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

by Paula Johnston

  ‘Oh shoot! You must be wondering what's going on Zee. I must have got mixed up again’ Lauren starts. ‘I was just so sure Jacob was heading out for the night.’

  Karly finally tears her eyes away from mine to smile at Lauren in acknowledgement and then turns to face me once again.

  ‘It’s nice to finally meet you, Jacob.’

  Wispy strands of dark hair escape from the towel that is balanced on top of her head and her face is make up free; cute freckles dotting her skin. She really is as beautiful as I’ve always thought - perhaps more so in person, but she is still one crazy bitch that's for sure. How the fuck did she track down my wife, and why has she pretended to be her friend? I shake my head, annoyed at myself for asking such a stupid question because I know the answer, don't I? She's done this to get to me, of course.

  Wait a minute. What did Lauren just say? Did she say I would be out tonight? Why would I be out when I went to the trouble of coming home early to surprise her? I was going to make dinner for the two of us; but she was adamant that she would do it, but for the three of us instead.

  ‘Are you alright babe?’ Lauren asks me. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale, haven’t you?’ She giggles childishly as she walks towards the table with two plates in her hand, taking her place at the centre of the table, in-between Karly and I, and stares down at the creamy pasta resting on our best dinner plates. She lets out a deep sigh. Out of nowhere she raises her arms and then launches the plates of food on to the glass table with explosive force. The ceramic smashes as it hits the glass, shards of white plate fly through the air.

  ‘Oh, what a shame’ she says calmly and then, everything changes. ‘Karly, would you mind helping me clear this mess up?’

  Part Two

  Chapter 18

  One Year earlier

  Lauren

  ‘Hey babe! You’re home early’ I coo at Jacob as he enters the kitchen. I still love seeing him come home from work all dirty and rugged. Even now after we've tied the knot, I still get butterflies when I see him standing in the home we created together.

  ‘The job’s done, why wouldn’t I be home?’, he snaps back with a scowl.

  Woah, here we go again. He’s been in a foul mood for days now. I’ve tried everything I could possibly think of to snap him out of it: cooking his favourite meals, wearing new lingerie in the fiery shade of red that really gets him going, and even making sure his favourite programs are set to record if he wasn’t going to be home in time. Nothing was working though and to be quite honest, I am growing frustrated.

  He turns his back on me without saying anything else and exits the room, leaving behind the aftermath of his wrath as he makes his way through our living room and stomping dramatically loud as he climbs the stairs. A couple of minutes later I hear the bathroom door slam shut and the power of the shower jets coming to life.

  I try to shrug off his bad mood - for the umpteenth time - and decide to make my own way upstairs to collect his dirty work clothes. I always wash them for him when he gets home. As usual, they are lying on a heap in the middle of our bedroom floor, but I try not to let it bother me. I just don't see what's so hard about putting them in our actual laundry basket but whatever, it's no big deal. I scoop them up in my arms and carry the bundle back down to the kitchen, dropping them onto the floor when an unexpected thud makes me jump. Shit, what was that?

  My knees click as I crouch down to investigate the source of the noise. They always do that, ever since I was a little girl. I used to love gymnastics and dancing, anything that involved jumping about really, and I guess it’s taken its toll on my joints. I rifle through his clothes, his designated grey work hoodie first and then his black work trousers when I find it; his phone that is still in his trouser pocket. The screen illuminates as it springs to life beneath the touch of my fingers. I let out a sigh of relief, grateful that it’s not cracked or scratched. I cringe at the thought of his beloved phone being damaged, I can only imagine how deeper into his bad mood that would have pushed him. Sometimes I think he loves that thing more than me.

  I must have swiped something by accident with my clumsy fingers because a list of his most recent notifications is in front of me, displaying several incoming messages from someone named ‘K’. That's strange. What does K mean? An unfamiliar feeling stirs inside me, a feeling I’m not used to, something unsettling. He doesn’t have any mates whose name begins with the letter K. No Kyles or Kenny's, or anyone else that I know of. Even if there was a friend that I hadn’t met, why would he not save their full name? Why shorten it to just one singular letter? It seems like very odd behaviour.

