The Lying Game
Page 35
But we begin to walk too, the three of us, arm in arm. Mary changes her course, ready to cut us off, and I feel Fatima’s arm tighten in mine, and hear the pace of Thea’s heels on the cobbles quicken.
Mary is grinning now, as we draw closer, her big yellow teeth bared, like a creature ready to fight, and my heart is thumping in my chest.
But I meet her gaze, and for the first time since I came back to Salten I am without guilt. I am without fear. And I know the truth.
And Mary Wren falters. She breaks stride, and the three of us push past her, arm in arm. I feel Fatima’s arm, firm in mine, and I see Thea smile. The sun breaks through the clouds, turning the grey sea bright.
Behind us, Mary Wren calls out something inarticulate.
But we keep walking, the three of us.
And we do not look back.
THERE IS A story I will tell Freya when she is older. It’s the story of a house fire, an accident caused by faulty wiring, and a lamp knocked over in the night.
It’s the story of a man who risked his life to save her, and my best friend, who loved him, and went back for him when she knew it was hopeless.
It’s a story about bravery, and selflessness, and sacrifice – about a father’s suicide and his children’s grief.
And it’s a story about hope – about how we have to go on, after the unbearable has happened. Make the most of our lives, for the sake of the people who gave theirs.
It’s the story that Thea, Fatima and I told Sergeant Wren when we went to the station, and he believed us, because it was true.
It’s also a lie.
We have been lying for almost twenty years, the three of us. But now, at last, we know why. Now at last, we know the truth.
It is two weeks later and, once again, Freya and I are on a train, to Aviemore this time, almost as far from Salten as you can get without crossing the North Sea.
I think about the lies I have told, as the train hurtles north, and Freya sleeps in my arms. I think about those lies, the lies that poisoned my life and my relationship with a good and loving man. I think about the price that Kate paid for them, and how they put Freya in danger, and my fingers tighten on her, so that she stirs in her sleep.
Perhaps it is time to stop lying. Perhaps … perhaps we should tell the truth, all of us.
But then I look down at Freya. And I know one thing – I never, never want her to have to go through what I did. I never want her to have to check a story against the lies that she has told, testing it for holes, trying to remember what she said last time and guess what her friends might have told.
I never want her to have to look over her shoulder, to protect others.
I think about the sacrifice that Ambrose made for Kate, for Luc, and I know – I will never tell Freya the truth. Because to do that would be to pass on my burden to her.
I can do this. We can do this, Fatima, Thea and I. We can keep our secrets. And I know they will do it. They will stick to the story we cooked up in whispers in our bedrooms at the B&B – of vague timings and mutual alibis. It’s the last thing we can do for Kate, after all.
My phone bleeps around York, making Freya stir in my arms before she settles. It’s Owen.
How’s it going – did you make the train ok?
I have been thinking of him, all journey. Of how he looked when I waved him goodbye this morning as Freya and I set off to King’s Cross.
And further back, to the way his hands were trembling when he got out of the car in the car park of the B&B at Salten, the way he took Freya in his arms as if they’d been apart for weeks, as if he’d have swum an ocean to save her. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and when he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.
And further back still, to the light that seemed to illuminate him from within when he held her that very first time, the night she was born. He looked down at her face, and up at me with a kind of wonder, and I knew then what I know now – that he would walk through fire for her.
I take a breath and hold it for a long time, looking down at Freya’s slumbering face. And then I text back.
Everything’s fine. Dad’s meeting us at Aviemore. I love you.
It’s a lie, I know that now. But for her, for Freya, I can keep lying. And maybe one day I can make it true.
Acknowledgements
First thanks must go to my outstanding editors, Liz, Jade and the two Alisons (both here and in the US). Together they have provided editorial brilliance, made inspired suggestions, asked annoyingly pertinent questions, and have generally combined to make each of my books at least 50% better than I could have achieved alone.
Bethan, September and Chloe are the best support team a writer could wish for, and I can’t thank them enough for everything they’ve done for this book and its predecessors.
As for everyone else at Vintage — Faye, Rachel, Richard, Chris, Rachael, Anna, Helen, Tom, Jane, Penny, Monique, Sam, Christina, Beth and Alex, and all the other people toiling behind the scenes — you are brilliant, funny, and lovely to work with, and I am still amazed and proud to be a Vintage author.
My agent Eve White and her team always have my back, and I’m constantly grateful for the support and cheer of the vast community of writers, both online and off, who provide laughs, advice and technical help. The list of the people I ought to thank in that respect would fill a book on its own, so please know that I love you and value you! However, particular thanks needs to go to my dear friend Ayisha Malik for taking time out of writing her own books to advise on The Lying Game. Needless to say, any bloopers are my own fault, but there would have been a lot more without her help …
I would also like to thank Marc Hopgood for his generous bid in the CLIC Sargent children’s cancer charity auction, and for lending his name to a guest at that Salten House dinner. I hope you like your character, Marc!
Finally to my dear friends and family, I love you, and I (quite literally) couldn’t do it without you, so thank you, always. xxx
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First published by Harvill Secker in 2017
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