Beautiful Liar: a gripping suspense thriller Page 4

  I'm not saying I think I'm unattractive; just I've always had to try to make my appearance presentable. Most of my friends, including Rose, seem able to leave the house, without most of the local chemist’s cosmetics counter applied lavishly to their face. I, on the other hand, have to.

  Still, I try not to give off the scent of feeling far less than others, always giving the impression of being happy to live in a shared flat at the age of twenty-four, and working in a job I had to take, because I wasn't able to get even a passing grade on my psychology degree.

  I make my way into the kitchen, finding Rose leaning back against the counter top, with her mobile phone pressed to her ear. Her boyfriend is rather cute, but not my type. Far to flighty, and I often wonder if Rose has only agreed to take him back because she's frightened of what might happen to him without her to take care of him. I suppose, in a way, she's mothering him, but I know only too well how tempting it is to see the best in people. I was always making excuses for Matt's sharp temper and critical comments. That's why Joel was a breath of fresh air tonight. He absorbed me in his web, and I'm glad he persuaded me to go on a date with him.

  I step back to let Rose past, and switch the kettle on, miming 'do you want one,' to which she just nods her head, so all-consumed with Jared's recent drama she almost forgets I'm able to hear her side of the conversation.

  'They should have given you a chance; it's not like you did it on purpose,' she says.

  I take it to assume he's done something wrong in work, or had another falling out with his boss. I divert my gaze away from her to read the text message which has popped up on my mobile phone.

  See you tomorrow at 1:00pm. J

  I try not to allow my heart to skip a beat, assuring myself Joel is only being so forward because he's used to being let down, like me, but I can't seem to shake the feeling things are moving way too fast. We've only known each other a couple of days, and though we seem to have a few things in common, I still hardly know him.

  What first attracted me to him was his zest for life; an impulsiveness, which compliments my inability to focus. Though he's a little older than me, his authoritative display of knowing what to say, and when, makes me feel secure. He's solution-focussed, something almost impossible to find in a man my own age. I could tell straight away Joel was a natural leader. He has the kind of masculine energy which is so well-controlled you might mistake him for being a bit of a push-over, but I got the impression he is anything but.

  'Sorry about that.' Rose places the phone down onto the rickety dining table we found outside someone's house a few months ago, after realising the sofa was being abused by late-night feasts. Its fabric had been caked in spilt food, fallen crumbs building up alongside the seams of the cushions, and stains which we never seemed able to remove. The legs of the table are riddled with woodworm, and the wood stain is tarnished. Deep lacerations where forks have been dug into the body of it by an errant child make it look anything less than pre-loved. Just like most of the furniture in the flat, it is damaged in some way. But, it is ours, and it cost us nothing.

  'Jared is handing in his notice tomorrow. His boss is a right arse,' she says, seemingly forgetting he hasn't been able to hold down a job for longer than three months. I'm starting to think there's more to it than a simple misunderstanding or a mutual dislike between Jared and his boss, but decide against pursuing it.

  'So, how was your date?' she says, as an afterthought, her mind obviously still on Jared.

  'It went very well. We're going for lunch tomorrow, but I'm not sure what I'm going to wear.'

  'I'll lend you something.' She leaves the kitchen.

  Once I’ve poured myself a cup of tea, I follow her into the living room, switching on the television. I fall onto the sofa feeling a whoosh as I sink down into the soft cushions I bought in Wilko's, and slouch down beside her to catch up on the evening news.

  I lift the cup to my lips, tasting the hot sugary tea with the tip of my tongue, as the presenter, in a sad voice, introduces the programme—a documentary examining domestic abuse. The sight of a woman's bruised and battered face makes my skin prickle.

  'How can these women stay with such bastards?' says Rose.

  I shake my head. 'I don't know. You'd think they'd notice something was wrong in the beginning, wouldn't you?'

  'I guess.'

  'If a bloke hit me once, he'd be straight out of the door. I don't think he'd even make it out of there alive, either.'

