The Lying Game

by Ruth Ware

  ‘Family history …?’ I say slowly. And then, before Lucy can answer, I remember and I open my mouth, trying to head her off, but it’s too late.

  ‘Isa’s related to Oscar Wilde,’ she says proudly to her husband. ‘Isn’t he your great-grandfather or something?’

  ‘Lucy,’ I manage, my throat tight with shame and my face hot, but Marc is already looking at me quizzically, and I know what he’s thinking. Oscar Wilde’s children all changed their name after the trial. He had no great-granddaughters – let alone any called Wilde. As I know perfectly well. There is only one thing for it. I have to confess.

  ‘Lucy, I’m so sorry.’ I put down my fork. ‘I … it was a joke. I’m not related to Oscar Wilde.’

  I want the ground to swallow me up. Why, why were we so vile? Didn’t we understand what we were doing, when we pitted ourselves against these nice, credulous, well-brought-up girls?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. I can’t meet Marc’s eyes, and I look past him to Lucy, knowing that my voice is pleading. ‘It was … I don’t know why we said those things.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lucy’s face has gone even pinker, and I am not sure if she is cross at her own credulity or at me, for landing her in it. ‘Of course. I should have realised.’ She pushes at the food on her plate, but she is no longer eating. ‘How silly of me. Isa and her friends used to have this … game,’ she adds to Marc. ‘What was it you called it?’

  ‘The Lying Game,’ I say. My stomach is twisting, and I see Kate shoot a questioning look from across the table. I shake my head very slightly and she turns back to her neighbour.

  ‘I should have known,’ Lucy says. She is shaking her head, her expression rueful. ‘You could never believe a word any of them said. What was that one about your father being on the run, Isa, and that was why he never visited? I fell for that one hook, line and sinker. You must have thought me very stupid.’

  I try to smile and shake my head, but it feels like a rictus grin, stretched across my cheekbones. And I don’t blame her when she turns away from me, quite deliberately, and begins to talk to the guest on her other side.

  Some hour and a half later, and the meal is winding to a close. Across the table from me Kate has been eating grimly and determinedly, as if only by demolishing her meal will she be able to leave. Fatima has picked, and more than once I see her shake her head irritatedly at yet another waiter trying to serve her wine.

  Thea has sent away plate after plate untouched, but she’s made up for it with drink.

  At last, though, it’s the final speeches, and I feel a rush of relief as I realise this is it – the final furlong. We drink bad coffee, while we listen to a woman I vaguely remember from two or three years above us, called Mary Hardwick. She, it seems, has written a novel, and this apparently qualifies her to make a long, digressive speech about the narrative of the human life, during which I see Kate rise from her seat. As she passes mine she whispers, ‘I’m going to the cloakroom to get our bags and shoes before the rush starts.’

  I nod, and she slips around the edges of the tables, taking the route Thea and I used at the beginning of the evening. She has almost reached the main doors when there is a burst of clapping and I realise the speech is over, everyone is standing up, gathering belongings.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Marc Hopgood says, as he slings his jacket back on and hands his wife her handbag. ‘Nice meeting you.’

  ‘Nice meeting you too,’ I say, ‘Goodbye, Lucy.’ But Lucy Hopgood is already walking off, looking away from me determinedly, as if she’s seen something very important on the other side of the room.

  Marc gives a little shrug and a wave, and then follows. When they are gone I feel in my pocket for my phone, checking for messages, although I didn’t feel it buzz.

  I’m still staring down at the screen, when I feel a tap on my shoulder and I see Jess Hamilton standing behind me, her face flushed with wine and the heat of the room.

  ‘Off so soon?’ she asks, and when I nod she says, ‘Come for a nightcap in the village. We’re staying at a B&B on the seafront and I think a few old girls are planning to meet up in the Salten Arms for a quick one before bed.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say awkwardly. ‘It’s kind of you, but we’re walking back across the marsh to Kate’s, the pub would be miles out of our way. And plus, you know, I left Freya there with a sitter, so I don’t want to be too late.’

