‘Sorry,’ she said, tickling their cat, Luna, under the chin before stroking her sleek, grey body. ‘I’m so, so hot. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ She disappeared into the bedroom, stripping off her clothes, and dropping them as she went.
Fifteen minutes later she was back, in shorts and a T-shirt, damp hair scooped into a messy bun. She picked up the glass of wine that Jack had poured. ‘God, that’s better,’ she said, taking a swig. She smiled, and touched Jack’s clean-shaven cheek. ‘Well, hello there, Jack, how was your day?’
He laughed, and plonked a kiss on her nose. ‘Well Tuesday’s done. I’ll be glad when I’m over hump Wednesday.’
‘Wednesday’s the new Thursday, and Thursday’s the new Friday.’
‘Must be the weekend then.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
She pulled herself onto a stool. ‘I saw an old boyfriend on the train home. Trevor Cooper.’ The guilt of talking about the appeal made her want to tell Jack.
‘The bloke you went out with at uni?’
‘Aha.’
‘Should I be jealous?’ he teased.
‘God no.’ She took another gulp of wine, before adding, ‘He was suggesting I meet with him some time.’
Jack’s eyebrows rose, and a playful smile dimpled his cheeks. ‘Do you fancy him?’
She shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
He laughed as he put chicken onto plates. ‘Well, go ahead then; you have my blessing.’
‘I’d go without it, if I wanted to,’ she said, with a laugh. They’d been together two years. He should be able to trust her. ‘To be honest,’ she continued, ‘I’m not sure I want to meet up with him. I’ll think of an excuse if he texts. Maybe come down with something contagious.’
Jack smiled and shoved a plate of delicious-looking food in front of her. She picked up a fork and began tucking in, making appreciative noises. ‘I probably shouldn’t have given him my number.’
‘And you did, because?’
She shrugged, remembering. ‘I suppose I didn’t want to hurt his feelings again.’
There was a clatter, and Luna, green eyes flashing, jumped off the worktop with a huge piece of French bread in her mouth.
‘Luna, you little sod,’ Jack yelled, diving from his stool. ‘Has that “how to train a cat” book arrived yet?’
Isla didn’t respond, deep in thought.
‘If you don’t want to meet him, Isla,’ he said, long legs leaping after Luna, ‘just ignore him if he texts.’ He grabbed the cat, wrestled free the bread, and chucked it in the bin. ‘Simple.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
Later, Isla sat on her mobile phone watching cute cats on YouTube, as Jack watched a documentary about Jack the Ripper.
Her phone buzzed. Trevor had sent her a friend request on Facebook, and a message saying how great it had been to see her again. She stared at the screen for some moments, and then looked at Jack sprawled full length on the sofa. Trevor was just being friendly, and anyway, her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore him. She had loads of friends she barely knew any more on Facebook. What harm could another person do?
She added him as a friend.
Chapter 2
Three months later
Tuesday, 25 October
Isla dashed towards Heathrow Airport’s luggage claim conveyors, and eased her tired body between a heavy man in his fifties with a mobile pinned to his ear, and a family with two teenage daughters staring at phone screens. She sighed. Just a solitary red case was going round and round and round. The cases hadn’t been released yet.
Heavy-man turned and flashed her a smile. He’d sat next to her on the plane, taking up part of her seat as well as his own, his sickly aftershave making her head throb.
‘Hold this,’ one of the girls said, handing her sister an energy drink and stomping away, eyes still on her phone. ‘I need the loo.’
Isla closed her eyes. Her head ached worse than it had on the plane. Drinking several small bottles of wine hadn’t been a good idea. Her mouth was dry, as though someone had installed a dehumidifier on her tongue.
Thirty-six hours ago she’d been snapping incredible photographs from a train window. The ice-capped peaks and remarkable alpine lakes of the Canadian Rockies had been just two of the many things that had made the leap of faith to jump on a plane alone worth it.
