The Lies She Told: A wickedly twisted psychological thriller that you cannot put down!

by Paula Johnston

  She's acting different than normal. I can't really explain it; there's just something odd about the way she's speaking. She doesn't seem to be taking breaths between her sentences and keeps wittering on about the most pointless things. I notice that her voice has definitely gone up an octave or two; it's even more of an annoying trill now than it was before. She delights in telling me that she has gone to the trouble of making up the guest bedroom for me, which is strange because I saw it earlier today when I was snooping and it was already made. I can't question her on that though, because then she would know I wasn't where I was supposed to be so I let her continue to spout some more shit about how I’m welcome to have a nice bubble bath whilst she cooks our dinner. My stomach twists at the thought. I feel sick at the thought of more food entering my tender stomach, I don’t know how I will be able to eat a full meal.

  ‘You’re so lucky that none of your things were damaged, Zee’ she tells me.

  I nod my head in agreement. ‘Yes, very lucky indeed.’ I'm about to respond further, embellish some more bits to make my story more believable but the song that comes on her playlist next takes my breath away.

  Baby girl you know my situation, and sometimes I know you get impatient.

  It's our song. Mine and his. The one that whenever we hear it, we think of each other no matter where we are. She's still talking, but I don't hear a word she's saying. The Fabolous song has me under its spell; the way it always does. All I can think of is him and the pictures he sends me when he plays this song in his own car. He knows it will provoke a reaction from me, because he knows me too well. I quickly swipe a tear away from my eye before she notices and turn my head to gaze out the window. It feels so wrong to be sitting next to her whilst this is playing, but I have no choice but to sit and listen.

  I can't leave you alone, and I know I'm living wrong – but I can't let you go. You're the one I want in my life, I already got a wife, can't leave you alone, and I know I'm living wrong – but I can't let you go.

  Jacob

  I finished a job earlier than I thought today. Thinking it would be a nice idea to ditch the pub and head home and surprise Lauren by making her a romantic dinner in an attempt to shake her out of this bad mood of hers. I stopped at the shop around the corner from our house and bought all the ingredients needed to whip up her favourite pasta dish. I was convinced this was going to earn me major brownie points and I was pleased with myself for thinking of the idea in the first place.

  Desperate for the loo, I dump the bags onto the floor at the front door and unzip my old dirty grey hoodie that I wear to work most days and hang it over the end of the banister. I nip straight into the downstairs toilet before going through to the kitchen.

  As I wash my hands and turn off the tap, I notice the sound of movement from deeper inside the house. Not just that though, it sounds like muffled voices. Who the fuck is in my house? I briskly make my way through the living room, bracing myself for the discovery of an intruder but am surprised to find Lauren putting two wine glasses into the dishwasher.

  ‘Oh, hey Babe - you’re home early’ I quiz.

  ‘Yeah, I wasn’t too busy today so finished up early to spend some time with Zara.’

  She looks flustered as she rests leaning against the worktop, her fingers gripping the edge so hard that I think her fingers are changing colour. What's wrong with her now, for fuck sake?

  ‘You just missed her actually’ she says tersely.

  ‘Did I?’ I respond genuinely. ‘Where did she go, then?’

  My interest was piqued now as a thousand voices in my head began to run wild. That's quite convenient that as soon as I arrived home, she disappeared. Something is way off here. The one thought that keeps pushing to the forefront of my mind is, what if this Zara wasn’t actually a Zara after all? What if she never existed in the first place Zara was just a blanket of disguise for who she’s really been with?

  I force myself to concentrate on the words spilling from her mouth; focusing on the lies she might be telling. I listen to the pace of her sentences. I watch her body language for any clues, but I'm not picking up on anything too alarming. At least not any more alarming than her current attitude towards me.

  ‘Her hotel just phoned to say there had been a leak somewhere, and that they needed her to come back right away’ she explains calmly. I notice the colour fill her fingers again as she loosens her grip on the worktop.

  ‘That’s a shame’ I add. ‘I hope none of her stuff is damaged.’