  The black phone in my hand silently mocks me. It's daring me to enter its password, just to have a quick scroll through the messages, nothing else. Just to put my mind at rest. I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation behind it.

  I try a few sequences in a desperate attempt to crack his password: my birthday, his birthday, his mum’s birthday, but nothing matches. My palms start to sweat; a mixture of irritation and panic at being caught snooping. I wipe them on my jeans as I juggle the phone between the two. The bright light of the sun has vanished from our Kitchen window and has been replaced with a dark and gloomy cloud. It's as if nature is trying to tell me something isn't right. It is determined to eliminate any optimism I still have. I've never needed to use his phone before, well at least not without him unlocking it for me first. It's not strange that I don't know his password, I'm sure lots of couples don't share those kinds of things, but I can’t help but think that there must be a horrible reason as to why his password is so secretive, so out of my reach.

  I stand back up and begin pacing back and forth, racking my brain furiously, trying to think of what it could be. A few moments later, a lightbulb flickered inside me. Oh you, doughnut. Of course! In my eyeline is a mug lying upside down on the dish drainer – his mug. His love of football is second to none and I kick myself for not thinking of it to begin with. It's not secretive at all, at least not to anyone who knows him so well. In big blue numbers wrapped around the white mug is the year his favourite club was founded. It reads Chelsea FC EST. 1905. Although I'm pleased that I've realised what it is, I'm still a little bit pissed that he has chosen a stupid footy team over something to do with me, or even us to use as his password, but I don’t have time to spend stressing that right now. He could be down any minute.

  My fingers are hesitant as they type in the digits, but when I do, his home screen rewards me by bursting into life and allowing me free reign. I pause before clicking on anything. Do I really want to be that type of wife who goes through her husband’s phone? I’ve never suspected J of hiding anything from me before - he’s never given me any reason to. I laugh nervously to myself. I’m being ridiculous, of course I am. K is probably just a guy from work or a bloke he’s met down the local. He was probably in a rush to get home when he took his number and didn’t have time to type in his full name. All very innocent, entirely explainable and definitely nothing sinister; I scald myself for thinking the worst.

  I place his phone down gently on the kitchen table ready to walk away and continue with my original task of doing his dirty washing, but a new vibration against the glass pulls me back to it. This time, without any hesitation I snatch the phone back into my hand, frantically unlocking it to discover a brand-new message from K. This time though, now that it’s unlocked, I see a preview of the message splashed across the home screen. It burns my eyes.

  I’ll meet you at 8 in the hotel bar. Head for the back of the room. You won’t regret this babe, I promise x

  I grip my chest; my acrylics dig into my skin as they clutch in desperation of stopping my heart exploding into a million pieces, like a violent supernova in the depths of the universe. My universe. A pain unlike any I've ever felt before. I should have trusted my gut. I knew something was a bit off with the secret name and the sports related passcode. He would never have thought I would have guessed that. I never watch his stupid sports channels. But now,
none of that even matters because I had good reason to be suspicious, didn't I? My dearest, darling husband is having an affair.

  The grey clock on our kitchen wall seems to tick louder than ever now, like an angry cricket just ticking away relentlessly. The room is spinning and my eyes are so out of focus but I try to search for the time amongst the haze. I need to know how long I have left. It’s a struggle but I manage to see the outline of the small hand, pointing at the number five. I steady my focus, rubbing my eyes hard until they begin to hurt but eventually, I can see that it is five o’clock on the dot. Only three hours until eight o’clock. Three fucking hours until my husband stares me straight in my face with those big beautiful eyes and lies to me.