  I don’t say what I am really thinking, which is that I would rather chew off my own foot than spend another minute with these cheerful, laughing women, who have such happy memories of their schooldays, and will want to talk and endlessly reminisce about times that are much less happy for Kate, Thea, Fatima and me.

  ‘Shame,’ Jess says lightly. ‘But listen, don’t let it be another fifteen years before you come to one of these things, OK? They run a dinner most years, admittedly not as big as this one. But I should think the twentieth will be something pretty special.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say meaninglessly, and I make a move to go, but as I do, she catches my shoulder. When I turn, her eyes are bright, and she is swaying, ever so slightly, and I see that she is very, very drunk. Much drunker than I had realised.

  ‘Oh, sod it,’ she says, ‘I can’t let you go without asking. We’ve been speculating all night on our table and I have to ask this. I hope it’s not – well, I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but when you all left, the four of you – was it for the reason everyone said?’

  The bottom seems to drop out of my stomach, and I feel hollow, as if the food and drink I have consumed tonight have been nothing but sea mist.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say trying to keep my voice light and even. ‘What reason did everyone give?’

  ‘Oh, you must have heard the rumours,’ Jess says. She lowers her voice, glances behind her, and I realise, she is looking for Kate, making sure she’s not in earshot. ‘That … you know … Ambrose …’

  She trails off meaningfully and I swallow against a hard, painful lump that suddenly constricts my throat. I should turn away, pretend to see Fatima or someone calling me, but I can’t, I don’t want to. I want to make her say it, this vile thing she’s circling around, prodding at, poking.

  ‘What about him?’ I say, and I even manage a smile. ‘I haven’t a clue what you mean.’

  That’s a lie.

  ‘Oh God,’ Jess says with a groan, and I don’t know whether her sudden compunction is real or feigned – I can’t tell any more, I’ve spent so long steeped in deceit. ‘Isa, I didn’t … You really don’t know?’

  ‘Say it,’ I say, and there’s no smile in my voice now. ‘Say it.’

  ‘Shit.’ Jess looks unhappy now, the alcohol wearing off in the face of my fierce disgust. ‘Isa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stir up –’

  ‘You’ve been speculating about it all night, apparently. So at least have the guts to say it to our faces. What’s the rumour?’

  ‘That Ambrose …’ Jess gulps; she looks over my shoulder, looking for a way out, but the hall is emptying fast, none of her friends are in sight. ‘That Ambrose … that he … he did … drawings, of you all. The four of you.’

  ‘Oh, but not just drawings, right?’ My voice is very cold. ‘Right, Jess? What sort of drawings, exactly?’

  ‘N-naked drawings,’ she says, almost whispering now.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … the school found out … and that’s why Ambrose … he …’

  ‘He what?’

  She is silent, and I grab her wrist, watching her wince as she feels the pressure of my grip on the fine bones.

  ‘He what?’ I say, loudly this time, and my voice echoes round the almost empty hall, so that the heads of the few girls and staff remaining turn to look at us.

  ‘That’s why he committed suicide,’ Jess whispers. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’ And she pulls her wrist out of mine, and, hitching her handbag up her shoulder she half walks, half stumbles across the emptying hall to the exit, leavin
g me gasping, holding myself as if against an imaginary blow, trying not to cry.

  WHEN AT LAST I pull myself together enough to face the thronged hallway, I force my way into the crowd, looking, desperately, for Fatima, Kate and Thea.

  I scan the hallway, the queue for the cloakroom, the toilets – but they aren’t there. Surely they haven’t left already?

  My heart is thumping, and my cheeks are flushed from the encounter with Jess. Where are they?

  I’m shoving my way to the exit, elbowing aside laughing little knots of old girls and their husbands and partners, when I feel a hand on my arm and turn, relief written all over my face, only to find Miss Weatherby standing there.

  My stomach tightens, thinking of our last meeting, the furious disappointment on her face.

