Sometimes I Lie: A psychological thriller with a killer twist you'll never forget. Alice Feeney
do, I don’t see them. Her long blonde hair has been straightened within an inch of its life and is tucked behind her ears as though she is wearing an invisible Alice band. Everything about her appearance is neat, tidy, controlled. We couldn’t look more different. She stands too close, waiting for me to say something. Her perfume infiltrates my nostrils, my throat, I can taste it on my tongue. Familiar but dangerous. Sickly sweet.
‘I thought you were going out after work tonight?’ says Paul from his seat.
His eyes narrow slightly at the sight of my shopping bags, some new outfits folded neatly in a cradle of tissue paper inside. I silently dare him to say something. It’s my money, I earned it. I’ll spend it on what I like. I put the bags down, noticing the deep red grooves the plastic handles have carved into my fingers.
‘Something came up,’ I say in Paul’s direction, before turning to Claire: ‘I didn’t know you were coming round. Is everything all right?’ I know what’s going on here.
‘Everything’s fine, David is working late, again. I came over to see you for a girly chat, but I forgot that unlike me you have a social life.’
She’s trying too hard, her smile looks like it’s hurting her face.
‘Where are the children?’ I ask. Her smile fades.
‘With a neighbour, they’re fine. I wouldn’t leave them with anyone unreliable.’ She turns to Paul, but he just stares at the floor. Her lips are stained from the wine and her cheeks a little flushed; she has never been able to handle her drink. I see it then, the look in her eyes; that flash of danger that I’ve seen before. She knows I’ve spotted it and that I haven’t forgotten what it means. ‘I should go, it’s later than I thought,’ she says.
‘I’d invite you to stay, but I need to talk to my husband.’ I meant to say Paul, but my subconscious deemed it necessary to change the script.
‘Of course. Well, I’ll see you both soon. Hope everything is OK at work,’ she says, picking up her coat and bag, leaving her half-drunk glass of wine on the table. As soon as the door closes, I am overwhelmed with regret. I know I should go after her, apologise, so she knows I still love her, that we’re OK. But I don’t.
‘Well, that was awkward,’ says Paul.
I don’t respond, don’t even look at him. Instead, I double-lock the front door without thinking then pick up Claire’s glass and walk out to the kitchen. He follows me and stands in the doorway as I tip the crimson liquid into the sink. Dark red splashes stain the white porcelain and I turn on the tap to wash them away.
‘Yes, it was a little strange coming home to find my husband and sister enjoying a cosy night in together.’ The memory of the wine I drank myself earlier slurs my words a little. I can see from Paul’s expression that he thinks I’m being ridiculous, or jealous, or both. It isn’t that. I’m scared of what this means, finding them like this. I’m pretty sure she knew I wouldn’t be here and she’d offloaded the kids, so she’d planned it. I can’t explain it to him, he wouldn’t believe me, he doesn’t know her like I do or understand what she’s capable of.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I meant you, just telling her to leave like that. She came round here to see you, she’s feeling really down.’
‘Well, maybe she should phone first if she really wants to see me.’
‘She said she did, several times. You didn’t return any of her calls.’ I remember that Claire did call today, twice. The first time during my chat with Matthew, as though she had known something was wrong. I turn to face Paul but the words won’t come. Everything about him in this moment seems to irritate me. He’s still an attractive man but elements of the life he has chosen have left him worn and used, like a shiny piece of silver that becomes dull and tarnished over time. He’s too thin, his skin looks like it has forgotten the sun, and his hair is too long for a man his age, but then he never did grow up. I can see from the set of his jaw that he’s angry with me and for some reason that turns me on. We haven’t had sex for months, not since our anniversary. Maybe that’s how it will be from now on, an annual treat.
I turn to face the oven, my fingers forming the familiar shapes. I didn’t used to do this in front of him, but I don’t care any more.
‘Did something happen at work today?’ he asks.
I don’t reply.
‘I don’t know why you stay there.’
‘Because I need to.’
‘Why? We don’t need the money. You could try and get a job in TV again.’
A layer of silence spreads itself over the conversation, smothering the words we always think but never say. Radio killed his TV star. I continue to stare at the oven and start to count under my breath.
‘Will you stop doing that? It’s nuts,’ he says.
I ignore him and carry on with my routine. I can feel him staring at me.
The wheels on the bus go round and round . . .
All we seem to do lately is argue.
Round and round . . .
The harder I try to hold us together, the faster we fall apart.
Round and round.
I’m not someone who cries, I have other ways of expressing my sadness.
The wheels on the bus go round and round . . .
I wish I could tell him the truth.
All day long.
A memory from my childhood switches itself on inside my head. I wish it wouldn’t.
‘Are you OK?’ Paul asks, finally leaving the doorway.
‘No,’ I whisper and let him hold me.
It’s the truth, but not the whole of it.
Dear Diary,
Today was an interesting day, I started at a new school. That is not very interesting, it happens quite often, but today it felt different, as though maybe things will work out this time. My new form teacher seems nice. When Mum meets her, I bet she’ll say, ‘Mrs MacDonald likes her food, doesn’t she?’ Mum says that sort of thing a lot, it’s her way of saying someone is overweight. Mum says it is important to look your best, because even if people shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, they still do. Mrs MacDonald is older than Mum but younger than Nana was. She introduced me to the class without making a song and dance of it like teachers normally do, then told me to take a seat. There was only one empty desk at the back of the room, so I sat there. As first days at school go, today was OK. Mum says we’ll definitely stick around this time, but she’s said that before.
The class are reading the diary of a girl called Anne Frank, but they’ve only just started, so I haven’t missed too much. The girl at the desk next to mine let me share her copy. She said I should call her Taylor, which is actually her surname, not her first name, but whatever. I noticed the dusting of chalk on her blazer and I already know she’s one of those kids, the sort the others don’t like.
For our homework, we have to write a diary entry every day for a week, a bit like Anne Frank, but she did it for much longer. The best part of this is that we don’t even have to hand it in, because Mrs MacDonald says diaries should always be private. I thought about not doing it at all, nobody would know, but Mum and Dad are arguing again downstairs so I thought I may as well give it a go.
I don’t think my diary is going to be as interesting as Anne Frank’s. I’m not a very interesting person. Mrs MacDonald says if