  Rose looks at me then, her face serious. 'You'd have to make it look like an accident, though.’

  I smile, digging the television remote from beneath a pile of magazines on the coffee table, and switch the channel over to something more light-hearted.

  It's funny what our minds consciously process, I think, as we catch the last half of one of my favourite soaps. The image of the woman's face is gone from my mind, but the memory of her sad eyes stay with me, haunting me. I hear the light rain pattering against the window, forcing my attention to the dismal sky beyond the glass. At least here, in this flat with Rose, I am safe.

  My eyes are still on the window, when a set of car headlights skim through the bush at the end of the garden. They cast a bright light into the living room, scaling the carpeted floor for a few seconds, before the driver makes their way down to the end of the street. Had I imagined it stall outside of the flat for a few moments, before continuing on its journey?

  A light flutter of butterflies start to spin around in my stomach, as I imagine it is Joel, curious to know where I live and what I'm doing; unable to stay away from me until we meet again for lunch tomorrow.

  The thought vanishes just as instantly as it came. I divert my gaze to Rose, following her movements, as she stands up, waltzes into the kitchen, and returns a minute later with a plate containing two large fairy cakes, filled with strawberry jam and buttercream.

  'I made these earlier. I thought if Jared and I are going to be moving in together, I'd better start learning how to bake.'

  'You're going to be the proper little housewife, are you?'

  'Not at all,' she says. 'We'll probably be skint, so I won't be able to buy them in the bakery anymore.' She snickers.

  'You really are doing it, then?'

  'It makes sense. We'd both be spending less on rent, if we shared it.'

  'You just said yourself you won't be able to afford cake.'

  'Then, let's start a fund, or something. But, no, seriously, we'll actually be better off, so long as Jared doesn't take too long to find another job,' she adds, snapping up one of the sponge cakes, and shovelling it into her mouth.

  I nod, unsure how I feel about having a new flatmate, or having to live alone.

  'So, Joel seems nice?' she says, diverting the conversation casually back to my sex life, not that I have one.

  'Yes. He's a lawyer.'

  Her eyebrows raise slightly at this. I feel the need to emphasise he doesn't deal with criminal cases. In fact, his work sounds utterly boring, but he seems to enjoy the power it gives him, and it must be well-paid.

  'He deals with commercial law.'

  Rose feigns a yawn.

  'I know, I know, but he has his own house, and he's very attentive. He even paid for the meal, the taxi, and opened the door for me. He was the perfect gentleman. I think I like him.'

  'Well, I'm glad. You deserve someone stable, with their own income, and somewhere to live. You don't want to have to take care of someone. You want someone to take care of you.'

  I don't think she realises the impact her words should be making on her own life. Jared has been living off her for the past twelve months. He tries, but doesn't seem able to hold down a job, or even keep a flat, for very long, before he's once again kicked out onto the streets, having annoyed somebody.

  I'm beginning to think Rose has become a bit of a doormat, and I really can't understand what she sees in him. Sure, he's cute, but in a boyish kind of way. And he doesn't have any qualifications. He seems the type to
endlessly drift from one thing to the next.

  Hopefully, living with Rose will force him to grow up. She won't put up with his laziness, or his lack of employment, for long. I know her too well. We've lived together since we began uni. Four years is a long time to live with somebody. You get to know their little quirks, and one of Rose's is being intuitive. It's just one of the many things I love about her. If she feels something is wrong, she won't do it. I'm reassured by her confidence she's doing the right thing by agreeing to move in with Jared. After all, she wouldn't allow anyone to take charge of her life, or to stop her doing something she's set her mind on.

  Which is more than I can say for myself. Sometimes, I think it would be good not to have to control everything. For me, to have somebody who appreciates order and structure, and isn't afraid to take the reins once in a while would give me less time to worry about things. Yes, my nervous disposition is anything but—it's more of an overactive adrenal gland. Once I put my mind to something, I give it my all, despite what the opposition thinks.

