The Lying Game

by Ruth Ware

  Fatima’s smile is even thinner than mine feels, but she doesn’t let it slip.

  ‘I was always a Muslim,’ she says evenly. ‘I just wasn’t very observant at school.’

  ‘And so … what … you know, what changed your mind?’

  Fatima shrugs.

  ‘Kids. Time. Adulthood. Who knows?’ I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, or not to Jess, not now.

  ‘So you’re married?’ Jess says.

  Fatima nods. ‘To another doctor. I know, right? What a cliché! Two lovely kids, a boy and a girl. They’re at home with Ali. What about yours?’

  ‘Same as you – a girl and a boy – Alexa, she’s nearly five – can’t believe where the time goes! – and Joe, who’s two – they’re at home with the au pair. Alex and I took a couple of sneaky nights off for a long weekend. Gotta have some couple time, right?’

  Fatima and I exchange a fleeting look. I’m not sure what to reply to this – Owen and I have not had any ‘couple time’ since Freya was born – but we’re saved by the appearance of a tall blonde woman on the path up ahead, who does a mock feint, hand to her heart and then says,

  ‘Not Jess Hamilton? No! You can’t be, you don’t look old enough!’ ‘The very same,’ Jess says, with a little bow, and then she waves a hand at the four of us. ‘And you probably remember …’

  There is a sudden silence, as I see the woman registering our faces, recalling names, and her expression changes, the polite society smile falling away. She does remember. She remembers exactly.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, and there is a kind of cold reserve in her voice that makes my heart sink. Then she turns back to Jess, linking her arm with hers, turning her back on the rest of us. ‘Jess, darling, you simply must meet my husband,’ she says conspiratorially.

  And just like that Jess is swept up, borne away, and it’s just the four of us again. Alone. Together.

  But not for long. For as we round the corner to the drive, the double doors are open, light streaming out into the evening air, and people streaming in.

  I feel someone reaching for my hand, and when I look, it’s Kate, her fingers twining into mine for support, her grip painfully hard.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I whisper, and she gives a single, sharp nod, but I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince me, or herself.

  ‘Armour on?’ Thea says, nodding at the shoes I am holding in my free hand, and I realise, I’m still wearing my walking sandals, covered with dust. I kick them off, balancing against Kate’s shoulders, and slip my feet into the high heels. Fatima is doing the same, supporting herself against Thea’s arm. Kate’s dress flutters in the wind, like a flag – like a distress signal, I think suddenly, the image popping into my mind uninvited, and I push it away.

  We glance at each other, and in each other’s eyes we read the same feelings – trepidation, nervous excitement, fear.

  ‘Ready?’ Kate says, and we all nod. And then we walk up the steps into the school that kicked us out so painfully, so many years ago.

  OH GOD. IT’S not even an hour into the evening and I’m not sure I can do this any more.

  I am sitting on the toilet, my head in my hands, trying to get a hold of myself. I have been drinking from nerves, letting my glass get topped up by passing waiters, not counting my units. It feels like a dream, one of those where you’re back at school, but everything is subtly different, more technicolour, everything has shifted up a gear. There was a slightly nightmarish quality to the wall of faces and voices that greeted us as we entered the hall, a mix of total strangers, and of half-remembered faces changed by age, the features sharpened as puppy fat fell away, or alternatively thickened and flattened, the skin loosening imperceptibly like a latex mask that has slightly slipped.

  And the worst is, everyone knows us, even the girls who arrived at the school after we left. I hadn’t anticipated that. The way we left, slipping out between one term and the next, our departure unannounced … it felt low-key. It was one of the things the headmistress said to my father at the time, ‘If Isa leaves of her own volition, we can keep this very quiet.’

  But I had forgotten the echo chamber we left behind, where the space left by our absence must have been filled over and over again by rumour and speculation until an edifice of lies and half-truths had built up, fuelled by the meagre facts of Ambrose’s disappearance. And now – enough old girls live locally to have seen the Salten Observer. They have read the headlines. And they’re not stupid – they have put two and two together. Sometimes they’ve made five.

