Our Little Lies: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist Read online

  We’ve only been here since early spring, but I love this house, the beautiful big garden, the high-end German kitchen we put in as soon as we moved here. Simon says every woman should have a fabulous kitchen, and this was his gift to me, and it’s perfect, except right now it feels like my perfect canvas has been stained. I watch the way the early morning sunshine slants through the huge windows, waiting for the calm to wash over me, but nothing’s happening – it’s Caroline’s fault. I usually love the way the sun plays on ‘Borrowed Light’, turning Farrow and Ball’s wonderful paint shade into the dreamiest cloudy grey on my wall. But this morning I’m not achieving ‘calm’, however deeply I look, and there’s only so long a person can stare at a wall in a busy family kitchen before one of the kids asks, ‘Has Mum gone funny again?’

  Having learnt about Caroline’s existence today, I’m on edge. Damn you, Caroline, with your youth and talent and close working proximity to my husband. It’s positively primal the way my hairs stand on end when I so much as think of Simon with anyone else. Not that I do. Not a lot anyway.

  Earlier this year when I thought Simon was having an affair with Julia, the kids’ piano teacher, I completely resisted saying anything. I wanted to prove to myself that I could stay sane, and besides, it wasn’t worth all the drama that would inevitably follow. Oh, and I had absolutely no proof, which wouldn’t actually have helped if I’d wanted to confront him. And, as time passed, I eventually stopped believing it. I showed myself that I can control my irrational fears, I can keep a lid on those feelings that fill my tummy and chest until I can barely breathe and make me ill. My therapist at the time asked me if Simon is a man who puts his wife’s needs and happiness before his own. I said, of course, I mean, look at my life – I have the beautiful home, I don’t have to work for a living and my husband gives me everything my heart desires. And I asked myself, could a man who buys his wife flowers as often as Simon does really cheat on her? He shows his love in so many ways, but my regular bouquet from Simon is proof that even in his busy schedule of saving lives and running an operating theatre, he stops to think of me. The bouquet arrives once a fortnight, on a Tuesday, it’s always white, seasonal, beautiful, expensive and a constant reminder that Simon loves me. And only me.

  We’ve had a couple of rocky years, but things started to settle down once we’d moved to this new house last February. I’ve definitely calmed down after ten years of marriage. In the early days, when I was younger, passionate and more visceral, I was terrible. I was even more jealous than I am now and would face my ridiculous suspicions head on, regardless of the consequences. It caused so much trouble between us that Simon eventually threatened to leave, said I was making it hard for him to love me. So I promised I’d change and we went to couples counselling, but I couldn’t even deal with that in a mature, lucid fashion.

  ‘You can’t keep doing this, Marianne,’ he’d said, after I’d verbally attacked him in front of the counsellor, accusing him of all sorts.

  ‘And you can’t sleep around,’ I’d snapped back, a little woozy from the medication I was taking. I saw the look pass between him and the therapist, and in my drugged-up state I knew what it meant. They were both silently acknowledging the fact that this was all in my head. He was a caring man, who wanted the best for his wife, who gently stroked her hair, even while she raged, and wouldn’t dream of cheating, despite the fact she constantly accused him and embarrassed him in public on a regular basis. The look confirmed I was unhinged, crazy and deluded.

  It took several weeks in hospital and a lot of therapy (not to mention patience from Simon) for me to accept that I was wrong and my anxiety levels had caused me to imagine things that never happened. And only then, when everyone was sure I wasn’t a danger to myself or others, was I released.

  ‘Eat slowly,’ I murmur to the boys. ‘Don’t gulp…’ I distract myself by cleaning the shelves inside the fridge, hoping the gulping noises behind me aren’t a prelude to another belch-fest. I notice out of the corner of my eye that Sophie’s eaten barely anything and is now gazing into her phone. I push Caroline aside to allow the increasingly familiar and unwelcome thoughts to reboot: Is Sophie eating enough? Is she anorexic? She’s certainly become more insular than ever since we moved here.

  Oh God, I have to stop.

  Simon says she’s perfectly healthy and if she wants to cut down on food there’s nothing wrong with that. ‘I’ve checked her BMI, she’s fine,’ he said when I brought it up. ‘She probably just doesn’t want to get fat or it’ll ruin her tennis.’