‘I landed about an hour ago, Sean, mate.’ Heavy-man’s tone jarred. ‘Should be at yours by ten if the traffic isn’t shit.’
A trolley bumped her ankle.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered under her breath, turning to give the culprit her best cross look. But the man was elderly with white hair and wire glasses, reminding her of her granddad. She would let him off, but still needed to free herself from the people-coffin she’d found herself in. The eight-hour flight from Canada had been bad enough, but this, when she was tired and hungry, was too much. She rubbed her cheeks and neck. She wanted to be at home in her shower, letting water flow over her, and then to fall into bed next to Jack and enjoy a long uninterrupted sleep.
At first she’d missed having Jack by her side, like a child deprived of her security blanket. Taking off on the trip alone hadn’t been anywhere near as easy as it had been eight years before, when she’d raced into the unknown after university for what was meant to be a gap year, but had drifted into two. Back then, she’d travelled alone, clueless about where her next bed would be, or what job she might pick up along the way, all without fear. She longed to be that person again: the girl with her life ahead of her, before Carl Jeffery took a metaphorical sledgehammer and wrecked the mechanics of her mind.
She pinged the rubber band on her wrist and, taking a long, deep breath, tucked her hair behind her ears, and moved away from the crowd, clinging to how perfect Canada had been.
She pulled her phone from her carry-on bag and turned it on. She’d avoided the Internet and social media while away, worried she might find out something about the appeal. But now a month had passed. Whatever the outcome, it would be old news. And being off the Internet meant she’d immersed herself in her Canadian adventure, and also worked on her book.
Her phone adjusted to the London time zone, and picked up her network, bleeping, pinging, buzzing, as she was sucked once more into the frenzy of social media. Within moments she was blocking newsfeeds on Facebook and Twitter, muting notifications – hiding friends who continually shared news articles – she didn’t expect there to be any news about the appeal; it had been a month, after all – but she was taking no chances.
On WhatsApp, Millie had added her to a chat about a six-part murder mystery on Netflix. Isla hadn’t seen it, but her sister had given away so many spoilers, adding emoticons, that it probably wasn’t worth watching it now. Julian had added a comment: You’re totally useless, Millie.
Isla sighed. Why did her sister stay with him?
On Instagram, Roxanne had put on a stream of photographs of struggling refugees – another cause for her best friend’s overcrowded, want-to-help-everyone head.
Millie had put on twenty-or-so photographs of her new puppy, Larry, who looked good enough to eat. And Isla’s mum, who didn’t understand Instagram, and was pretty rubbish with anything to do with social media, had added a photograph of a chicken casserole for no apparent reason.
Twitter was dominated by Roxanne’s pleas to save foxes and badgers, and there was a string of Tweets by a magazine Isla regularly wrote for, and several updates from UK Butterflies.
Facebook was crowded by engagements and late holidays to the Mediterranean all jostling for attention. There was a wedding of an online friend Isla had forgotten she had, and another friend’s mother had passed away – Expected, she was 91, but still gutted – feeling sad.
There was a rare update by Trevor Cooper – Really must get on here more, and stop being an Internet dinosaur. Nobody had liked it, but then he didn’t have many friends. When he’d failed to get in contact again three months ago, after their chance meeting on the train,
Isla hadn’t thought any more about him, pushing him far from her thoughts. Maybe she could unfriend him now.
As she scrolled, she realised she could whittle her eight hundred-or-so friends, mainly picked up from university and her travels, down to a hundred, and still not recognise some of them in the street. She wasn’t sure she even liked Facebook. In fact, sometimes she’d go on there and feel exposed.
‘Isla, nobody’s looking at you, lovely lady,’ Roxanne had said, when Isla had tried to explain her feelings. ‘And I mean that in the nicest way. They’re just having fun sharing what they’ve been up to.’
There was a thump behind her, and she turned to see a black case rumble down the conveyor. Heavy-man barged forward, grabbed it, and once it was on the floor in front of him he yanked out the handle as though gutting a fish. He pushed past the teenage girls and the elderly man, veins in his forehead pulsing as he marched towards Isla.