  ‘Isa,’ she says. ‘Always rushing everywhere, I remember that so well. I always said you should have played hockey, put all that nervous energy to good use!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to not gasp, trying not to pull away too obviously. ‘I – I have to get back, the babysitter …’

  ‘Oh, you have a baby?’ she asks. I know she is only trying to be polite, but I just want to get away. ‘How old?’

  ‘Nearly six months. A little girl. Listen, I must …’

  Miss Weatherby nods and releases my arm.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you here after so many years. And congratulations on your daughter. You must put her name down for the school!’

  She says the words almost light-heartedly, but I feel my features go stiff, even as I smile and nod, and I know from the change in Miss Weatherby’s expression that my feelings must be evident, that my smile must be as false as a painted marionette’s, for her face crumples.

  ‘Isa, I can’t tell you how much I regret all that business surrounding your leaving. There aren’t many points of my career that I feel ashamed of, but I can honestly say, that business is one of them. The school handled it – well, there’s no point in pretending, we handled it very badly, and I must take my share of responsibility for that. It is not mere lip service to say that things have improved very much in that respect – matters would be treated … well, I think everything would be handled very differently these days.’

  ‘I –’ I swallow, try to speak. ‘Miss Weatherby, please, don’t. It – it’s water under the bridge, honestly.’

  It is not. But I can’t bear to talk about this now. Not here, where it all feels so raw still. Where are the others?

  Miss Weatherby only nods, once, her face tight as if she is holding back her own memories.

  ‘Well, goodbye,’ I say awkwardly and she forces a smile, her stern face seeming almost to crack.

  ‘Come again, Isa,’ she says as I turn to leave. ‘I – I did wonder if perhaps you felt you wouldn’t be welcome and, quite honestly, nothing would be further from the truth. I hope you won’t be a stranger in future – can I count on your presence at next year’s dinner?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. My face feels stiff with effort, but I manage a smile as I tuck my hair behind my ear. ‘Of course, I’ll come.’

  She lets me go, and as I finally make my escape towards the exit, looking for Kate and the others, I reflect: it’s amazing how quickly it comes back, the facility to lie.

  It’s Fatima I find first, standing at the big double doors looking anxiously up and down the drive. She sees me at almost exactly the same time as I see her, and pounces, her fingers like a vice on my arm.

  ‘Where have you been? Thea’s thoroughly pissed, we need to get her home. Kate’s got your shoes, if that’s what was holding you up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I hobble across the gravel, my heels turning and grating on the stones. ‘It wasn’t that, I got cornered by Jess Hamilton, and then by Miss Weatherby. I couldn’t get away.’

  ‘Miss Weatherby?’ Fatima’s face is alarmed. ‘What did she want to talk to you about?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ I say. It’s half true after all. ‘I think she feels … well, bad.’

  ‘She deserves to,’ Fatima says stonily, turning away and beginning to walk.

  I crunch breathless in her wake as we leave the lighted front of the school. She forges down one of the gravel paths towards the hockey pitches. In our day it would have been completely dark – now there are dim little solar lights at intervals, but they serve only to drown out the moonlight, making the pools of blackness in between more inky.

  When we were fifteen, the marshes felt like home, near enough. I don’t recall being frightened on any of the long night-time treks to Kate’s house.

  Now, as I pant to catch up with Fatima, I find myself thinking of rabbit holes in the darkness, of my ankle turning and snapping. A picture comes of myself, sinking into one of the bottomless pits of the marsh, water filling my mouth so I can’t cry out, the others walking on ahead oblivious, leaving me alone. Except … perhaps not alone. There is someone out here after all. Someone who wrote that note, and who dragged a dead and bloodied sheep to Kate’s door …

  Fatima has drawn ahead of me in her eagerness to catch up with the others, her figure just a dim, fluttering silhouette that blends into the dark shapes of the marsh.

  ‘Fatima,’ I call out, ‘will you please slow down?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She pauses at the stile and waits for me to catch up, and this time she walks more slowly, matching her strides to my more cautious pace as we begin to cross the marsh itself, my narrow heels sinking into the soft ground. We walk in silence, just the sound of our breathing, my occasional stumble as my high heels turn on a stone. Where are the others?