  I pull a chair away from the glass dining table and slump down onto it, my legs collapsing like jelly underneath me. The phone has locked itself in the absence of my touch, but I can’t bring myself to unlock it again, not yet. I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand, trying to rouse up a solution or at least some sort of plan on how to handle this whole fucking shit-show of a situation. I consider storming upstairs and confronting Jacob right now, but something stops me. Something inside tells me to act smart about this; don't act on impulse. Think this through. Instead, I change my mind and decide to type in his code once again. I need to know all the facts before I take action here. I need to know everything. I open his messages and click on the last received one. His phone gives birth to a chain of messages. Ironic really, because in comparison, my life feels like it has just ended.

  Chapter 19

  Their conversation seems to have started this morning at 7:20, with no trace of discussion before this. I snort in disbelief at just how stupid he thinks I am. Something I have never been is stupid. I like to have a laugh, joke around a bit, get up to a bit of mischief, yeah, but never stupid. People often make the mistake of thinking I am though, and I let them, because that way I always have the upper hand. This is how I know that if he is meeting up with some tart tonight then this quite obviously isn't the first time they have spoken. He has just gone to the effort of being careful enough to delete any of their older messages. He probably does this at the end of each day when they've finished chatting and he comes home to me. Not today though, no today is different isn't it? It seems that today they were still in the midst of conversation and that’s why these messages are still here. Who's the stupid one now?

  As uncomfortable as I know this is going to be, I start from the top, reading every single word very carefully, examining their dialogue in great detail. I flinch at how comfortable they are with one another, as if they are old friends – but with a twist. In one of their messages, this K, or whoever she is, tells my husband how much she’s looking forward to seeing him, and that she can’t believe it’s taken so long for it to happen. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and index finger as I try to understand. What does she mean by that? I’m confused as hell right now. Has he been having a fucking affair or not? Maybe he hasn’t been physical with her yet, maybe he has been fighting it, trying hard not to give into temptation but in terms of an emotional affair, it's all there in black and white. Just because there is a lack of physical contact between them doesn’t make this any less hurtful – any less of a betrayal.

  One text sent from him reads:

  Yeah, only YOU would do that, you melt x

  What the fuck. It really is as if they have known each other for years, but how could that even be possible? I've been here for years. I just can’t wrap my head around what’s going on. He doesn’t have any female friends - I would have known - and he works with a bunch of sweaty old men every day. Where has she come from? This random little slag who has managed to grab my husband’s attention and lured him away from the promise of his vows.

  I glance up at the clock nervously. I know he could head down here any minute now. I tap the phone in the palm of my hand when suddenly my whole body comes to a halt. It’s taken me much longer than it should have to realise exactly who this is. A cool tear slides gently down my cheek before a deep sob escapes my throat. I quickly cover my mouth with my hand, hoping that it wasn't loud enough for Jacob to hear me from upstairs. The nerve of this guy. He’s been mugging me right off from the beginning.

  When Jacob and I first started dating, he took me to a snazzy little cocktail bar down a backstreet in London. He seemed distracted and I was getting pissed off because his phone was buzzing constantly. Why ask me out and then have people blowing up your phone all night?

  He kept glancing at the caller ID and then declining the call with a quick swoosh of his finger before finally placing the phone face down on our table and out of my sight. After an hour or so I grew tired of the persistence of the calls and the effect they were having on our date. I felt like he had somewhere else to be; maybe even someone else to be with and so I just asked him outright - who was it that needed to get in touch with him so fucking urgently and more importantly, why wasn’t he answering? It was obviously someone he didn't want to talk to in front of me, that was for sure.

  If it had just been a mate, surely, he would have picked up the phone and told them where he was and that would have been the end of it. I had every right to ask him who it was, because frankly he was wasting my time if he wanted to be elsewhere.

  Although he was frustratingly reluctant to come clean at first, eventually he realised that I wasn’t going to let it go. I was like a dog with a meaty bone, ravenous for the truth, and that's when he told me all about her.

