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

by Paula Johnston

  I can see it all playing out in my mind and it almost excites me. I know what will happen next. He is stupid but not completely, I’ll give him some credit. He’s smart enough to know that he has it too good here and he won’t want to lose me. I will make him grovel like a pathetic whimpering puppy for my forgiveness and enjoy every second of it. I want to see him on his knees, begging me to take him back. I want to see tears fall from his eyes. I want to see him dismiss her in front of me, as if she is nothing more than a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe.

  I take a deep breath, wipe my cheeks dry as I push back out of the chair and crouch back down to the floor with a fresh clicking of my knees and pull his trousers from the pile of filthy clothes. I slide his phone back into his pocket for him to come and find after his shower. I bet he shits himself when he realises that I've collected his clothes and he hasn't deleted those messages. As I stare down at the floor, bracing myself for the performance of a lifetime, I hold my hand up in front of me. My tastefully oversized diamond engagement ring, accompanied by my freshly cleaned wedding band glistens in the light of day that has returned to the kitchen. They sit perfectly on my left hand. I have something she doesn’t, something she will never have. I have him.

  Chapter 20

  Five weeks earlier

  Hannah Trainer likes your post. That’s odd. Do I know a Hannah Trainer? I pop another piece of milky chocolate into my mouth and click the view profile button. A pretty girl with fiery red hair and skin as pale as the moon stares back at me from her profile picture. I study her for a few moments, trying to place her, but I don’t think I recognise her. I scroll through her news feed hoping that her face will come back to me, and that it will make sense as to how she has found her way on to my page, but more importantly, why she’s been so deep in my profile that she’s liked one of my posts from three months ago.

  Maybe there is something familiar about her. She has bright wide oval shaped eyes and her hair is very pretty; not long, but not quite a bob either. Maybe she’s visited the salon recently and has decided to check out its owner. Some people do that don't they? They want to find out who is behind the brand. She might even just be looking to leave a good review about myself or one of my stylists, but it’s still a bit strange that she hasn’t used the salon's own Facebook page. I groan in realisation. Maybe she’s looking to complain instead and is bypassing the middleman by seeking me out privately, going straight to the organ grinder and all that shit. But there is no bad review, and I don't have any mails from her so in the end I decide that I am wasting my time looking for something that isn't there. Not one post of abuse on her own timeline about my salon and there’s nothing particularly special or significant about the rest of her posts.

  About to put my phone back down and continue binge watching my favourite trashy reality TV show, I catch sight of her location at the top of her page: Glasgow, United Kingdom. Glasgow, as in Scotland? That’s a bit far to come for a haircut isn’t it? So, she can't be a client then. How else has she stumbled upon my profile? I try to pull something from my brain, repeating the city over and over again. Glasgow, Glasgow, Glasgow. It’s no use, I don’t know anyone from Scotland. The use of the word Scotland however stirs a familiar heavy knot in my stomach, and I sit upright on my sofa as my insides begin to churn. I wish I hadn't scoffed so much chocolate now.

  I click on her uploaded photos and swipe quickly through her pictures, desperately hoping that I don’t find what I think I just might. I don’t recognise her – that's a definite, but I’m worried that someone else is lurking in the shadows behind the profile of Hannah Trainer.

  It only takes seven swipes for my worst possible fear to be confirmed. Standing in what appears to be someone’s back garden; a freshly lit barbeque smoking in the background, I see you instantly. Perched on the grass, dressed in a cheap looking black playsuit with little frills. You smile brightly at the camera; your red lipstick perfectly painted on to your thick plump lips. Your black wedges balanced firmly on the green patch of grass instead of sinking into the ground. Hot acid rises to the back of my throat and I force myself to swallow it back down. The mere sight of you hits me like a tonne of bricks. I jump to my feet, not quite believing what I’m seeing and the glass of wine at my feet spills onto my grey carpet. I don't care though. I will deal with that later, fuck the carpet.

  This cannot be happening. I checked his phone at every opportunity for months after the day I found those horrible messages and there was no further sign of you. No phone calls, no texts, no pictures – nothing.

  To my surprise, he didn’t go through with meeting up with you that night. I know this for sure because he spent the full night at home with me. Well, not the whole night exactly. Around twenty past seven he told me he was popping out to the shop to get us some snacks for when we watched a film later. He told me I could pick while he was out and joked that I still probably wouldn't have made a decision by the time he got home. Obviously picking a film was the last thing on my mind, but I waved him off like the adoring little wife I am and waited a couple of minutes - just the perfect amount of time, before jumping into my own car and following him as I had earlier planned to do.

  I was careful to keep my distance but stay close enough to remain on his tail. I didn't know what hotel you were meeting at so I couldn't afford to lose him. His pace started to slow from a sprint to a slow chug and I almost crashed into the rear of the car in front of me when out of nowhere, his car performed a swift U turn and started to drive back the way we had just come. I panicked, thinking that he had seen me and that’s why he had turned back, but I continued to follow him anyway. I followed and watched him as he turned into the familiar streets of our area and I realised that he was heading towards the shops, like he had said he was going to. I swung the car around as fast as I could and put my foot down on the accelerator, flying back to the house before he arrived home and realised that I had left the house. Ten minutes later, he returned with a plastic bag, filled to the brim of all my favourite treats and a notoriously cheeky smile on his face.

