Sometimes I Lie: A psychological thriller with a killer twist you'll never forget. Alice Feeney
I feel colder than before and so terribly small. I have never known a terror like the one that takes hold of me now.
I wish someone would say something. ‘Who is she?’ asks a woman’s voice.
‘No idea. Poor love, what a mess,’ replies another woman.
I wish they’d said nothing at all. I start to scream:
My name is Amber Reynolds! I’m a radio presenter! Why don’t you know who I am?
I shout the same sentences over and over, but they ignore me because, on the outside, I am silent. On the outside, I am nobody and I have no name.
I want to see the me they have seen. I want to sit up, reach out and touch them. I want to feel something again. Anything. Anyone. I want to ask a thousand questions. I think I want to know the answers. They used the word from before too, the one I don’t want to hear.
The women leave, closing the door behind them, but the word stays behind, so that we are alone together and I am no longer able to ignore it. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t move. I can’t speak. The word bubbles to the surface, popping on impact and I know it to be true…
Coma.
One week earlier – Monday, 19th December 2016
I tiptoe downstairs in the early morning darkness, careful not to wake him. Everything is where it ought to be and yet I’m sure something is missing. I pull on my heavy winter coat to combat the cold and walk through to the kitchen to begin my routine. I start with the back door and repeatedly turn the handle until I’m sure it is locked:
Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.
Next, I stand in front of the large range oven with my arms bent at the elbows, as though I am about to conduct the impressive orchestra of gas hobs. My fingers form the familiar shape; the index and middle finger finding the thumb on each hand. I whisper quietly to myself, while visually checking that all of the knobs and dials are switched off. I do a complete sweep three times, my fingernails clicking together to create a Morse code that only I can decipher. Once satisfied that everything is safe and secure, I go to leave the kitchen, lingering briefly in the doorway, wondering if today is a day when I might need to turn back and begin the whole routine again. It isn’t.
I creep across creaking floorboards into the hall, pick up my bag and check the contents. Phone. Purse. Keys. I close it, open it, then check again. Phone. Purse. Keys. I check a third time on my way to the front door. I stop for a moment and am shocked to see the woman inside the mirror staring back at me. I have the face of someone who might have been pretty once, I barely recognise her now. A mixed palette of light and dark. Long black lashes frame my large green eyes, sad shadows have settled beneath them, thick brown eyebrows above. My skin is a pale canvas stretched over my cheekbones. My hair is so brown it’s almost black, lazy straight strands rest on my shoulders for lack of a better idea. I brush it roughly with my fingers before scraping it back into a ponytail, securing the hair off my face with a band from my wrist. My lips part as though I am going to say something, but only air escapes my mouth. A face for radio stares back.
I remember the time and remind myself that the train won’t wait for me. I haven’t said goodbye, but I don’t suppose it matters. I switch off the light and leave the house, checking three times that the front door is locked, before marching down the moonlit garden path.
It’s early, but I’m already late. Madeline will be in the office by now, the newspapers will have been read, raped of any good stories. The producers will have picked through the paper carcasses, before being barked at and bullied into getting her the best interviews for this morning’s show. Taxis will be on their way to pick up and spit out overly excited and under-prepared guests. Every morning is different and yet has become completely routine. It’s been six months since I joined the Coffee Morning team and things are not going according to plan. A lot of people would think I have a dream job, but nightmares are dreams too.
I briefly stop to buy coffee for myself and a colleague in the foyer, then climb the stone steps to the fifth floor. I don’t like lifts. I fix a smile on my face, before stepping into the office, and remind myself that this is what I do best; changing to suit the people around me. I can do ‘Amber the friend’ or ‘Amber the wife’, but right now it’s time for ‘Amber from Coffee Morning’. I can play all the parts life has cast me in, I know all my lines; I’ve been rehearsing for a very long time.
The sun has barely risen but, as predicted, the small, predominately female team has already assembled. Three fresh-faced producers, powered by caffeine and ambition, sit hunched over their desks. Surrounded by piles of books, old scripts and empty mugs, they tap away on their keyboards as though their cats’ lives depend on it. In the far corner, I can see the glow of Madeline’s lamp in her own private office. I sit down at my desk and switch on the computer, returning the warm smiles and greetings from the others. People are not mirrors, they don’t see you how you see yourself.
Madeline has got through three personal assistants this year. Nobody lasts very long before she discards them. I don’t want my own office and I don’t need a PA, I like sitting out here with everyone else. The seat next to mine is empty. It’s unusual for Jo not to be here by now and I worry that something might be wrong. I look down at the spare coffee getting cold, then talk myself into taking it to Madeline’s office. Call it a peace offering.
I stop in the open doorway like a vampire waiting to be invited in. Her office is laughably small, literally a converted store cupboard because she refuses to sit with the rest of the team. There are framed photos of Madeline with celebrities squeezed onto every inch of the fake walls and a small shelf of awards behind her desk. She doesn’t look up. I observe the ugly short hair, grey roots making themselves known beneath the black spikes. Her chins rest on top of each other, while the rest of her rolled flesh is thankfully hidden beneath the baggy, black clothes. The desk lamp shines on the keyboard, over which Madeline’s ring adorned fingers hover. I know she can see me.
‘I thought you might need this,’ I say, disappointed with the simplicity of the words given how long it took me to find them.
‘Put it on the desk,’ she replies, her eyes not leaving the screen.
You’re welcome.
A small fan heater splutters away in the corner and the burnt-scented warmth snakes up around my legs, holding me in place. I find myself staring at the mole on her cheek. My eyes do that sometimes: focus on a person’s imperfections, momentarily forgetting that they can see me seeing the things they’d rather I didn’t.
‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ I venture.
‘I’m not ready to talk to people yet,’ she says. I leave her to it.
Back at my desk, I scan through the pile of post that has gathered since Friday: a couple of ghastly looking novels that I will never read, some fan mail and an invite to a charity gala, which catches my eye. I sip my coffee and daydream about what I might wear and whom I would take along if I went. I should do more charity work really, I just never seem to have the time. Madeline is the face of Crisis Child as well as the voice of Coffee Morning. I’ve always found her close relationship with the country’s biggest children’s charity slightly strange, given that she hates them and never had any of her own. She never even married. She’s completely alone in life but never lonely.
Once I’ve sorted the post, I read through the briefing notes for this morning’s programme, it’s always useful to have a bit of background knowledge before the show. I can’t find my red pen, so I head for the stationery cupboard.
It’s been restocked.
I glance over my shoulder and then back at the neatly piled shelves of supplies. I grab a handful of Post-it notes, then I take a few red pens, pushing them into my pockets. I keep taking them until they are all gone and the box