  She sneers at me and then an awkward silence fills the space between us. Am I supposed to say something here? What is she wanting from me? Eventually she turns and places a bottle of wine into the fridge with a loud bang. I just don't get this – any of it. What is she hiding, or dare I say it, who is she hiding? Rubbing my temples and exhaling loudly, I turn my back on her and make my way through the living room and head up the stairs. As I enter our bedroom, I come to an abrupt halt as I notice a foreign smell. It smells a bit too feminine to be cologne but it doesn't smell like Laurens usual perfume either; it’s a bit muskier, a bit sexier actually. She has been wearing a new one since she got home right enough, maybe it’s that. Fuck, I hope it’s that.

  I look around the room carefully for any tell-tale signs of mischief, but nothing looks out of place. The bed is still made as neatly as it was this morning and the glass of water that I left at my arse from last night is still lying untouched. Would she have left it there if she was expecting company?

  On Lauren’s bedside table are the same pair of black earrings that were left there before she went on holiday and even they don’t look like they have been moved or anything. I'm going fucking mad. I sit down on the bed and then flop onto my back, feeling stupid for even considering that my wife might be having an affair. After a few minutes of telling myself what a complete idiot I am, I bounce onto my feet and pull my sweaty t-shirt up and over my head. I undo my trousers and make my way into our en-suite bathroom for a shower. I reach for my wrist to unclasp my watch, but my skin is bare. I must have forgotten to put it on this morning.

  I reach inside the cubicle and turn on the hot water, but something is still niggling away at me and I just can’t put my finger on it. Gut instinct tells me to turn back on myself, take a second look. As I do, my stomach drops. My watch is missing.

  Chapter 17

  Karly

  When we arrive at the house for the second time today, we don’t head in the direction of the back garden as we had done earlier. Instead she parks in the driveway and leads us straight through the front door, grabbing my hand and pulling me straight up the stairs. She leads me into the bathroom and hands me a beautiful blush pink, silk bathrobe and two white fluffy towels and then whips out a fancy looking bubble bath from the cabinet. I hold my breath, hoping that she doesn’t notice that the scissors are missing and thankfully she doesn’t, but even if she did, there is no reason for her to suspect that I would have them anyway – Why would I?

  She leaves me to it and so I do as she insists and begin to run a bath. I perch on the edge of it as the water begins to fill and push my white tennis styled Vans off with my feet. I shrug off my leather jacket before chucking it into the corner. I cross my arms over my body and hike up my jumper, pulling it up and over my head, and then rise to my feet, peeling my leggings down over my bum, continuing down my thighs until they reach my feet and I gently step out of them, one foot at a time. I unclasp my black lace bra and then pull down my matching underwear and drop them into the puddle that is now my clothing. I take hold of the bottle of peony scented bubble bath and add a generous amount to the water and notice that my hands are a little shaky. I guess I feel slightly uncomfortable, standing here naked and exposed in the large unfamiliar bathroom.

  As I wait for the tub to fill, I potter around; snooping through each drawer and basket, still waiting patiently for the hot water to rise to an acceptable level when I notice that the door is still slightly ajar. I quickly hop over and close
it firmly, snubbing the lock tight. I don't know why I felt the need to do that. It's not like Lauren is going to burst in here whilst I'm in the bath. That would be a different level of friendship. Hannah and I aren't even there yet. The thought of Hannah makes me a little sad. I wonder if I should have told her everything; she could be helping me right now. But instead, I'm hurtling through this madness at what feels like a million miles per hour with nobody there to catch me if I fall.

  I step one smooth leg into the deep bath as steam rises and fills the air with the wonderfully light floral aroma, then followed by the other now that I know the water isn't too hot. I slouch down and rest my head back against a soft, white bath pillow, stretching my tanned leg a little bit further to turn the tap off with the tip of my red painted toe. Big bouncy bubbles surround me like fluffy clouds gathering in the ever-changing sky, the scent of peonies soothing my frantic mind and I allow myself to close my eyes and sink further into the water; my hair splaying around my head like a mermaid. Ha – let's see what she thinks of me getting my hair wet for a second time today; after all the effort she went to today to style it. I know she clocked the bun I had piled on to the top of my head when I approached the car. She must be livid. I chuckle to myself as water fills my ears and muffles the sounds of her moving around downstairs.