  My mother always said I was a worrier, but I think she mistook my energy as anxiety. I suppose it's something Matt took advantage of—my ability to take care of several things at once. Not until it was too late did I realise I was putting more of an effort into our relationship than he was. He was inconsiderate of other's feelings, having one rule for everyone else, but believing he could do as he liked. It wasn't even that in the end, which made me question what the hell I was doing with him. It was his inability to foresee the consequences of his actions.

  The night of the argument had left me feeling wounded; physically and emotionally sore. He'd been in such a foul mood, he kicked his foot into the wall, narrowly missing Pippa's head. That did it for me.

  Shouting was one thing, but heated aggression quite another. I left his flat that morning for work, and never went back. I vowed that day I'd never allow another man into my life, if he shared any of Matt's traits. Thankfully, Joel is different. He doesn't look like the kind of man to become angry over nothing. After all, it wouldn't do for a lawyer to lose it so easily.

  Rose offers me a look, which says 'you're over-thinking again.' I raise my eyebrows slightly, and nod my head in acknowledgement. She's always been able to see inside my head.

  I rest my head against the curve of the sagging sofa, trying not to think about what might have happened if I hadn't realised what a mistake I'd made agreeing to move in with Matt, before that night I saw just how volatile our relationship had become. Would I still be there? Would he have eventually become violent?

  I shudder at the thought.

  I hadn't noticed Rose leave the room, until she lands down heavily on the sofa on her return, forcing the seat to rise up suddenly. She presses a bowl of popcorn into my lap, sticking her hand inside to collect a palm-full of the sweet, sticky stuff.

  'Dirty Dancing is on in a minute,' she says. 'Let's have a girly film night. It's still early.'

  My face beams, but my smile fades. This might be the last film night we share, before she moves out.

  JOEL

  I drop my mobile phone into the pocket of my trousers, and stand before the mirror for one final check, ensuring my shirt hasn't creased, or my tie has moved out of place. I comb back the short dark hair on my head, having earlier applied the perfect amount of gel to keep it stable. I nod my head in self-agreement. I'm looking rather dapper. I grab my keys from the small table in the hall, and leave the house.

  My feet crunch the gravel, as I make my way over to the car. I leave the gates to close behind me, driving in the direction of Erica's flat.

  It's a good job I checked out her address on the electoral register when I pulled into the petrol station on my way home last night. I don't think I would have known such a well-dressed woman shared a flat in this dire part of suburban Bristol.

  The dismal flat sits nestled between ex-council houses, all of which appear to have been converted into flats or maisonettes, each with their own affixed letterbox attached to a grubby wall. An unkempt garden and an undelightful car, parked haphazardly over the pavement outside, makes it difficult to find a space big enough to park my silver Mercedes.

  I knock three times on the door, and wait for her to open it, surprised to see her friend standing in the doorway, with her hair swept up in a tired ponytail, leaving wisps of it to fall down the sides of her face. She looks just as dishevelled as the flat, I notice, as my eyes fall behind her, scanning the elusive space my date resides within.

  'You must be Joel?' she says, stepping back to allow me through into a dimly lit hall, where piles of unopened letters and a stack of women's magazines litter the dusty carpet, two feet behind the door. She doesn't excuse the mess, so I assume the untidiness of the flat is her own doing, and not Erica's. I don't know how Erica can stand to live here.

  'And you are…?'

  'Rose, Erica's flatmate, best friend, and secret lover,' she says. Her lips curve upwards at this, but I don't reciprocate. She calls out to Erica, who appears in a state of hurried dress from what appears to be the living room, though I can't be sure because even in there it could pass as a launderette, or a bring-and-buy sale. She waves me away, exclaiming I mustn't see her until she's 'put her face on.'

