I decide to try and force your hand, turn the heat up a notch and put your acting skills to the test. It’s my turn to ask the questions now, and I'm sure that they will be much tougher to answer seeing as all of the answers will be blatant lies. You will have to think quickly on your feet here, and I will quiz you thoroughly on this so-called boyfriend of yours – you remember, right? The one who has just dumped you so callously. Maybe you will trip yourself up and realise that you have turned the wrong corner by coming here and meeting a dead end. It might even speed up whatever it is that you've actually come here to do. I know that you intended to chat to my friends, but I'm not sure what for. I know that you still think that lying about who you are and why you are here is something you are sticking with firmly for the time being. What I don't know though, is when this will all come to a head. When will you tell me who you are?
As you tell me your story, I listen carefully for any hint of a contradiction, but impressively there is none. You have clearly rehearsed this well and know exactly what to say to make yourself sound believable. Perhaps this is the story you would have told my girls.
It's boring, you're fucking boring, and as much as it pains me, I have to keep up the pretence that I sympathise with you, but I just can't bear to listen to your voice any longer and that's why I jump on the opportunity to offer you comfort as I push out of my wicker chair and pull you into a tight hug. Your dark hair tickles my cheek as I hold you firmly; smelling of banana with a hint of coconut. I want to rip every inch of sweetness from your skull.
After dinner we walk casually through the strip of restaurants and bars and I grow more and more curious about what you could possibly be up to. You have come across so lovely tonight and yet you've gone to such an extreme effort to not only stalk me, but then follow me all the way to the fucking Canary Islands, and I can’t for the life of me work out why you haven't pounced on the opportunity to tell me face to face what my husband has been up to. Surely sitting down to dinner in a public area where you are unlikely to cause any sort of scene or embarrassment would have been the perfect place to come clean, and yet you never.
You suggest that we go for a drink before we call it a night and I indulge you, allowing you to take the lead and pick a busy rooftop cocktail bar. I pop to the toilet to freshen up and make sure the humidity hasn't done too much damage to my hair. I just need a few minutes to myself more than anything, away from you and all your lies. As I grip the edge of the cool magnolia sink, I stare at myself in the mirror and take deep breaths, in and out, in and out. I ready myself for what might come next and pray that I can keep my cool. I’ve never had to exercise self-discipline like this before. My temper is usually short and snappy and I offer no apologies for it.
I give my hair a quick ruffle and exit the cubicle, bumping into a pretty red headed girl who is standing waiting with her arms folded tightly. She looks pissed that I’ve taken so long, eyeing me up and down from head to toe, but I honestly could care less because she really doesn’t want to mess with me right now. Glaring into her wide eyes I mouth the words f u c k y o u and glide away from her slowly. Although I don’t bother to look back, I can tell there is a delay in her entrance to the cubicle as the door doesn’t close for another few seconds. Silly cow. I hope she gets stuck in there.
As I approach you sitting at a table of your choice, I can see that you have already bought us drinks, which I recognise as Long island Ice teas; one of the strongest on the menu. Next to my cocktail is also a shot glass of a transparent liquid, which I imagine is equally as powerful.
I smile at you and take my seat. You must think I’m really thick, babe. I bet your plan is to ply me with copious amounts of alcohol, right up until the point where my reactions are slower, and am less likely to lash out at you with any success when you tell me who you are.
I throw back my shot of what I now taste is tequila and it burns the back of my throat. It’s disgusting, but I needed that rush of fire to keep me going. I don’t drink my cocktail with the same urgency though. Instead I take slow and steady sips, careful to only allow a small drop of the dark potion to enter my mouth at any one time. I block the rest of it by pressing the tip of my tongue against the opening of the straw.
To everyone around us, our conversation probably looks like a normal one between two friends. You laugh at all of my jokes, even though they aren’t very funny, and when you do, your smile reaches the corners of your eyes, which makes me think that you might actually be having a good time. I bet you never saw that coming. Our conversations include nothing of importance; no more talk of boyfriends or husbands. Instead we gossip about reality TV programs and what our go to brands of make-up are. You seem to know a lot about make up for a girl who doesn't wear much.
Eventually you excuse yourself politely to use the loo and I watch your shapely hips sway as you walk around the corner and out of my sight. Confident that you will be gone for a few minutes, I pick up my tall glass that is still more than half full and take a quick look around me, glancing over each shoulder, making sure that nobody is watching. With a sharp flick of my wrist, the glass swings over my shoulder; successfully pouring the majority of the liquid over the roof.
I grab my bag from the ground and rummage inside for something that will assist me in looking tiddly but I’m not sure what will. It’s just lipstick and chewing gum and they won’t help. As my hands fumble furiously over each item, they discover a small bottle of perfume tucked away at the bottom and I twirl it around my fingers, debating with myself of its necessity. I give myself a wiggle, shaking any doubt off my tense shoulders. I don’t have the luxury of time to think things through in great detail and so I hold the bottle a couple of inches from my face and widen my eyes. I spritz only twice, but it’s more than enough as it stings my eyes violently. I rub them hard, trying desperately to ease the burn, but the more I rub, the worse the pain gets. I scoop a handful of ice from my drink and press them into my closed eyelids, hoping that it will provide even just a little bit of relief.