  A new smell has wormed its way into the comfortable little bubble I’ve created for myself, intruding my personal space and disturbing my moments of serenity, forcing me to remove my head from the water. It smells herby - garlic maybe? Whatever it is that she is cooking, it causes my stomach to release a ravenous growl. If I can smell whatever she is cooking this strongly then I assume dinner is almost ready. I sigh in frustration. I guess I have spent enough time in the bath anyway. My fingertips have started to prune in agreement. I slowly rise, feeling a little dizzy at the shock of emerging from the warmth of the water to sharp, cool air. I grab one of the towels that she left me; the smaller one first, and tip my head upside down and wrap my hair into a secure pile, towering high, before stepping out carefully onto a soft pom-pom style bath mat and wrapping the larger one around my body.

  After dinner I will encourage Lauren to follow my lead and take a relaxing bath of her own, it shouldn’t be too difficult to convince her. I’ll insist on running it for her too so she doesn’t have to lift a finger and I will tell her that it is simply a thank you for her hospitality. She would be extremely rude to refuse, and that just isn't Lauren. I imagine she will question what I will do with myself whilst she's in the tub and I'll insist on doing the washing up – it would only be fair seeing as she cooked.

  She will undress as I have done, climb into the bath and rest her pretty head against the same bath pillow that only minutes ago supported mine. And only when enough time has passed; when she is completely and utterly relaxed, will I creep in slowly, as silent as a mouse and grab her throat, plunging her entire head deep into the hot water. I expect that she will struggle under my grip, but we are around the same build - perhaps I'm even a little stronger, so I will be the winner here as I watch in unclouded satisfaction as small bubbles escape from her nose while she tries desperately to clutch onto any air that she has remaining in her lungs. But there won’t be much, and I will hold her there for as long as it takes and stare into her eyes as I watch the life drain from her pupils.

  Intoxicated by what is yet to come, I gleefully scoop up the bathrobe she left for me and unlock the bathroom door. I am met with a welcoming cool breeze and my shins begin to goose-bump. My damp feet leave little, dainty marks as I pad my way down the hall and into the guest room that Lauren said I could stay in. From my bag I unpack a pair of long-sleeved white and pink striped pyjamas and lay them on the bed. I swither whether to get changed into them or wear the robe she has given me. It is very nice. Too nice to waste actually. I decide against wearing the pyjamas right now and instead I drop the towel to my feet and slide my arms into the gown, enjoying the soft brush of silk enveloping my body, caressing my skin.

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice a familiar purple bottle sitting on the bedside table. As I pick it up, I realise that it’s the same perfume that I had bought in the airport before going to Tenerife. It doesn’t look like it has been used much but it has definitely been spritzed a handful of times as the liquid doesn’t quite reach the top. I look back at my pyjamas that are still sprawled on the bed and then down at the robe tied across my body. The shade of pink in the stripes is almost identical to the robe. My mind ticks away like a grandfather clock; piecing together a puzzle that I don't think I'm supposed to be a part of. My eyes dart back to the bottle of perfume - the same one as mine. Something doesn’t feel right here, but I don’t know why. I try my hardest to think back to each occasion we spent together, trying to merge together other peculiar similarities that I had registered between us but so foolishly disregarded. Tick, tick, tick. I remember the vivid red jumpsuit she had worn during our first dinner together, and how it was almost identical to mine. Tick, tick, tick. I think of her choice of food and drink, and how she always ordered the same as me throughout the entire trip. Tick, tick, tick. It's getting faster now, whatever it is, it's speeding up and about to arrive with a bang.