  The worst of it is their eyes, which are avid. People are pleasant enough to our faces, though their conversation feels a little forced, and I sense, though maybe I’m imagining it, a kind of wariness behind their smiles. But every time we turn away, I can hear the whispers behind our back start up. Is it true? Weren’t they expelled? Did you hear …?

  The memories are no longer gentle little ‘do you remember?’ taps on my shoulder, they are slaps, each one an assault. Even away from the crowd they keep coming. I remember sitting crying in this very stall because a girl, a harmless little first year, had seen me and Fatima coming back from Kate’s one night, and I had completely overreacted. I had threatened her, told her that if she told anyone what she’d seen I would ensure she was sent to Coventry for the rest of her days at Salten. I could do that, I told her. I could make her life a misery.

  It was a lie of course. Both parts. I couldn’t have isolated her like that even if I’d wanted to. We were too isolated ourselves, by that point. Seats were mysteriously saved in the buttery when we tried to sit in them. If one of us suggested a particular film in the common room of an evening, the vote somehow always went the other way. And besides – I would never really have done it. I only wanted to scare her a little, keep her quiet.

  I don’t know what she did or said, but Miss Weatherby called me into her office that evening and gave me a long talk, about community spirit, and my responsibility to the younger girls.

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ she said, her voice full of disappointment, ‘whether you truly have it in you to be a Salten girl, Isa. I know that things at home are very hard, but that doesn’t excuse your snapping at others, particularly those younger than yourself. Please don’t make me talk to your father, I am sure he has enough on his plate right now.’

  My throat had seemed to close up with a combination of shame and fury. Fury at her, at Miss Weatherby, yes. But mostly at myself, for what I’d done, for what I’d allowed myself to become. I thought of Thea, that first night, her account of how the Lying Game had started. I won’t pick on the new girls, the ones who can’t defend themselves, she’d said. I’ll do it to the ones in charge – the teachers, the popular girls. The ones who think they’re above it all.

  What had I become, threatening eleven-year-olds?

  I thought of what my father would say if Miss Weatherby called him, between trips to the hospital. I thought of how his face, already grey with worry, would tighten more in lines of disappointment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, forcing the words out. Not because I didn’t want to say them, but because of the constriction in my throat. ‘I really am. Please – it was a mistake. I’ll apologise. And I’ll try harder, I promise.’

  ‘Do,’ Miss Weatherby said. There was something worried in her eyes. ‘And, Isa, I know I’ve spoken to you about this before, but please do consider mixing more. Tight-knit friendships are all very well and good, but they can close us off from other chances. They can cost us a great deal, in the end.’

  ‘Isa?’ The knock on the cubicle door is low but decisive, and my head comes up. ‘Isa, are you there?’

  I stand, flush, and leave the safety of the toilet cubicle to wash my hands at the row of sinks. Thea is standing by the dryer, her arms folded.

  ‘We were worried,’ she says flatly. I grimace. How long had I been in there? Ten minutes? Twenty?

  ‘I’m sorry, it just … it was all too much, you know?’
r />   The water is cool on my hands and wrists, and I suppress an urge to splash it over my face.

  ‘Look, I understand,’ Thea says. Her face is gaunt, her thinness making her look almost haggard in the unforgiving lights of the school toilets – the guest facilities have been updated too and now feature soft towels and scented hand cream, but the lighting is just the same as it was, harsh and fluorescent. ‘I want to get out too. But you can’t hide all night, they’re about to sit down for dinner and you’ll be missed. Let’s get through the meal and then we can get out.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. But I can’t make myself move. I’m holding on to the basin, feeling my nails against the porcelain. Shit. I think about Freya back at Kate’s, wonder if she’s OK. I am almost overcome by the urge to duck out of here and run back to my soft, warm, home-smelling baby. ‘Why the hell did Kate think this was a good idea?’

  ‘Look.’ Thea glances over her shoulder at the empty cubicles, and lowers her voice. ‘We discussed this. You were the one who voted to come.’