  I’m sure he’s right, and I know he was trying to stop me from worrying. And, as he pointed out, he has so many real issues to deal with in his everyday life that me whingeing about one of the kids not eating their greens is just irritating. But Sophie looks thinner to me and I can’t help but worry. I’ve seen photos of her mum, Simon’s first wife, who was also very thin, so perhaps it’s a genetic thing? In contrast, I have a tendency to gain weight if I’m not careful and Simon’s always so supportive when I diet, talking me through calories and what my BMI should be. He certainly keeps me on my toes, but he doesn’t like it when I mention his tummy, which sometimes protrudes over his trousers if he hasn’t had chance to play tennis recently.

  Anyway, I suppose as long as Sophie’s healthy, it’s okay, and she might be skinny but she exercises, which is good. Simon takes her to tennis with him as they are both members of the lovely club on the outskirts of town, says she has a strong backhand. It costs an arm and a leg to join the tennis club, but it’s beautiful, with amazing outdoor courts and a lovely clubhouse with a bar. Simon keeps saying we should go one evening, but we haven’t had chance yet as I’m too busy with the boys. We really must synchronise our diaries better though. I’d love to see Sophie play tennis, perhaps even enjoy a G&T in the clubhouse afterwards. Thinking about this makes me feel better. Like my therapist said, it’s good to focus on positive things, stuff to look forward to.

  ‘I think you’ve forgotten something,’ I call as Sophie now runs to the door, rucksack on her back, heading off for the day. ‘Sophie?’ I say a little louder, and she turns in the doorway, the sun spinning her hair a million shades of caramel. She’s tall like her dad, statuesque really – and I see a glimpse of the woman she’ll become. I take a snapshot in my head, remembering the motherless little girl I’d fallen for and here she is now, almost a grown-up. I remember being Sophie’s age. I catch my breath, and wish I was seventeen again…

  ‘What?’ she says impatiently.

  I blow her a kiss. ‘Bye.’ Sophie says, softening and, rolling her eyes. She puckers her mouth, blowing a kiss back at me into the air before sticking her tongue out affectionately at her brothers. I catch the kiss and smile as she retreats through the door to be engulfed by her day.

  Simon wanders back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll do the school run,’ he says, handing me his dirty mug, compensating for this with a kiss on the forehead.

  My heart sinks. I like taking the boys to school; it’s one of the few things that is truly structured in my day. Besides, I had plans this morning. ‘Thanks, but I think I may have mentioned I’m going for coffee with Jen.’ I smile, folding a tea towel neatly, patting it and looking back at him.

  ‘Jen?’ He raises his eyebrow slightly, and my heart sinks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? It’s such an odd friendship. She’s so not your type.’

  ‘She’s nice,’ I say, not sure what he means. ‘What’s my type anyway?’ I giggle to indicate this isn’t meant in a confrontational way.

  ‘Well, she’s just different to you.’

  ‘She’s more fun, you mean?’ I try not to sound hurt.

  ‘No. Just different… very different.’

  I wish he could see what I see in Jen, but he doesn’t like her, never has. I think he finds her a little threatening, ever since she pounced on him at the school’s summer barn dance. Him and about five other attractive dads, I might add. That’s just her style. />
  ‘The plan is to meet in the playground when we drop the children off…’ I say, hoping this will be enough to secure me a pass. I’ve been looking forward to catching up with my new friend; I still feel bad about letting her down on the weekend in Cornwall. I know it will take time to build our friendship, but the Cornwall thing didn’t help, and we’re always cut short by the school bell or an injured or angry child. A coffee and a chat away from all the distractions would be the equivalent of about a week in playground catch-ups. Jen’s son Oliver plays rugby with the boys, which is how we met really – she’s fun and popular and as we’ve only been in the area a few months I’m both flattered and grateful for her friendliness towards me.

  ‘I pass the school to get to the hospital; I’ll drop the boys off,’ Simon is saying.

  He clearly thinks she’s a bad influence and will lead me astray. Chance would be a fine thing. Apart from anything, there simply isn’t much you can do between the hours of 9 a.m. and 3 p.m.

