Her Last Lie

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘I’ll probably hitch into Sydney,’ Bronwyn said, grabbing a bottle of water from the side of her backpack, and taking a gulp. ‘Then get a flight to New Zealand.’

  ‘You’ll love it there,’ Isla said, memories of her own visit fresh in her mind. ‘North or South?’

  ‘Both, I hope. I’m desperate to see where they filmed Lord of the Rings.’

  Isla pulled her into a hug. ‘We’ve had some laughs, haven’t we?’

  ‘Sure have. I’ll never forget being chased by those kangaroos, or that bloody great spider in the loo.’

  Isla laughed. ‘So, have you told Carl?’ They’d been seeing each other for around six weeks, although It’s only a bit of fun was still Bronwyn’s stock phrase.

  ‘Yep, told him a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Was he OK with it? He’s pretty besotted.’

  ‘To be honest, he acted a bit weird at first. But I told it like it is. Said he was a being an eejit, and it was never meant to be anything serious. He has to be cool with it.’

  ‘He’ll be fine.’ Isla took her friend’s hand. ‘Don’t forget me, will you?’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’ Bronwyn squeezed Isla’s hand, and looked back at the hostel, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the two-storey, red-brick building. ‘Do you like it here?’ she said, screwing up her nose.

  ‘Pretty much, yeah.’ But Isla had picked up on Bronwyn’s unease. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing – my imagination probably – it’s nothing. Ignore me.’

  ‘Oh God, you can’t say that and leave me hanging.’ She wasn’t one for worrying, but if there was something about the place, she needed to know, and move on.

  Bronwyn met Isla’s eye. ‘It’s just I’m sure someone knocked on my window last night.’ She shrugged and took a deep breath.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s it really. Ignore me.’

  ‘Did you look out?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah I did.’ She studied her feet, scuffing her trainers on the dry earth.

  ‘And?’

  She looked up and squinted into the sun, before arching her palm over her dark eyes. ‘I got a bit freaked,’ she said. ‘Might have been my imagination, but I’m pretty sure someone was out there. Watching me.’

  Now

  Isla’s phone rang, jolting her back to the moment. She rummaged in her bag for it, and saw Roxanne’s picture on the screen.

  ‘Hi, you,’ she said brightly into the phone.

  ‘Hey, Isla, I can’t believe you’ve been back since Tuesday, and we haven’t had a catch-up.’

  ‘I know,’ Isla said, pleased to hear her friend’s voice. She’d missed her. ‘It’s been far too long.’

  ‘So how was Canada? I saw your fab pics on Facebook.’

  ‘Truly amazing,’ she said, as a surge of emotion at how wonderful it had been came and went.

  ‘Cool. I so want to hear all about it. You free tonight? We could try the new tapas bar.’

  ‘I can’t, sorry. I’m on my way to a uni reunion, would you believe?’

  There was silence on the other end. A kind of ‘why wasn’t I invited?’ silence.

  ‘I didn’t organise it, Roxanne,’ Isla said, guilt rising. ‘If I had I would have invited you.’

  ‘Yeah, ’course. No worries. I wouldn’t have gone anyway.’ A pause. ‘So where you heading?’

  ‘Spoon’s in Cambridge,’ Isla said, sensing the chill on the other end of the line.

  ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘Veronica Beesley.’

  ‘Good God, Verony Beeswax.’ Roxanne laughed, and the tension between them lifted. ‘That girl was so up herself, I’m surprised she could walk properly. I bet she’s a millionaire or something.’

  Isla laughed. ‘Well, she owns her own company.’

  ‘There you go. It doesn’t surprise me. Remember when she slept with Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘Broke up his marriage.’

  ‘Yeah, and he wasn’t the only lecturer she shagged.’ Another pause. ‘Who else is going?’

  ‘Umm . . . Sara Pembroke.’

  ‘Know the name. Can’t bring her to mind.’

  ‘I don’t remember her that well either. She was really quiet, head in a book all the time. Nice enough, I think. Oh, and Ben Martin’s going.’

  ‘Ooh, nice. Now you’re talking.’

  Isla sucked in a breath. Roxanne would think she was crazy. ‘And Trevor Cooper,’ she said, as though she’d lit a touchpaper and was about to witness an explosion.

  ‘What the . . . ? Turn back now! Save yourself! Why would you go near him after Trevor-gate?’