  Some years back, he had started chatting to a girl who had hounded him online and at first the two of them seemed to hit it off. They flirted back and forth, he admitted using her for sex chat and a cheeky picture now and that was the extent of it for him. Not for her though, she was a bit too clingy; talking about houses and marriage – even kids, and so he decided to cool things off. She was having none of it. She in her warped mind believed that they had formed some sort of magical connection and wouldn’t stop contacting him. He admitted that it was a strange one because it was a relationship of some sorts, but not a physical one; more a relationship of convenience on his part, just something to do when he was bored – but he could totally understand why she might have read into things differently, and that it's something he wasn't too proud of.

  I admit at the time I was quite intrigued. I mean, have you ever heard the likes of this? It was mad. However, I couldn't ignore the fact that he was willing to open up to me about a horribly unflattering side of himself. It was one I didn’t know, one where he disregarded girls’ feelings for his own amusement and pleasure. It took guts for him to be so honest with me so early on in our relationship. I could have run a mile for all he knew. Plus, it didn't make any difference to me whatsoever, because I wasn't jealous in the slightest. If anything, I just wanted to know more and more about the whole thing. I felt kind of sorry for her.

  I delved into as much as I possibly could; firing question after question at him and to his credit, he answered every single one. No - she wasn’t a Catfish, and yes - he did find her attractive in spite of all of the crazy that came with her. One important question that I really needed to know though was how long this had been going on for. My jaw almost hit the floor when he told me it was closer to ten years than five. Ten fucking years, are you having me on? I was stunned, and baffled – and so many other things all at the same time. How can you speak to someone for so long without ever having met with them in person? How could that be classed as a relationship? How could you possibly fall for a guy you had never even fucking met? And why the hell would you disrespect yourself so much that you allowed it to happen for ten fucking years? I just couldn’t grasp it.

  I didn’t ask for it, because I didn't need it, but he offered me assurance that since dating me, he had no interest in entertaining her anymore and had been ignoring all her calls and messages, which is why she was blowing up his phone so much now. I was happy with that because I honestly didn’t feel threatened by her in any way. How
could I be? She wasn’t real, not properly. She was virtual, not physical. She had never touched him, never held his hand, never kissed him and definitely hadn't ever slept with him. Whatever she believed they had together was false; an illusion, because here he was with me and not her. If he wanted her, I mean really wanted her, he would have travelled to meet her – Scotland wasn't that far. She wasn't important to this beautiful man sitting across from me who was so openly declaring how much he was into me, not her. Anyway, she was quite clearly unhinged, I could tell that from a mile off, and after that night, there was no need for us to speak of her ever again.

  I think back to that night now. How everything seemed so magical towards the end of the evening when there were no secrets between us anymore. I feel like such a fool for believing him. Was she ever really gone? Maybe she was, or did he encourage her to return? Surely it wasn't him, it must have been her. I'm enough for him; he doesn’t need attention from anyone else because I give him all of mine. The harsh reality of the situation though is that he isn’t ignoring her now, is he? It’s worse actually, much worse. It looks like he has decided to go that extra mile after all and has agreed to take things one step further.

  Ideas bat around my head like a furious tennis ball. Should I put his phone back in his pocket where I found it and pretend that I haven’t seen their disgusting messages? I could keep my mouth shut; carry on as normal and hopefully he realises what a mistake he’s making by himself. He might not even go.

  My top lip twitches and I almost laugh out loud at the thought of even contemplating such an absurd idea - a weak and pathetic idea. No, that isn’t me, that isn’t how I do things. I am not weak, and I am not blind anymore. My eyes are wide open and I can see everything clear as day. The ball is firmly in my court now, not theirs. If I can just contain my anger for a little while longer, plaster a pretty smile across my face when he tells me he is going out, then I can follow him when he goes to meet her tonight. If he wants entertainment, I can give him it in abundance. I will happily intrude on their cosy little evening together and watch the colour drain from his gormless face as he realises that I know everything.