‘Facebook,’ he said, nodding towards Isla’s open screen as he walked by. ‘Dangerous place the Internet. You heard it here first.’
She watched him rush through Nothing to Declare.
Not if you use it right, surely.
Sidling up behind the elderly man, she waited for her case to appear, her eyes back on her phone world. She began typing:
WhatsApp: Hi, Jack, I’m back. Hope you’re OK. I’m SO tired, and probably won’t be home until gone midnight. Don’t wait up, as you need your beauty sleep. Not that you’re not beautiful, of course. Love you, Isla XX
Text: Hi, Mum, back safe. I hope you and Dad are OK. I’ll call you soon. Love you, Isla XX
Facebook: Landed in the UK – Canada was a-ma-zing. I’ll upload some photos here on the train home. Feeling exhausted, but still have to tackle the underground. AHHHHH!
She was about to close the Facebook app, when she noticed Trevor had liked her status, and that Julian had left a comment.
Does this mean you’ve FINALLY finished your book?
Before either could properly sink in, her phone pinged.
WhatsApp: Welcome back, gorgeous lady. I’m not at home, won’t be back until tomorrow. My mum was taken ill so had to go down to Dorset. Will fill you in more in the morning. Should be home around ten. Luna’s with your mum. I’ll pick her up on my way home. Hope you had a great time. Love you, Jack x
Chapter 3
www.travellinggirlblog.com
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Tuesday, 25 October 11.30 p.m.
CANADA
So here I am, travelling home on the train after my wonderful trip, and uploading the photographs I promised to post here before I left. Hope you like them. Canada was a-ma-zing.
I’ve so enjoyed posting photos and news about my travels over the last few months, but, the truth is, I need somewhere to free my mind or I’ll explode into teeny tiny pieces. Nobody in my real world knows about my blog, and they certainly wouldn’t understand what I’m about to say.
God, I’m having doubts whether I should write it here. But then I don’t get many hits. Those who do visit are one-off visitors, searching images to look at my photos, rather than read my incessant travel ramblings. So I guess then it’s OK. It could be therapeutic for me to offload into the abyss.
So here goes. I met someone in Canada. His name’s Andy, and quite simply I’m in love with him. There, I’ve said it. It’s out there now. I know I’m with Jack, and I feel bad about that. But Andy’s different. He’s from Toronto, and has the most amazing accent, but, of course, that’s not all I love about him.
I’m smiling now, and the woman sitting opposite me, about sixty, attractive, dressed trendy, is giving me a funny look. She can’t see inside my head. That I’m thinking of the quirky way Andy flicks his gorgeous auburn hair from his brown eyes. How giddy I felt when he was close to me. The way my skin tingled when he touched me – kissed me.
I sound ridiculous. Like a pathetic heroine in a novel, all loved up and besotted. But it’s true. I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone. Not after what happened in Australia.
And I suppose I’ve always thought women who said that the urge to cheat is uncontrollable were foolish. That nothing would make me do anything to hurt sweet, kind Jack. But when something like this happens the draw is too strong. It’s painful. There are no choices.
It’s hard because I’m still with Jack, and I know he loves me. He’s always been so good to me – would do anything for me.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Andy had said when he approached me in a café in Toronto, where I’d taken to going each afternoon. Mind if I join you? A line right out of a 1950s film. Up there with: Is this seat taken?
He was standing so close I could smell his aftershave, and he was holding a cappuccino in his hand, a swirl of steam rising from it. His smile was seductive, and his eyes locked me into a stare. He pulled his scarf free from his neck, as though I’d already said yes to him sitting with me, as though he had everything planned.
Without a second’s delay – not even the nagging memory of six years ago made me pause for thought – I took my jacket and bag from the chair next to me, and said, ‘No, no it’s free. It’ll be great to have the company.’
We started talking. And as though we’d known each other for ever, I spilled my life. Told him what happened in Sydney. How it had made me feel. How it still makes me feel. I’d talked about it all before, but somehow Andy made me feel safer than I ever felt possible.
