Tell Me No Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a twist you won't see coming. Lisa Hall
taking me somewhere far away.
We see Laurence out some time later, after an impromptu takeaway suggested by Mark, following a call from my mother to say that Henry has fallen asleep after a busy day and she will keep him for another night, allowing us to settle in properly. Standing at the end of the garden path, watching Laurence fumbling with his door key to get in, Mark puts his arm round me and pulls me in for a hug. I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of him, the smell of clean laundry and Hugo Boss aftershave, with a slight tang of sweat.
‘See, I told you everything would be OK. We’ve made a friend already – it’ll be nice living next door to someone we get on with, who we can have a curry and a bit of a laugh with. And I’ll feel better when I’m working away, knowing there’s someone nearby if you need them.’
‘Hmmmmm. Yes, Laurence seems nice. It was very kind of him to bring us a bottle.’ I wrap my arms tightly around him, wanting to believe that what he’s saying is true, that everything will be all right. Walking back up the path together, the curtains in the living room of the house on the other side of the street twitch slightly, and I can’t help but feel an unexplained but overwhelming sense of unease.
I am sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of mint tea, when Mark hurries in, simultaneously wishing me a good morning, tying his tie and flicking the switch for the coffee pot. It’s still dark outside, crisp swirls of frost patterning the kitchen window. The kitchen is warm, the heating having come on half an hour before, and I loosen the belt of my dressing gown a touch, now that the early morning chill has abated slightly. We have only been in the house a week and it’s beginning to feel more like home, but now the furniture is all in place and only the very lightest boxes remain to be unpacked, Mark has no choice but to leave me to it and go back to work – he starts production on a new series in a few weeks and he can’t put off his return to the office any longer. He pours himself a cup of strong coffee and the smell of it makes my stomach roil in protest. I swallow hard, pressing down the bile that sits at the back of my throat.
‘What time will you be home?’ I sip at my tea, hoping to stop the morning sickness before it really grabs hold.
‘Late, probably. I know it’s not ideal, but after sorting the house out last week I need to make inroads into the new production. It’s not going to be an easy day. Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’ His eyes search my face, and I swallow back the urge to ask him to stay.
‘I’ll be fine, I promise.’ I give him a small smile, the smell of coffee in the air making the sick, queasy feeling in my belly worse. Oblivious to my nausea, Mark leans over to kiss the top of my head, breathing coffee fumes into my face.
‘Jesus, Mark!’ I gag, and sprint to the downstairs bathroom, only just reaching it in time. A few minutes later I hear the beep of the central locking on Mark’s car as I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with a tissue. I was hoping that, this time around, the morning sickness wouldn’t be as bad as it was with Henry, but it looks like I’m in for a rough ride again. Hauling myself to my feet, I am already feeling drained and exhausted and it’s not even seven a.m. yet. Reaching the kitchen, I hear footsteps scurrying around upstairs that sound like an army of tiny mice, telling me Henry is up and ready for another day. Mark has left, his empty coffee cup turned upside down in the sink to leave a dark, tannin stain on the enamel, the dirty coffee pot left unwashed on the side, burnt-coffee aroma filling the air and making my cheeks fill with bile again. A hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table reads, ‘SORRY, HAD TO LEAVE. SEE YOU TONIGHT. I LOVE YOU.’ Pushing my hands through my hair, I ignore the wreck of the kitchen and head upstairs to find my son.
A few hours later, Henry has been safely dispatched to school; I have waded through the dirty dishes in the sink and unpacked the last few boxes. I have an article due in two days on ‘What He Thinks About During Sex’ for a controversial women’s magazine, and have no clue where to start. How about the other woman he wishes he was sleeping with? I probably wouldn’t be the right person to write this article at the best of times, given the way things are between myself and Mark, and now, after what has happened in our marriage, I would say I’m the last person who should be writing articles on the subject. But, as I said to Laurence, it pays the bills and that’s what counts. I have just deleted the opening sentence for the fifth time and started to bash out another version when the doorbell rings. I sigh in frustration, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, as I only have an hour before I have to leave to collect Henry from school. Opening the door, I am surprised to see a petite, dark-haired woman on the doorstep, someone I definitely don’t know.
‘Hello?’ I smile quizzically at her, not having a clue who she is.
‘You’re Steph, right? I’m Lila – your neighbour!’ She gives me a wide, toothy grin and looks at me as though I should recognise her.
‘From next door? Oh, you must be Laurence’s wife. Nice to meet you. Sorry I haven’t been over to introduce myself; things have been a little hectic here.’ I pull the door fully open and hold out my hand for her to shake.
‘Oh, silly! Honestly. I don’t live next door; I live across the street with my boyfriend, Joe. I’ve been meaning to pop over and introduce myself, but you know how it is. I wanted to come over the day you moved in but Joe said I should wait a bit, let you get settled.’
I wonder if this is the curtain twitcher from the first evening, when Laurence came over? Feeling a little on the back foot, I give her a tiny smile, thinking that maybe I should invite her in – Mark would want me to invite her in for a cup of tea, at least.
‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Lila. Would you like to come in? I mean, I don’t have long, I’m working … I work from home, you see.’ I’m rambling, so I stop talking and wait for her response, half wishing she would refuse the invitation.
‘That sounds lovely – I bought you this, as a little house-warming gift.’ Lila holds out a foil-wrapped package and, with one delicate, porcelain-white hand, peels back the foil to reveal a home-baked coffee cake. The smell hits me before I even realise what it is and I reel back.
‘Oh, Jesus. Sorry.’ I clasp my hand over my mouth and sprint back into the house, running for the downstairs bathroom before I am sick again.
Coming out of the bathroom ten minutes later, as I wipe my hand across my mouth, I remember that I left Lila on the doorstep. Now, it seems she has made herself at home in my kitchen, the foil-wrapped package tightly resealed and stuffed deep into the bottom of the bin, and the kettle boiling merrily away as she busies herself taking down mugs and finding teabags.
‘Sorry about that.’ I sit down heavily into the nearest kitchen chair, legs still shaky after the vomiting.
‘Nonsense. Don’t worry about it. I should have realised that coffee cake is not the best gift for a pregnant lady suffering from morning sickness.’ She smiles at me and hands me a cup of steaming mint tea.
‘How did you know?’ I ask, taking a small sip. ‘I could have just had a virus.’
‘Your husband … Mark, isn’t it? He mentioned it when I introduced myself, last week.’ Lila sits at the table next to me. ‘Now, drink that slowly. You don’t want to be sick again, do you?’
‘Mark mentioned it?’ Mark never said anything to me about the fact that he had met our other next-door neighbour. He never mentioned anything at all about meeting any of the neighbours.
‘Yes, Joe and I were on our way back indoors after we’d been out and your husband was in your front garden – he is your husband, isn’t he?’ I nod, and she carries on: ‘I introduced Joe and myself. Mark said then that you had a little boy and that you were expecting another.’ Lila sips her tea, her eyes darting all around the kitchen as if looking for something. ‘Where is your little boy?’
‘At school.’ I watch her carefully, this strangely overfriendly woman who seems to have just barrelled her way into my home, although my dashing off to be sick