  I should have known he wouldn’t have gone through with it, not really. For whatever reason, he had a change of heart before taking things that bit too far and I was flipping ecstatic. That night was different too, he didn’t look at his phone once and I was so thrilled by the outcome that I decided it was best not to mention anything at all any more. Instead I gifted him a second chance and tried as hard as I could to keep the secret hidden deep inside me.

  As for you, I thought you must have taken his rejection reasonably well because there were no more messages or calls. I thought you had left him alone for good and kept whatever dignity you had left. I was sure you were gone. You should have been gone.

  My entire body rattles furiously, shivers crawling up and down my spine like little black ants in a hurry for crumbs. I don’t need any confirmation from anybody; I already know in my gut that it was you who pressed the like button – not your friend Hannah. You probably don't even know that you've pressed something by mistake, alerting me to your unwelcome presence. You stupid cow. You've made a big mistake here, no - a huge mistake, actually. You see, after I read your messages, I had tried my best to find you on social media, like any girl would have, but I was never able to find you. I didn’t know your name, did I? Just the first letter, and he didn’t have any girls on any of his friend lists on social media with a name beginning with the initial K. I gathered that you weren't connected on social media at all, which made finding you all the more fucking frustrating.

  I didn’t know much about you, just what he had told me and what I saw in your texts. You weren't from around here. You weren't even from the same country and you had told him that you had to fly from Edinburgh Airport and not Glasgow which was closest to your home, and how it was a real inconvenience seeing as you didn’t drive. Oh boo-hoo, poor fucking you.

  I did, however, discover what you looked like. A couple of pictures were hidden amongst your disgustingly dis
respectful messages and much to my annoyance, you are actually extremely beautiful. In fact, you looked a little like me with your long dark hair and petite frame. I could tell that you looked after yourself too because your skin was flawless, right down to the precise shaping of your eyebrows.

  Unfortunately, though, a picture wasn’t enough to find you. Turns out you can't just drag a picture into Google and it tells you everything about them. I had watched the TV show Catfish plenty of times, I really did think it was that easy. I needed your name, though didn't I? And I was furious with myself for not asking Jacob this when he first told me about you. Why didn't I ask your name?

  My finger now hovers over the tag that is attached to the picture. There you are, the girl from the messages, dancing smugly before my eyes. My thumb hovers over your name, taunting me. Karly Winters.

  Funnily enough, it had never occurred to me before that you might try to look me up. Why would you? Surely, you wouldn’t still be pining over a married man. That would be pretty pathetic. Are you that pathetic, Karly? Could you still be stalking him, hoping to find something to use against me, something to use in an attempt to lure him away from me? As angry as I am at you right now for your sheer lack of 'girl code', my anger swiftly diverts to my husband. There’s only one way you could have found my page and that’s because of him. He must have told you my name.

  My pale cheeks flush as the blood rises to their surface in pure rage. What other details of our life has he overshared with you? What else has he told you about me? What information have you found out for yourself by checking up on me online? I need to know.

  I log out of my Facebook account and type my own name in the search bar. I want to see what you see when you're lurking in the shadows of my life. The screen finishes loading, and I shake my head, extremely disappointed in myself for being so naive. My privacy settings are weak – very, actually. All my posts are on full display for anyone to see, and so are my recently uploaded pictures. You have had a privileged spectator view of my life - and my marriage. I may as well have propped up a chair outside my front door and handed you a pair of fucking binoculars.

  I scroll through my latest posts, deciphering if there is anything there that might have suggested a problem in my marriage, an inkling that something might be off between us which might have encouraged your most recent psychotic behaviour, but there’s nothing. I like to keep my relationship fairly private, so there isn’t much about Jacob on my profile apart from an album of our wedding pictures that were just too beautiful not to post.

  As my thumb climbs back to the top of my page, I am reminded that I recently posted about how excited I am for our annual girls’ trip. We go somewhere different every year, leaving our boyfriends or husbands at home and letting our hair loose for a week. My best friend Georgia and I usually decide where the group will go and this year, we decided on Tenerife for a good knee-up.

  My own words stare back at me, trying to tell me something important and eventually it comes to me; the realisation that I have given you a very special gift. For seven whole days Jacob will be home alone and my absence is a fantastic opportunity for you to run wild.

  I try to calm my mind but thoughts of you anywhere near, never mind touching, my husband poisons my rationality. Would he invite you here - to our house? If he’s lied to me with such blatant success before, how will I even know if you've been here? The only way for me to really get the answers I need is if I orchestrate this sordid affair myself. You know, goad you into it, assure you that there is absolutely no chance of me turning up, and that you will be safe.