  I assume she means her makeup, so I follow Rose through into the living room, where she offers me a cup of tea. Despite my thirst, I decline, having noticed the room is in a rather sorry state. Used cups and an empty bowl, which at some point housed popcorn, have been left out. The coat and shoes Erica wore yesterday evening for our date have been thrown about the sofa in careless disarray.

  I perch myself down onto the armrest of the sofa, which appears to have been bought sometime in the nineties. Eventually, Erica appears in the doorway, her face beautified, and her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

  I guide her toward the door, hoping to avoid further examination from Rose, who seems to be observing my movements, as if testing my suitability to date her friend. I wish her a good day, and stand two paces behind Erica, so I can see what she looks like from behind. I glide past her, once we've met the pavement, and open the car door for her.

  I can see Rose's eyes light up when she sees how attentive I am toward Erica. I only hope this is enough to please her.

  Erica seems to be enjoying the element of suspense over where we're headed, and I find myself wishing she'd try to guess where I'm taking her, if only to allow me to shake my head, and tell her she's wrong.

  The drive is silent, and I turn on the radio for some background chatter, hoping this will avert her thoughts from being alone in a car with a man she's only met twice. By the time we pull alongside the large estate, she’s finally relaxed into the seat.

  'Ashton Court?' she says, unable to hide the disappointment in her words.

  'There's a lovely little café hidden back from the path, and I thought the fresh air would do us some good.'

  She sniffs the air, and nods her head as if agreeing with me, though I know she'd probably rather have been taken elsewhere. I hope she'll come to enjoy it.

  It isn't anxiety causing her to be so uptight, her words often forthright, but something else. Can I detect a memory, perhaps, something from her past, which has tainted the day already? That is something I hope to get to the bottom of, prior to returning to the car.

  For now, I open the door for her, and take her hand, heading straight for the little café, with its pinewood ceiling. The smell of percolated coffee, mixed with freshly baked bread, emanates outside, where a couple sitting on chairs are tucking into freshly prepared sandwiches.

  Erica chooses a doorstep sandwich filled to the brim. I notice she feverishly bites into the bread, as though she's been starved. She certainly looks slim, but I've no idea what bad eating habits lurk beneath her painfully thin exterior. The sight of her teeth gnawing through the ham, which falls limp, hanging from the bread between her hands, sends a spasm of nausea sweeping through my stomach and up into my throat.

  'I'm a v
egetarian.'

  'Oh,' she says, looking down to her plate.

  I notice her delicately painted fingernails hover over the glass of orange juice she insisted on having to accompany her food, at my expense, of course.

  'I don't mind you eating meat in front of me; I just dislike eating it myself.'

  'I should have guessed.' She swallows a mouthful of food. 'Last night you chose the vegetable cannelloni.'

  'You weren't to know.'

  To divert the conversation away from meat, and to rid the images of it—bloodied and flesh-like—from my mind, I ask her if she'd like to join me for a tour of the estate, once we've finished eating.

  'I didn't think you could still visit there.'

  'Of course you can. I find the history of things fascinating.'

  Wondering if it might be too early to push her, I let slip I'd like to know a bit more about her own history.

  'What do your parents do?'

  She almost chokes on the lettuce in her mouth. 'My mother died of cancer when I was at uni. My dad and I have never been close. He lives in Berkshire now.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that. What did you study at university?' I say, unable to stop myself from correcting her vocabulary.

  'Psychology at UWE.'

  'So you know a little about personality.'

  'I should hope so. That's what I do, you see. I run psychological assessments on people's skills for job roles.'

  'I didn't know human resources covered so much.'

  I say this more as a humorous observation, but she doesn't detect the hint of sarcasm in my voice, and assumes it's a question.

  'I run a stress management programme, too, for employees, and a leadership coaching programme for those on the higher end of the pay-scale.

  'And where do you fit into all this? I mean, on the scale?'

  'I guess on the front-line, with the bottom feeders.'

  Her metaphor based on fish and cleaning up other's dirt at the bottom of a tank makes me wonder if that's how she really sees herself, trying to mask her reply with humour.