  I have all the pieces and yet I can’t quite complete the jigsaw. I keep trying. I knew Jacob had a specific type from the moment I saw her, because undeniably she looked like me with her thick dark hair, her pretty face, her petite figure accompanied by those seductive hourglass curves, but it isn’t possible for her to know so much about me. How could she know what clothing I have worn or what brand of perfume I wear?

  Has Jacob been so desperate to be with me that he has moulded Lauren into a diluted version of me? He could have taken note of the clothes that I had on in the pictures that I sent him and bought the same for Lauren. He could have asked me my favourite perfume out of curiosity and I would have told him thinking nothing of it, for him to then go and buy Lauren the same just so that he could smell my scent. He knows all my favourite food. I've told him things like that before. He could have ordered for Lauren when they were out for dinner, only he would be ordering my favourite dish and has encouraged her to go along with it. Although flattering, it’s also quite horrifying to think that Jacob might be more obsessed with me than I originally thought. Or is it? Isn't this what I have always wanted, for him to be completely and utterly besotted with me?

  I decide to head downstairs before drying my hair so that I can ask her discreetly if she has noticed any similarities between us. Perhaps she is oblivious to them, or maybe not, but either way I am too curious not to ask. I travel down the stairs at speed and spin into the living room, but the fake smile I have painted widely on my face slowly melts away as an icy chill crawls over my skin, sending shivers up and down my arms, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I edge further towards the kitchen; something doesn’t feel right. When I finally see behind the concave that leads you fully into the kitchen my blood runs cold.

  ‘How was your bath?’ she asks with a great big smile spread across her face.

  She’s leaning against the worktop and twirls a glass of wine in her hand. She takes a sip.

  ‘Please, take a seat’, she tells me.

  But I can’t move, I’m glued to the spot.

  Jacob

  Lauren gestures to the chair sitting directly across from me at the dining table, inviting our guest to sit down, but there is no sudden movement from behind me. I wonder why nobody is moving, so I spin round only to discover her standing there. What the fuck? My eyes dart quickly from my wife, to Karly, and back again. It took me a few seconds longer than it should have to register her face; a face that I have known for ten years, but never in my wildest dreams did I expect to see her standing in my house.

  Lauren smiles as she takes a sip of wine from her glass. Neither of them are looking at me and I don’t understand what is happening here. Why is she in my house? No, how is she in my house? And how does she know my wife? How does she know wh
ere I live? I can’t stop the flurry of questions racing through my head, but I try my best to keep my face composed, careful not to give anything away too prematurely.

  ‘Zara, are you OK?’

  My wife’s voice snaps me back to the here and now. Did she just call her Zara? Who the fuck is Zara? The realisation suddenly hits me like a sledgehammer. She thinks that Karly... Fucking hell, she thinks that Karly is Zara. I exhale deeply. OK, so she doesn’t know who she really is - this might still be OK. All I need to do is get Karly by herself and speak to her, convince her not to do anything stupid.

  Karly shuffles over to the table, dressed in what I think is Laurens silk robe and pulls out the chair and takes a seat, draping one of her bare legs over the other, exposing her upper thigh provocatively. I try not to stare as Lauren places a freshly poured glass of wine on a coaster in front of her and then makes her way over to me.

  ‘This is my Husband, Jacob’ Lauren introduces me, standing behind me with her hand gripped firmly on my shoulder.

  Karly smiles at her, the corners of her mouth not quite reaching her eyes and then turns her head to face me.

  ‘Hi,’ she says softly. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard all about me.’

  Her familiar Scottish accent sounds in my ears so much more vividly than over the phone and it suddenly dawns on me that Lauren never told me Zara was Scottish. I just assumed she was English, but would it even have mattered? Scotland is a big country with loads of girls, why would I suspect that it might have been Karly, my Karly, that she had met? I wouldn’t have. This isn’t my fault.

  Karly’s eyes are now locked on mine as Lauren shuffles around the Kitchen preparing to serve us dinner. The Kitchen is eerily silent even though there is sporadic, loud clattering of plates and pots.