  I open a blank web browser and type in the name of our hotel, clicking on the images tab so that I have hundreds to choose from. I carefully select a few that specifically have the name of the hotel on the side of the building, and then upload them to my Facebook. If you were to be invited here, and were to ask Jacob where I would be, for all I know he might tell you down to the last detail anyway seeing as he’s clearly been so generous with the information about me that he has shared with you. If you decide to invade my privacy again, which I can almost guarantee that you will, then you will be able to match the information that Jacob has given you as reassurance to the pictures I have posted especially for you.

  Chapter 21

  I watched him very closely on the days leading up to my girls’ holiday. Each time his phone rang, I wondered if it was you. Each time his phone buzzed, I tried to catch a glimpse of your name on the caller ID. I was convinced that you were in cahoots with each other and were cunningly about to use my week away to your full advantage.

  I bet you both planned your choice of flight together, and even debated over what the best time options were so that you could spend as much time here as possible. My mind was working overtime with all the questions I didn’t have answers to but so desperately craved.

  The last time he planned to meet you, he done the right thing and changed his mind, but this time in my absence, I can’t be sure he will be smart enough do the same, not with me so far away and unable to interrupt, and you dangling yourself in his face like a bright and juicy carrot. That's why I absolutely refuse to sit back and do nothing whilst the two of you creep around behind my back. I have to do everything I can to look after my best interests now. The two of you might think you are excitedly plotting against me, but believe me it will be very short lived and I will catch you. I will catch you both; snare your deceitful souls in my little game of mouse trap, because this is my home, and he is my husband – not yours. Some things aren't supposed to be shared, and it’s about time that you realised that.

  I curse your parents for raising a girl like you. You seem to know nothing about morals or the simplicities of what is right and what is wrong. Say you were happily married, entirely devoted to your husband, a bright future of a family together on the horizon. Would you welcome an intruder? Would you sit back and let someone else steal what is yours? I don't believe that you would, because if you are ballsy enough to come after what is mine, I can't imagine you allowing someone else to take yours.

  I imagine you to be the spoiled child at the birthday party, the one who isn't satisfied that another kid has successfully unwrapped the prize in a game of pass the parcel. I wonder if you screamed and caused a fuss and so your parents gave in to your relentless tantrums that really, they only had themselves to blame for, or if you were cunning. Did you wait until the winning kid put down their precious gift and were out of sight before you snared it into your grasp? The irony of you doing the same thing to me hasn't gone unnoticed.

  With what little time I had left, I trolled the internet searching for something that could help me keep a watchful eye on you. I had something in mind, but I didn’t know if it even existed, it’s not like I’ve ever had a need for anything like it before. By sheer luck though, I managed to source three minute cameras that were barely the size of a garden pea from a small gadget shop down the bottom of my local high street. I rushed straight out to get them, fearful that someone else might nab them before me, and when I got those precious gems home, I immediately downloaded the required app to my phone that allowed me 24-hour surveillance from wherever I may be. I imagine people use these for keeping tabs on their pets or just for security purposes. I suppose this is for security purposes though; the security of my sanity, my power, my upper hand.

  I hold the three of them in the palm of my hand as I examine them. They don't look like much, but they were fucking expensive. That didn't bother me though, they are a necessity, and anyway I used Jacob’s credit card - not mine. It's the least he could do, right?

  As I look around our kitchen, I ponder my first move. Hmmm, if I were a hidden camera, where would I like to be? My eyes land on my first target and so I balance the first little black eye discreetly in the centre of an artificial flower with a muddy centre that rests in a stunning silver vase on top of our dining table. This one will allow me to see anyone and everyone who enters my house through the back door, whilst still givi
ng me a full and clear view of the kitchen and beginning of the dining area.

  Now for my next victim, I think as I tap my bottom lip with my finger. I don’t think Jacob would be stupid enough to walk you directly through our front door; not for all our nosey neighbours to see, but still, I need to cover all areas just in case. I tuck the second inside the back of the heel of the black Louboutin’s that Jacob bought me last Christmas. I think he had been at the pub on Christmas Eve much longer than he realised and panicked; resulting in an extremely expensive purchase for him, but a delightful luxury for me. It's not normal for me to leave them lying around but I don't see him bothering to tidy while I'm away, so I'm confident that they will stay where I leave them - stacked neatly beside the front door, pointing into the hallway. This will successfully cover the entrance into our home, the entrance into our living room, and unfortunately also providing me with a sickening view of anyone that heads up stairs. I feel satisfied so far with my decisions. There is no way anyone could enter or leave my house without being seen.

  The third camera is the most difficult to place by far, but for an entirely different reason. I know where it has to go but I'm not totally convinced that I could stomach the site of anything taking place in our bedroom. The thought of the two of you, rolling around on my bed caused my stomach to heave and I lurched forward, grabbing on to the banister. It has to be done though, no doubt about it, and so I lift my head up slowly to avoid a bout of dizziness and I rest my hands on my thighs; bracing myself for the climb. I have to pull myself together, it's much too late to wimp out now.