Tell Me No Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a twist you won't see coming. Lisa Hall
later, when I go to the front door to let my mum in, Henry jabbering away nineteen to the dozen about the Christmas fair she took him to, I notice a tiny bunch of winter flowers tied together with a piece of raffia tucked into the corner of the porch. A small slip of white paper attached to the raffia reads, ‘Just a little something from my garden to cheer you up’. A smile touches the corners of my mouth. Even though I was so rude to her earlier, practically ignoring her in my haste to get indoors, to get away from everyone, she still thought about me. She still cared enough to leave me a gift to cheer me up. The thought of it is warming, and I resolve to fight against my instinct to push her away, to make more of an effort to let Lila in properly, as a new friend.
Mark calls later that evening to tell me not to wait up. It’s always like this the few hectic weeks before he and his crew go off on location to start shooting – meetings that start after hours and go on long into the night as they plan what equipment they need to take, which routes they’ll travel along and which flights they need to catch. For once, he calls early, just as I am about to put Henry to bed, so he says goodnight to our son and waits patiently as I finish tucking Henry into bed.
‘Hello? I’m back,’ I say, as I fold my legs beneath me and get comfortable on the couch. Despite not managing to eat any lunch, I’m not hungry yet and decide not to eat until later. ‘What time do you think you’ll be back? I haven’t eaten – I can wait for you.’ I say this in the hope he’ll tell me he’s leaving soon.
‘No, no. Don’t wait. I think it’s going to be a very late one. That’s why I’m ringing; they’ve decided to pull the whole thing forward.’ Mark’s voice is low, barely above a whisper and I realise there must be other people nearby.
‘Pull the whole thing forward? What do you mean? You’re not supposed to be leaving for another two weeks!’ My voice is shrill, and I take a deep breath to try to calm myself. I should have known that the ‘fresh start’ wouldn’t last for long – Mark is a workaholic, the lure of the camera and all the excitement that goes with it pulling him away from Henry and me time and time again, no matter how many times I beg him not to go.
‘I’m sorry, Steph. I know I said a fresh start, and that I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. But it is necessary. I have to go, and the sooner we leave the sooner we come back.’ He carries on, making his excuses to me about how this is a once in a lifetime opportunity (it always is), and how if they leave now they’ll miss the worst of the rainy season, blah, blah, blah. Always the same old reasons.
‘So, when do you go?’ I ask, biting down hard on my tongue. He knows I’m upset – of course he does; you can’t spend six years with someone without knowing them inside and out, can you? I refuse to lose my temper, refuse to shout and beg him not to go. I used to. I used to get cross and shout and tell him he loved his job more than he loved me and Henry, but after the affair with Melissa Davenport I don’t feel like I can. That maybe the reason he did what he did was partly my fault – my fault for being a nagging old shrew.
‘Please don’t be upset, Steph,’ he says, his voice breaking a little, and I melt a tiny bit inside. ‘We leave in two days. I’m sorry, you have no idea how sorry, but this way we can be back in plenty of time for Christmas. I’m gutted that I have to leave so early. You know I didn’t want to leave you alone, but at least this way I won’t miss it. I’ll be there on Christmas morning when Henry wakes up.’
This does go some way towards softening the blow, as Mark knows I want him home for Christmas. Of the five Christmases that Henry has celebrated, Mark has missed all but two of them, and one of those was his first Christmas, when he was just two months old and didn’t really take part in any of the festivities at all. I reassure Mark that it’s all OK, that we will be fine without him, and when, with a sigh of relief in his voice, he asks if I have had a good day I decide not to mention lunch with Belinda, or the fact that she wants me to interview Melissa Davenport. If he is going to be leaving me, the last thing I want on his mind is her. He says goodbye and assures me he’ll be home as soon as he can, promising to take Henry and I out for dinner tomorrow night as it’s his last night before he leaves. I agree, and hang up, knowing in my heart that there’s little chance of his making it home before midnight tonight, and probably little chance of us seeing him properly at all before he leaves us again.
I am just making myself a bowl of scrambled eggs when there is a light tapping at the front door. Nervously pulling my dressing gown tightly around my middle, I go to answer it and am relieved when it is just Lila standing on the doorstep, bundled up like a snowman. The temperature has risen a couple of degrees since the arctic weather this afternoon, but it is still bitterly cold outside and the inky night sky is full of clouds, pregnant and heavy with the first snowfall of the season.
‘Lila! God, you must be freezing. Come in.’ I stand to one side of the front door to let her squeeze in, her bulky winter coat making her face seem like that of a petite china doll, peering out from underneath her fur hood.
‘It is freezing out there; there’s definitely snow on the way.’ She grins at me, pushing back her hood with one hand, her other hand clutching on to what appears to be a black sack filled with something oddly shaped.
‘How are you feeling now?’ Lila follows me through into the cosy living room, hanging her coat on the stair banister as she passes. I have lit the open fire that sits in the centre of the room, and Lila stands to warm her hands in front of it, the smell of coal and the pine cones I chucked onto the open flames filling the room.
‘Oh, better.’ I smile. I shed a few – OK, a lot – of tears after my phone call with Mark, the thought of the next few weeks alone almost too much to bear, what with finding work, although I know Belinda will help where she can, making sure Henry is settling in OK at school and, obviously, the seemingly never-ending rounds of morning sickness. That, and spending my evenings alone, in the dark, without Mark there. It doesn’t matter how many times he goes away; it never gets any easier. ‘It just sneaks up on me a bit at times. It turns out that morning sickness is not just confined to mornings.’ I don’t elaborate any further, not wanting to discuss Mark’s imminent departure or to delve into the deeper side of how I am feeling about this pregnancy, the nervousness I feel about what happens next, once the baby is born. How I don’t want a repeat of what happened when I had Henry.
‘Well, I’m pleased you’re feeling a bit better. I was a bit worried about you earlier, you looked so peaky,’ Lila says, leaning forward to squeeze both my hands. ‘I have a little something for you and Henry, something I hope you’re going to like.’ She reaches down by her feet to the large black sack I noticed her carrying earlier. ‘I made it myself, from the plants I have growing in my garden. Anything else that I didn’t have growing I went out and picked. It’s unique, made just for you and there’s not another one like it in the world.’ She is like a small child, her enthusiasm glowing across her face and her dark hair shining in the glow of the firelight. I can’t help it – her eagerness is infectious, and I lean forward, suddenly desperate to see what is in the sack. A broad grin sweeps across Lila’s face and I find myself mirroring it back to her as she slowly withdraws a hand-made Christmas wreath from the sack. It is exquisite, a perfectly woven circle of moss, holly, ivy and mistletoe, with a few winter flowers peeping out here and there to give it some extra colour. It is absolutely perfect. Tears spring to my eyes as I hold my hands out for it and Lila lays it gently in my palms.
‘Oh, Lila. It's gorgeous – and you made it all yourself? You are clever. It’s beautiful and Henry is going to be so pleased when he sees it.’ I turn it over in my hands, spotting more flowers tucked in underneath. It really is a work of art.
‘Oh, don’t be silly. It’s nothing, just a little something I knocked up.’ Lila smiles at me bashfully, a faint blush staining her cheeks.
‘It’s not nothing – it’s gorgeous. You should sell these; you could make a fortune.’
‘No. No, I don’t want to sell them. I just thought… well, I knew you weren’t feeling too great. It’s just