you can’t come? Don’t tell me, you were out drinking until late with your friends again.”

“Yes. No. We had to help Al. I’ve told you how upset she’s been about Simone recently, and—”

“And that’s what I should tell Henry, is it? That your friends are more important to you than your family?”

“That’s not fair, Mum. I’ve been to all George’s matches, and I was there when Isabella opened her dance studio.”

I spent most of my childhood being dragged from one sibling event to another, a habit that has now become so ingrained that I start each day by checking the calendar in my kitchen to see who’s doing what. Isabella is my oldest sibling. She’s thirty-two, an ex-dancer, ridiculously beautiful and married with a son. George is my older brother. He’s twenty-eight and a golf pro. He lives in St Andrews and I rarely see him. Henry’s the youngest; he’s twenty-four and the next Jimmy Carr, if you believe my mother.

“Mum?”

There’s a pause, a pause that stretches for one, two, three, four seconds.

“Mum? Are you still there?”

She sighs again. “You should get back to work. It sounds like you’re in enough trouble as it is.”

I swipe at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Could you wish Henry good luck from me?”

“I will. I’ll speak to you soon. You’d better get back to it. Work hard and make us proud.”

The line goes dead before I can reply.

Chapter 4 (#u624b2904-9d06-5c83-9d77-210617b8d961)

Present Day

I’m sitting in the staffroom, the letter in my hand, my messenger bag at my feet. It’s been six hours since Sheila handed me the envelope, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve examined it. There’s my name, my assumed name, Jane Hughes, at the top then Green Fields Animal Sanctuary, Bude, Nr Aberdare, Wales. There’s a first-class stamp in the top right corner. It’s been stamped but it’s too smudged to make out the town or date. The letter itself is written in blue biro in cursive handwriting. The words aren’t large and bold and shouty. They’re neatly written, punctuated, spelled correctly.

“You haven’t stopped reading that since I gave it to you,” Sheila says, taking a step towards me, hand outstretched. “Can I see?”

“It’s nothing. Like I said, just a letter from Maisie’s owners. Nothing important.” I crumple the letter in my hand and throw it towards the bin before she can reach me. It hits the rim and bounces in.

Sheila stops short in the middle of the room. Her outstretched hand drops to her side and she makes a small “Oh” sound, but she doesn’t retrieve the letter from the bin. Instead she gives me a puzzled smile then heads for the coat stand in the corner of the room. She pulls on her waterproof jacket, grabs her oversized handbag from one of the chairs and hoists it over her shoulder.

“I’m off, then,” she says. “Are you in tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Make sure all the gates are secured before you go. We don’t want Mr Four-by-Four and his mates attempting a dognap in the middle of the night, do we?”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“I won’t.” Her smile widens and she raises a hand in goodbye then heads for the door.

Thirty seconds later, the bell above the main doors tinkles as she leaves. I fish the letter out of the bin, tuck it back into its envelope, and put it in my back pocket. Then I pick up my messenger bag and take out my mobile.

There are two texts and one missed call.

17:55 – Text from Will:

You still on for dinner tonight? x

17:57 – Missed call, Will.

17:58 – Text from Will:

Sorry, just wanted to check. You do eat sea bass, don’t you? I know there’s one kind of fish you don’t like but couldn’t remember if it was sea bass or sea bream? Not too late to pop to Tesco if you don’t like it!

Shit, I forgot I was supposed to be going to Will’s for dinner.

The phone vibrates in my hand and a tinkling tune fills the air.

Will.

I’m tempted to swipe from right to left and pretend I’m working late, but he’ll only worry and ring back.

“Hello?” I press the phone to my ear.

“Jane!” He says my name jubilantly, his voice infused with warmth.

“Hi! Sorry I didn’t get back to you about dinner but I’ve only just finished my shift. One of the dogs developed explosive diarrhoea when I was doing final checks, so I had to strip his bed and get it in the washing machine.”

“Mmmm, explosive diarrhoea. I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

He laughs. I want to laugh too but I can’t.

“So, are you still on for tonight, then?” The smallest note of tension enters his voice. Ours is still a fledgling relationship in many ways. We’re still on best behaviour, still testing the waters, still figuring each other out. “Because I’ve got a bet with Chloe, you know.”