  ‘But I wanted to see Jen…’ I start half-heartedly, knowing it’s pointless to argue with him. Pick your fights.

  ‘But what about those paint colours for the living room? You need to decide on those as soon as possible,’ he says, like it’s a career choice.

  ‘I know, but Jen’s expecting me to…’

  ‘I’m sorry, Marianne, but let’s face it, Jen’s a mess with her brassy blonde hair and tight dresses, and she’s so loud. I can’t imagine why you’d want to spend time with someone like that. Let me save you – I’ll see her when I do the drop-off, and explain that you’re busy…’ He walks towards me, slips both hands around my waist, his hips pushing against mine gently. He hasn’t shown this kind of interest for a while, and I’m flushed with relief and pleasure. Perhaps he isn’t contemplating an affair with this mystery Caroline girl after all? ‘Darling,’ he murmurs into my hair, ‘I can’t believe you’d rather sit in some dusty old coffee shop with loudmouth Jen than be here, in this beautiful house.’ He gently pulls away, turns me around to face him. ‘I wish I was as lucky as you and didn’t have to leave here every morning…’ He strokes my hair, lifting a strand and pushing it softly behind my ear. ‘What I’d give to be here with you, just pottering about, cooking and gardening… I can’t remember the last time I had the chance to just be.’

  I look into his eyes, feeling guilty now. I think back to our first house together, the two of us excitedly choosing a new sofa and curtains, and know he’d love to stay here and go through paint swatches to help make our home even lovelier for our family. But the ungrateful bitch that I am, I’d rather sit drinking coffee and gossiping. He’s only thinking of me – he’s worried going for coffee with someone excitable like Jen will stress me out. And he’s probably right, I should stay here where it’s safe. Where I’m safe.

  ‘And besides, darling, I don’t mean to nag, but have you seen the state of this place? Didn’t you say you wanted to give it a good clean once the kids were back at school?’ He smiles and I feel bad. The whole house is pretty untidy after a summer of children and their friends: scuffed paintwork, toys everywhere and impromptu snacks and fruit juice now ingrained in the carpet. I suddenly feel all itchy and can’t wait for him to leave so I can start scrubbing, erasing all the stains of summer. The sofa’s wrecked. The living room carpet looks like a Jackson Pollock with splashes of blackcurrant and various unidentifiable marks whose origins I daren’t begin to imagine. I don’t know what I was thinking. Simon’s right, how could I sit in a coffee shop listening to Jen moaning about her husband and gossiping about the other mothers when I could be here clearing up and making the house nice?

  ‘Not to mention that I’m looking forward to a good dinner this evening.’ Simon’s now winking at me, suggesting a romantic meal together. Shit, I hadn’t expected him to want a romantic dinner on the first day back at school; there’s so much to think about already. What the hell can I make tonight that will keep him in this loving mood? There’s no excuse. I have all day and I’m sure he’s bored of the Jamie Oliver recipes I’ve thrown into a pot while refereeing wrestling matches and summer pirate invasions. No, it’s about time I gave something back and made my husband feel loved and appreciated. Tonight will be our opportunity to regroup, spend some time together and try and get back to where we were, once upon a time.

  I’m now going through recipes in my head, one worry replacing another and another and another, like shuffling cards. I know a recipe isn’t exactly ‘a worry’, but it’s the way my mind works, and it’s torture as Simon’s a bit of a perfectionist, and he seems so affectionate. I want the mood to continue.

  I think back to the early days when we first met. I vowed to myself that I’d be the perfect wife and mother to him and his little girl. I soon developed a close bond with Sophie – a grieving child who was fragile and vulnerable – and, along with Simon, provided the love and support she needed at a terrible time. In return, they both gave me such joy and Simon the love and security I’d longed for all my life. We all saved each other in a way. I took great delight in caring for Sophie, cooking nice dinners, keeping the house spotless. I took a sensual delight in ironing Simon’s shirts, the faded scent of aftershave in the fabric re-awoken by the warmth of the iron, filling me with the thrill of him. I totally gave myself to this perfect little family who needed me as much as I needed them. Simon always appreciated what I did, but then life came along like a huge tidal wave, bringing all kinds of trouble, and these days I sometimes find it hard enough to do beans on toast, let alone provide a three-course gourmet meal for Simon. Unfortunately, I raised the bar all those years ago and he came to expect a warm kitchen, a calm wife and a cake cooling on the rack when he came home from work. On good days, I can still give the impression that I’m on top of things and might just make nomination for Wife and Mother of the Year. I may even have discovered a reawakening in the fragrant ironing of his thick, cotton shirts, if he hadn’t said ‘Caroline’ the way he did.