  Isla laughed. Her friend was a strong character, tough at times, which Roxanne had always claimed was down to her no-nonsense father. At university, Roxanne had a reputation for being a bit badass, modelling herself on Scary Spice for a while, calling Isla Baby Spice, although Isla was far from a baby. Roxanne had toned it down over the years, honed her personality, and focused her abundance of energy on trying to save the world.

  ‘Are you in your right mind, Isla?’ she said, the comedy gone from her voice.

  ‘Roxanne, I saw Trevor back in July, and he was perfectly pleasant.’

  ‘Perfectly pleasant, aye? Well it’s your funeral,’ she said, and Isla shivered.

  ‘So what have you been up to while I’ve been away?’ Isla asked.

  ‘Work’s busy, busy, busy, and I’m volunteering at an animal shelter on Sundays.’

  ‘Aw, that’s lovely.’

  ‘I know. The dogs are so cute. I want to take them all home.’

  ‘Hey, what about the cats?’

  ‘Them too.’ Roxanne paused. ‘So are you free Tuesday?’

  ‘Definitely. What time shall we meet?’

  ‘Say, seven thirty at the tapas bar?’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘OK, gotta run – see you then, Isla. Have fun tonight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  The train continued to roar through the blackness of the evening, picking up and spewing out passengers as it went. Isla gazed at her reflection in the window, and a train thundering by in the other direction made her jump. She was more on edge than she’d realised.

  A youth with a lip and nose ring, and a sweatshirt with the word ‘Evil’ splashed across it, had joined the train, and now sat opposite her. He paused from jabbing his phone screen, and leered. She tugged at the hemline of her skirt, cringing with embarrassment, her neck tingling. Thankfully, before she crumbled completely, the train arrived at Cambridge Station.

  Incessant rain hammered down from the night sky as the taxi she’d jumped into pulled up outside The Regal, a building that still resembled an old cinema. Isla paid the driver, and with a sigh of relief got out of the back seat. Avoiding puddles, she dashed across the pavement and through the doors of Wetherspoon’s.

  ‘A large Sauvignon Blanc, please,’ she said as she reached the bar, her hand trembling slightly as she rummaged in her bag for her purse. What had possessed her to come?

  She scanned the bar as she paid. Looking for the almost-strangers she was about to spend the evening with. But as she drifted away from the bar, sipping wine in the hope it would relax her, she grew more anxious. Half of the tables were filled with people eating – enjoying Friday night out – and her head began to throb with the noise of chatter and laughter. Men’s voices grew louder as they tried to make themselves heard: ‘Shall we order a bottle of red?’, ‘I don’t fancy yours much’, ‘Did you see the match?’ and snippets of women’s conversations jabbed Isla’s ears: ‘Oh my God, really?’, ‘Fuck, what a bitch’, ‘When are we going to eat? I’m starving.’

  Isla pulled out her mobile phone. It was gone seven thirty. Surely one of the uni crowd should have been there by now.

  In fact, why wasn’t Trevor there to greet her? It didn’t make sense.

  Chapter 11

  Isla brought up Trevor’s Facebook profile on her phone. He’d added a picture of himself standing by a TR6
, his fair hair longer than it had been on the train and beginning to curl. But otherwise he looked the same.

  She scanned the bar once more. A few men resembled Trevor, one with a goatee beard who winked at her, another with his arm around a bloke. But he wasn’t there. Well not that she could see.

  She sat down at an empty table, planning to give her old friends until eight o’clock, and then leave. As she took another gulp of wine, her phone trilled, and her mother’s face appeared on the screen. Isla had taken the photo last Christmas, when her mum had a ring of red tinsel round her dark hair and her cheeks were rosy from cooking. She pressed answer, and pinned the phone to her ear.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, keeping her voice low.

  ‘I can hardly hear you, Isla, darling.’ A bash of crockery in the background meant she was either filling the dishwasher or cooking. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a pub in Cambridge, about to meet up with old uni mates.’

  ‘That’s nice. Is Jack with you?’

  ‘No, no I’m on my own.’

  A pause. ‘Well don’t leave your drink unattended.’

  Isla opened her mouth and closed it again.

  ‘I’m just ringing to see how your trip went,’ her mum continued.

  ‘Good, yes. Canada was beautiful.’ It already seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘Niagara Falls is stunning.’

  ‘I did worry about you while you were away. You know that. It was a big step going to Canada alone.’