We drank wine, and I told him where I was staying. He was travelling on business, and renting a place nearby.
That night we made love. And the next.
Oh God, the guilt is bubbling up now, making me uneasy, faint and unsteady. My fingers are trembling on the keyboard. Should I have slept with Andy without talking things through with Jack first? Did I have a choice? Does anyone have a choice when the passion is so strong?
Andy cancelled his business meeting, and over the next few days he was right there by my side, the smell of him making me delirious, his dark eyes melting me.
He told me how he’d grown up in Toronto, an only child of two university professors. He loved the summer there, he said, but the winters were so cold day and night, sometimes dropping to minus twenty-five. He took me to places I might never have found alone. Graffiti Alley, just south of Chinatown, was the most remarkable. The vibrant colours and stunning pictures of the murals painted by street artists on the walls of connecting alleyways were incredible. I got carried away and took far more pictures than I will ever need. As we walked, Andy nodded down a narrow alley, closed off by a fence.
‘That was once the site of the secret swing,’ he told me. ‘I remember it.’ He’d paused, clearly thinking back. ‘The swing had a kind of cold, haunted feel about it, hanging there between the walls. I can see it clearly, even though it’s not there any more.’ He’d slipped his arm around my waist, and I was glad I wasn’t alone. That I was with him.
The following day we travelled to Niagara Falls, and shared a hotel room. Our passion grew stronger, which I never dreamt possible.
We screamed with laughter when we took a boat trip, and the cascading waterfall sprayed our bodies.
For a month he travelled with me – the train journey through the Rockies was the best experience of my life.
At the airport, just before I headed for home, I felt as though I was about to leave part of myself behind. I felt bilious and delirious at the same time.
He’s texted me already to check I landed safely, and my heart ached as I read his words. He said he can’t go another moment without seeing me. That he’s desperate to come over, and will jump on the next plane.
I must tell Jack about Andy.
I know that.
God, I’m crying. The woman opposite is rummaging in her bag – bringing out a pack of tissues, handing me one. She’s probably wondering about the weird woman tapping away on her laptop.
I dab my cheek with the tissue. The self-hatred bouncing against the ecstasy is impossible. But I have no choice.
It’s such a mess.
But surely you should be with the person you love. Life is too short. We’re a long time dead, as my mother once said.
Andy is my drug – my cocaine, and I need to hold on to this feeling. I refuse to let it go at any cost. Surely, I deserve happiness after everything I’ve been through.
I know I’m supposed to be on my blog to tell you about Canada, because that’s what it’s set up for – to talk about my travels. But I’m tired, and my head feels fuzzy. So, for now, I’ll point out the stunning shots of Graffiti Alley, and my favourite photograph of Niagara Falls. Those cascading waters took my breath away. They’re to die for – like Andy.
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Chapter 4
Tuesday, 25 October
Isla emerged from Letchworth Garden City Station just before midnight, dragging her case behind her. Her carry-on bag, laptop and camera inside, draped over her shoulder. If only her apartment was closer. She was exhausted.
A taxi was parked next to the entrance, and as she headed towards it, the driver got out, took her case from her and put it into the boot.
‘Where to, love?’ he said with a smile, slamming the boot closed, and walking round to the driver’s side.
‘Oakley Court. It’s an apartment block in . . . ’
‘I know it,’ he cut in, as she climbed into the back seat. ‘My daughter lives near there.’
Once in the taxi, the driver accelerated away. The journey would only take five minutes, but the thought of being sealed in with a man – even a pleasant-faced man in his fifties wearing a turban –prodded at Isla’s anxiety. It was probably because she was tired. When she craved sleep, thoughts she could normally control encroached. Was it really safe to get into a car parked outside a railway station with a man she didn’t know?
‘You been on holiday?’ the driver asked.
Oh God, he was going to be a talker. She could do without a talker right now.
Her Last Lie Page 2