  ‘She asked me to send Freya there,’ I say at last, more as a way to break the eerie quiet of the marsh and get Fatima to slow down than because I think she wants to know – and it works, in fact it stops Fatima in her tracks. She turns to face me with a mixture of horror and incredulity in her expression.

  ‘Miss Weatherby? You are shitting me.’

  ‘Nope.’ We start walking again, slower this time. ‘I did find it quite hard to respond.’

  ‘Over my dead body, is what you should have said.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  There’s another silence and then she says, ‘I’d never let Sami or Nadia board. Would you?’

  I think about it. I think about the circumstances at home, what my father went though. And then I think about Freya, about the fact that I can’t manage even an evening away from her without feeling that my heart is being put through an industrial shredder.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say at last. ‘I can’t imagine it though.’

  We walk on through the darkness, across a makeshift rotting bridge over a ditch, and at last Fatima says, ‘Bloody hell, how did they get so far ahead?’

  But almost as the words leave her mouth we hear something, see a moving shape in the darkness up ahead. It’s not the shape of a person though, it’s a hunched and huddled mass, and a wet, bubbling sound comes through the darkness – a sound of distress.

  ‘What’s that?’ I whisper, and I feel Fatima’s hand close over mine. We both stop, listening. My heart is beating uncomfortably fast.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she whispers back. ‘Is it … is it an animal?’

  The picture in front of my eyes is vivid as a flashback – torn guts, bloodied wool, someone crouched, animal-like, over the ripped corpse …

  The sound comes again, a wet splatter followed by what sounds like a sob, and I feel Fatima’s fingers digging into my skin.

  ‘Is it …’ she says, her voice uncertain. ‘Do you think the others …?’

  ‘Thea?’ I call out into the black. ‘Kate?’

  A voice comes back.

  ‘Over here!’

  We hurry forward into the darkness, and as we get closer the hunched shape resolves itself: Thea on her hands and knees over a drainage ditch, Kate holding back her hair.

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ Fatima says, a mixture of weariness and disgust in her voice. ‘I knew this would
happen. No one can drink two bottles on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Thea growls over her shoulder, and then retches again. When she stands up, her make-up is smeared.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Kate asks her, and Thea nods.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Fatima snorts.

  ‘The one thing you are not is fine,’ she says. ‘And I say that as a doctor.’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ Thea says acidly. ‘I said I can walk, what more d’you want?’

  ‘I want you to eat a proper meal and get to noon without a drink – at least once.’

  For a minute I’m not sure if Thea has heard her, or if she’s going to reply. She’s too busy wiping her mouth and spitting in the grass. But then she says, almost under her breath, ‘Christ, I miss when you used to be normal.’

  ‘Normal?’ I say incredulously. Fatima just stands there, speechless – too shocked to find words, or too angry, I’m not sure which.

  ‘I really hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means,’ Kate says.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Thea straightens and begins to walk, more steadily than I would have given her credit for. ‘What do you think it means? If you think it means that she’s using that headscarf as a bandage, then yes, that’s what I mean. It’s great that Allah’s forgiven you,’ she shoots over her shoulder at Fatima, ‘but I doubt the police will take that as a plea bargain.’

  ‘Will you just fuck off?’ Fatima says. She is almost incoherent, choking with anger. ‘What the hell have my choices got to do with you?’

  ‘I could say the same thing to you,’ Thea swings round. ‘How dare you judge me? I do what I have to do to sleep at night. So do you, apparently. How about you respect my coping mechanisms and I’ll respect yours?’

  ‘I care about you!’ Fatima shouts. ‘Don’t you get that? I don’t give a fuck how you cope with your shit. I don’t care if you become a Buddhist nun, or take up transcendental meditation, or go to work for an orphanage in Romania. All of that is entirely your own business. But watching you turn into an alcoholic? No! I will not pretend I’m OK with that just to fit in with some misguided shit about personal choices.’