  I hand him his flask of coffee and sandwiches – French Brie on rye with my own home-made onion marmalade.

  ‘So can we say you want me to tell that woman that you have far more important things to do than make inane small talk with her?’ he says gently, still talking about my now-cancelled coffee with Jen while taking the brown paper bag from my hand.

  ‘Yes… but don’t put it quite like that.’ I smile, concerned he’ll offend her.

  ‘Of course I won’t. I’ll be perfectly charming.’ He smiles. ‘And you can be sitting here in your beautiful kitchen face deep in shades of Farrow and Ball.’

  I smile back. Simon can still make me smile when he wants to.

  ‘If your interior decoration is as good as I think it’s going to be, we could even think about doing Christmas drinks this year?’ He raises his eyebrows, dangling this before me like a glittering bauble.

  I grasp it. We don’t entertain; he doesn’t really like it. ‘Oh, Simon, I’d love that,’ I say. I want to make new friends, open our beautiful home and bring in the neighbours. Most of all I want to prove to Simon that I can still be what he wants me to be and he doesn’t need anyone else.

  Despite Christmas being almost four months away, my head’s already filled with gleaming trays of canapés and fairy lights adorning every crevice. I see myself welcoming our guests in cocktail-length red velvet, standing by my handsome husband. I can hear them all now: ‘The Wilsons, you know, the surgeon and his lovely wife.’ I see them too, those women who steal glances, flirt with him and slip their phone numbers into his pocket when I’m not there. I know they wonder what he sees in me and amuse each other with stories about how I snared him, what tricks I pull to keep him, but they don’t know. Christmas drinks would show them all. ‘Oh so that’s what he sees in her? She’s a fabulous hostess, everything’s just perfect and that red dress shows her curves. Her quiche and soft furnishings are to die for. Have you tasted her crab puffs? Oh, now I get it, she is the woman behind the man. He’s gorgeous and successful and b
rilliant – yet nothing without her. Do you know she even chose the paint colours for the sitting room… why would he go anywhere else?’ I glow at the prospect; already I’m writing the guest list in my head as I help gather the boys and their belongings together.

  ‘Don’t forget I need you to be out of school straight away today so I can get you to violin class on time, Charlie,’ I warn. ‘Oh, and Alfie, have you put your cello in my car yet? You’re at Miss Pickering’s at 5 p.m. and I don’t want to have to drive back from school to fetch it like last term.’ I glance over at Simon as I say this. He’s always amazed at how I remember what each child is doing on each day, but he’s suddenly miles away.

  Simon’s always been very keen that the children do after-school activities – his own parents didn’t go in for that. His father died when he was young and his mother stuck to a rigid routine of school and home, and Simon wants his children to experience lots of different things. ‘So many children come home from school and are plonked in front of a TV or PlayStation, but not here,’ he always says, acknowledging all the running around I do. I love the look on his face when I reel off the children’s schedules when he asks what they’re doing. ‘I don’t know how you remember it all,’ he says whenever it comes up. But as I always point out he has far more important stuff to remember than I do and in all honesty I’ve been known to turn up to collect Alfie from Miss Pickering’s a whole hour early, but we don’t tell Dad.

  I suppose he’s thinking now of his day ahead as I remind the boys of their week: ‘French on Tuesday, film appreciation Wednesday and don’t forget rugby training Thursday, martial arts Friday.’ I stop at Friday; the weekend is a Rubik’s Cube times three and even I’m sometimes confused about who should be where and at what time. It’s so complex, I joke to Simon that I need to plot a grid and have little red dots where each child should be, but that’s my job. I love it, and Simon loves me for doing it.