  I nod grimly. She’s right. And the thing is, I understand Kate’s panicked reaction, scrabbling around for a reason to explain all her friends coming down here after so many years’ absence, the weekend that a body just happened to turn up in the Reach. The reunion must have seemed like a heaven-sent coincidence. But I wish, I wish she hadn’t done it.

  Shit, I think again, and I feel the swear words bubbling up inside me, a poison I can’t contain. I have a sudden vision of myself sitting down at the white-clothed dining table and letting them spew out – Shut your fucking faces, you rumour-mongering bitches. You know nothing. Nothing!

  I breathe, slow and quiet, try to steady myself.

  ‘OK?’ Thea says, more gently. I nod.

  ‘I’m OK. I can do this.’ Then I correct myself. ‘We can do this, right? I mean, God knows, if Kate can, I can. Is she holding up?’

  ‘Just,’ Thea says. She holds open the toilet door and I make my way out into the echoing hallway, empty now except for a few teachers milling about, and a large easel at one end, holding the table plans.

  ‘Ooh, be quick!’ a teacher says, seeing us emerge. She is young, too young to have been there when we were. ‘They’re sitting down for the speeches. What table are you on?’

  ‘Pankhurst, according to the woman who was here before,’ Thea says, and the teacher looks at the list, runs her finger down the names. ‘Thea West,’ Thea supplements.

  ‘Oh, that’s right, you’re here. And you are …?’ She looks at me. ‘Sorry, as you can probably tell, I’m a recent arrival so all of you old girls are new faces to me!’

  ‘Isa Wilde,’ I say quietly, and to my relief her face, as she turns to check the list, registers neither recognition nor shock, just concentration as she scans the tables.

  ‘Oh yes, Pankhurst too, with a few others from your year by the looks of it. It’s a table of ten on the far side of the hallway, by the buttery hatch. Best way round is to slip in this door and edge round underneath the gallery.’

  I know, I think. I know this place off by heart. But Thea and I just nod, and we follow her direction, sliding through the half-opened door under cover of the sound of clapping. The speeches are already under way, a woman at the podium smiling, and waiting politely for the applause to die down.

  I had prepared myself for seeing Miss Armitage, the headmistress in our day, up there, but it’s not her on the dais, and I’m not surprised – she must have been in her fifties when I started at the school. She’s probably retired by now.

  But the reality is, in a way, more shocking.

  It’s Miss Weatherby, our former housemistress.

  ‘Fuck,’ Thea whispers under her breath as we make our way around the tables of well-to-do old girls and their husbands, and I can see from her pallor that this is just as much of a shock to her as it is to me.

  As we tiptoe around chairs and over handbags, past gilt-lettered plaques listing hockey captains and girls who died in the war, and unflattering oil portraits of former heads, Miss Weatherby’s well-bred tones echo around the panelled hall, but the words pass over my head, unheard. All I can hear is her voice that final day, ‘Isa, this is best for everyone, I’m very sorry your time here at Salten didn’t work out, but we all think – your father included – that a fresh start is the best thing.’

  A fresh start. Another one.

  And all of a sudden I became one of them, a girl like Thea with a string of schools behind her that she had been asked to leave, with the threat of expulsion over my head.

  I remembered my father’s stony face in the car. He asked no questions, I told no lies. But the reproach that hung in the air, as we sped back to a London filled with the smell of hospitals and the beep of monitors, was How could you? How could you when I have all this to deal with already?

  Fatima’s parents were still abroad, but a grim-faced aunt and uncle came down from London in their Audi and took her away in the middle of the night as I watched from an upstairs window – I never even got to say goodbye.

  Thea’s father was the worst – loud and brash, laughing as if bravado could make the scandal go away, making suggestive cracks as he slung Thea’s case into the back of the car, the smell of brandy on his breath though it was only noon.

  Only Kate had no one to take her away. Because Ambrose … Ambrose was already gone. ‘Disappeared before they could sack him,’ said the whispers in the corridor.