My vision is still a bit hazy when you return to the table but I notice you glance down at my now almost empty glass. You then divert your attention to me, pinning my eyes with yours in suspicion and so I shrug and giggle childishly. I guess I’m just a fast drinker after all.
‘Com... come on then’ I slur, as I nod my head at her drink, encouraging you to try and catch up with me.
You seem amused, and are more than happy to let me lead the conversation any which way I like. I bet you are giddy with excitement, waiting patiently for the alcohol to seep further into my veins which will unleash some juicy secrets that might interest you. That isn't going to happen though, because once again you think you have the upper hand and once again you are wrong. I talk a pile of nonsense, blabbering on about everything and yet nothing. For good measure I pause a couple of times as if to forget what I was saying.
On a good night out; when I’m really inebriated, I like to tell all my friends just how much they mean to me. I’m a bit of a closed book sober and so it’s a rarity when I’m overly affectionate. I decide that I will mimic my drunken self and tell you just how much you mean to me, and so soon as well. I go on and on about how happy I am to have met you, and that it must have been fate that I had even seen you earlier this afternoon. What are the chances that I would have noticed you from all the way up in my apartment? You lap it up; a feral cat presented with fresh cream, relentlessly consuming every drop.
As the night drags on, many precious drinks are wasted from tossing them over my shoulder at any opportunity. It’s exhausting pretending to be so fucking wasted and so I’m thrilled when you decide to call it a night. As we walk back to our hotel, I use the journey to have some more fun with you. Seeming to have lost the ability to walk in a straight and stable line, I grab on to you tightly and almost pull you down with me. I focus on the cracks of the slabs as I take each step, being ever so careful not to step on them - a game I used to play when I was a child. I’ve always had a
vivid imagination and it seems to have come in handy tonight.
The sound of your laughter catches me off guard and my head whips round to face you. Are you laughing at me? You must really believe that I am too far gone to realise, but I do and to be quite honest, I’m furious. What gives someone like you the right to laugh at me? You're the joke in all of this, not me.
I scream silently. I can’t confront you right now and I’m stuck with all this fury trapped inside me. It kills me, but I do the only thing that I can do right now, and so I join in on your arrogant laughter; playing your joker. I still don’t know what your fucking plan is, but I know that you firmly believe that you have the upper hand and that's why my own laughter starts to become less false and instead more genuine at just how naïve you really are.
Chapter 28
We spend the next few days of our trip attached to each other; joined at the hip like Siamese twins. Sadly, I barely saw the girls. They decided to spend their days at the beach instead of poolside and at night they kept to themselves and went their own way for dinner and clubbing. I know I asked none of them to approach you, but that didn't mean they had to cut me out completely. I'm still here, in this hotel, and they are supposed to be my friends. The least they could do is check in on me from time to time but they seem to have forgotten all about me.
To make matters worse, Georgia has moved all her belongings into the other girls’ rooms instead of staying with me in ours. I don’t like to think she was being malicious – at least I hope she wasn't. She's just giving me what I asked for I guess; space to spend time with you without any distractions. I do hope she isn't mad at me though and that it was easier for them all to be together in the one apartment, but it still stung a little.
Once again, we’ve found ourselves in a busy bar, full of rowdy men who leer at the shot girls doing their rounds of the tables. I've noticed that some girls do better than others; some approach mixed tables of male and females, politely selling their services and bowing out when they are rebuffed, the others wear tighter tops and shorter skirts and focus solely on the male only tables. They flirt furiously and shamelessly in a desperate bid for the drunks to buy the full tray rather than waste their time trying to sell one at a time – they are usually the most successful ones.
I watch you from the comfort of my stool as you dance on top of the bar, confident and carefree. It’s been four days now, and you haven't slipped up once about your true identity, or even shown any signs that you are about to come clean.
‘Come up here! Dance with me!’ you holler at me over the music.
I fake laughter and shake my head. I’m losing patience with you, but I won’t crack first. You hop down and shimmy your way over to me, slithering in and out of people's way like the snake that you are. A bunch of bloke’s wolf whistle in your direction and you smile back at them over your shoulder, revelling in the attention. I swear if I could roll my eyes any further back, they might fall out of my fucking skull. What a difference a couple of days can make. You might not have told me the truth yet, but there's no doubt you have started showing more of the real you, the you I see online. You're more confident now, more eager for action. That was definitely some heart wrenching break up you went through eh babe?
You whine at me; that annoying, needy way you have grown so accustomed to when trying to convince me to do something. You want me to get up and dance with you, and it seems that it doesn’t matter how many times I tell you no, you just aren't having any of it.