  All this is fresh in my mind as we make our way, with whispered apologies, to the table marked ‘Pankhurst’ where Fatima and Kate are waiting, their faces full of anxious relief as we slide into our seats, and a final burst of clapping breaks out. Miss Weatherby is finished, and I can’t recall a word she said.

  I open up my phone and text Liz under cover of the table. All ok?

  ‘Vegetarian or meat, madam?’ says a voice behind me, and I jerk round to see a white-coated waiter standing there.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your meal choice, madam, did you tick the meat option or the vegetarian option?’

  ‘Oh –’ I look across at Kate who is deep in conversation with Fatima, their heads bent over their plates. ‘Um, meat, I guess?’

  The waiter bows and places a plate of something swimming in a thick brown sauce, accompanied by bronzed piped potato shapes and a vegetable that I identify, after some thought, as a roasted artichoke. The effect is fifty shades of beige.

  Kate and Fatima both have the vegetarian option, which looks nicer by far – some kind of tartlet with the inevitable goat’s cheese, I think.

  ‘Ah,’ says a man’s voice from my right, ‘this must be a dish in tribute to Picasso’s lesser-known brown stage.’

  I look, nervously, to see if he is talking to me, and somewhat to my dismay he is. I manage a smile.

  ‘It is rather that way, isn’t it?’ I poke at the artichoke with my fork. ‘What do you think the meat is?’

  ‘I haven’t checked, but I would lay you favourable odds that it’s chicken – it always is at these things, in my experience. No one objects to chicken.’

  I slice a piece off the end of the amorphous brown-clad lump and put it cautiously into my mouth and yes, it is indeed chicken.

  ‘So, what brings you here?’ I say, after swallowing. ‘Clearly you’re not an old girl.’

  It’s a thin enough joke, but he has the grace to laugh as if it were not entirely predictable.

  ‘No, indeed. My name’s Marc, Marc Hopgood. I’m married to one of your contemporaries, Lucy Etheridge, she was back then.’

  The name means nothing to me, and for a moment I hesitate, unsure whether to pretend a knowledge that I don’t have, but I realise quickly that it will be pointless – one or two questions will reveal my ignorance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say honestly, ‘I don’t remember her. I wasn’t at Salten House for very long.’

  ‘No?’

  I should stop there, but I can’t. I’ve said too much and too little, both at the same time, and
I can’t stop myself filling in at least some of the blanks.

  ‘I only came at the start of the fifth, but I left before the sixth form.’

  He’s too polite to ask why, but the question is there in his eyes, unspoken, in his eyes as he refills my glass, like the nicely brought up public-school boy he almost certainly is.

  My phone beeps, and I look down briefly to see all ok :) :) :) flash up from Liz, and at the same time a voice from Marc’s other side says, ‘Isa?’

  I look up, and Marc edges his chair back a few inches to allow his wife to lean across him, her hand extended.

  ‘Isa Wilde? It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, thankful that Marc has already mentioned her name. I push the phone hastily into my bag and shake. ‘Lucy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes!’ Her cheeks are pink and white as a baby’s and she looks jolly and delighted to be here, in her husband’s company. ‘Isn’t this fun! So many memories …’

  I nod, but I don’t say what I’m thinking – that the memories I have from Salten House are not all fun.

  ‘So,’ Lucy says after a moment, picking up her knife and fork again. ‘Tell me all about yourself, what have you been up to since you left?’

  ‘Oh … you know … this and that. I studied History at Oxford, then I went into law, and now I’m at the Civil Service.’

  ‘Oh, really? So’s Marc. What department are you in?’

  ‘Home Office, currently,’ I say. ‘But you know what it’s like.’ I shoot Marc a sideways smile. ‘You tend to rattle around a bit. I’ve worked across a few departments.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ Lucy says, hacking busily at her chicken, ‘but I always assumed you’d go into something creative. What with your family history.’

  For a minute I’m puzzled. My mother was a solicitor before she gave up work to have children, and my father has always worked in financial compliance. There is no hint of creativity in either of them. Has she got me mixed up with Kate?