'Lauren, listen to me, there is no point sitting here on your todd with a sour face when you could be having the time of your life dancing on a bar, Coyote Ugly style with me – now get up' you demand.
Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that? I wonder if this is why you are here alone; maybe you don't have any friends. I've been wondering why you don't have anyone with you for a while now as this was quite a big task to take on by yourself, but now it wouldn't really surprise me if there was nobody you could bring with you given that's how you speak to people.
You take my drink from my hand and pull me to my feet with force I didn't know you were even capable of. Your tiny fingers burrow into my arm as your grip tightens. I decide that I'm not going to make this easy on you and allow my body to fall limply into your grasp as I trip over my own feet. You push me in front of you and take hold of my waist to support my fake, drunken wobbles that I have grown to perfect now, and lead us to the front of the bar, via the wolf whistlers of course. It really is such a waste; the amount of money that has been spent on alcohol that I've had to chuck under the table or in the nearest plant pot. I'm quite impressed by my acting skills actually, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. Tonight, is another night where I’ve had to pretend that I am completely out of my face because you seem hell bent on getting me drunk for the entirety of our holiday.
You haven't got the faintest idea that I've been faking it, which brings me to the assumption that you are gullible enough to fall for just about anything if you think it's serving you purpose. You're just so fucking self-absorbed, caught up in your own little head. A pretty head yes, but one filled with disillusion, lies and deceit.
You order us three shots of tequila each, I've noticed that tequila is always your preferred choice of shot. If I've tried to suggest anything else you instantly dismiss it. Maybe tequila is the only shot that you know agrees with you, the one that allows you to feel that intoxicated high but still remain completely aware of your surroundings. I must remember that.
You catch me staring at you, but I think you believe I'm looking to you for reassurance.
‘Go on then’ you taunt, encouraging the glass towards my mouth by pushing the bottom upwards.
The first one is difficult to swallow. I have no choice but to drink them now that you are watching me so intensely. You want me to drink all of them, one straight after the other. I know what you're doing, but the thing is, tequila is always my shot of choice too. A rush of pure adrenaline hits me at the same time the empty third glass hits the surface of the bar.
You shoot yours without any difficulty of course, and I watch your throat as it greedily gulps the liquid down. I imagine what it would feel like to have my perfectly manicured hands wrapped tightly around your pale neck, pushing my thumbs deeply into your windpipe and watching you struggle for air as you cling to the last drop of your pathetic little life. I bet you thought I would be no match for you. You must have if you thought you would be able to come here and manipulate me into doing what you want. I wonder what made you think that way, was it something on my Facebook that I posted, or even just snap judgement of my photos. Either way, you've judged this book very wrongly by its cover, haven't you? Let this be a lesson to you – not everyone is how they appear online.
You push the empty glasses aside, turning your back to me and use your arms to hoist yourself back up and onto the bar. Although petite, you stand tall, looking down on me with the aura of a goddess, and I don’t like imbalance between us. Yes, you are beautiful to look at, but you are ugly as sin on the inside. You stretch your hand out to me, encouraging me to join you and I know that you aren't going to give up until you get your own way. I mull it over in my head for a few seconds. It’s not that I think I’m too good to be dancing on a bar and letting my hair loose or anything like that - far from it, it’s just not something I want to be doing with you. I don’t want to enjoy anything about you or my time spent with you. Moments like these should be enjoyed with real friends, not enemies.
I allow you to pull me up, a little part of me hoping that I might pull on your arm too hard, causing you to fall flat on your face, but you don't. There's something different about you tonight. You genuinely look like you are enjoying yourself and it just doesn't make sense to me. How can any of this be enjoyable for you? You dance erratically beside me, grinding your shapely hips and swinging your long dark hair around like an eccentric stripper. I don’t want to be here. I try to keep my bo
dy rigid and I’m reluctant to allow myself even a moment to relax and have some fun but before I know it, you've made another decision for me; grabbing hold of my hands and pushing them into the air, forcing me to dance with you.
You pull me closer to you, so close I can smell your musky floral perfume. You appear to be trying to dance seductively and I’m absolutely mortified. What's going on here? It’s only when I follow your line of vision that I see the blokes in the corner of the room once again. They are enjoying the show, enjoying the performance you are forcing me to take part in. They wolf whistle return, and I can't help myself as I let out an almighty laugh at just how pathetic you really are; just how much you crave attention and the buzz it gives you.
I’m relieved when a couple of other girls decide to join us on the bar. I use this golden opportunity to dance away from you, as far away as I can get, taking one of the other girls with me. Only when I’m away from you do I really start to have any fun; something I’ve not had much of during this trip.
I’m still completely aware of my surroundings despite what you might think, and that’s how I notice that you have now shimmied towards the blokes in the corner. You jump down, just a couple of feet from them and I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing as I watch you walk confidently towards them. You can't be that invested in my husband if you are still interested in other guys.
The Lies She Told: A wickedly twisted psychological thriller that you cannot put down! Page 17