  Before Sydney, her mum had been super-chilled about Isla travelling the world. She’d helped her sort out flights and accommodation, getting discounts because of her job as a travel agent. She’d understood it was Isla’s life to do with what she wanted. But things had changed after Carl Jeffery. She’d become far too overprotective. Which was part of the reason Isla never confided in her about the appeal.

  ‘You always worry, Mum,’ Isla said. ‘It’s your job.’

  She laughed, relief in her voice. ‘I was also calling to see if you and Jack are free on Sunday to come for dinner.’

  ‘Yes, I think so . . . ’ Isla glanced up towards the entrance, noticing a woman with red hair who looked like Veronica. But as the woman got closer she knew it wasn’t her.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. I know so.’ She looped her hair behind her ear. ‘Sounds lovely – I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘You can tell us about your trip. Bring along lots of photos, won’t you?’

  ‘They’re all on Facebook.’

  ‘You know I rarely go on there. Not since my cock-up.’ She’d had her privacy settings wrong back in the summer, and discovered that everyone could see her phone number and email address. She’d felt vulnerable. And despite Isla putting it right, she’d stayed away.

  ‘OK, fine,’ Isla said. ‘I’ll bring my laptop.’

  ‘Lovely. I thought we might have turkey with all the trimmings.’

  ‘Great.’ Isla shifted on her seat, turning away from a couple who appeared to be listening to her conversation. Although her chat with her mother was more fifty shades of boring than Fifty Shades of Grey, so hardly eavesdrop-worthy.

  ‘I realise we have turkey at Christmas,’ her mum continued, as though confirming her thoughts. ‘But I thought I might blow tradition this year, go crazy and have beef on Christmas Day.’

  ‘That’s very daring of you.’

  ‘Mmm, I might change my mind before then.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘I really must pick up a nut-loaf for Sunday for Abigail. This whole turning vegan thing is making my head spin. It’s all very admirable, but between you and me I’m not sure she even understands what vegan means.’ A gushing sound – probably the dishwasher – reverberated down the phone. ‘Can vegans eat cranberries?’

  Isla smiled. ‘Of course they can.’

  ‘Well, it’s not easy. They can’t have anything dairy, apparently. So that’s my vegetarian lasagne out the window.’

  ‘But there’s no dairy in cranberries.’

  ‘No, no of course there isn’t. And while we’re on the subject of Christmas.’

  ‘Were we?’

  ‘Will you come on Christmas Day this year? Gran and Granddad are coming up from Devon. I know how much you like to see them.’

  ‘Listen, can I let you know nearer the time? I’m not sure . . . ’

  ‘It’s almost November, Isla.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, I like to get things sorted in my head. Particularly as I wasn’t sure we’d see you this year.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you see me?’

  ‘Well, you might take off to Dorset to see Jack’s mum. Jack said she’s been quite poorly.’

  Isla’s neck tingled. She felt sure Jack wouldn’t want to go to Dorset. ‘Listen, I’d better go. My uni friends have arrived.’ It was a lie; there was still no sign of them.

  ‘Oh, OK, darling, enjoy your evening. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too, Mum.’

  Isla ended the call, pressed the Facebook icon on her phone screen, and updated her status.

  In Wetherspoon’s, Cambridge, waiting to meet up with old uni friends.

  She added a fingernail-biting emoticon, to reflect her nervousness, regretting it instantly, imagining Trevor seeing it.

  Should she delete it? But it had already attracted two likes. A silent scream echoed in her head. She longed to leave, craved fresh air. Too hot in her stupid skirt suit, to the point where perspiration trickled between her boobs. She rolled her finger over the rubber band on her wrist, before pinging it three times. But it didn’t help her rising anxiety levels, and neither did a long sip of her wine.

  Clutches of youngsters; a man with a walking stick; three blokes tapping on their phones; a couple who needed to get a room; and a stream of giggling women dressed in pink boas and high heels all gushed in, as though blown off the street.

  A man in his sixties, passing Isla on his way to the gents’, smiled. ‘Been stood up, love?’

  Isla ignored him, and looked down at her phone again. There were now four likes on her status and a comment by Trevor Cooper.

  Can’t wait to see you again, Isla! I’ve missed you. x

  He’d missed her?

  Her skin prickled, as a flash of memory crept in. Trevor, eight years ago, sitting in his car opposite the house where she’d rented a room, crying and thudding the steering wheel; and the stream of text messages he’d sent, begging her to talk to him, that she’d ignored.

  She drained her glass, and went to the bar for another wine. She took a long gulp as she headed back to the table. She was being silly. Trevor couldn’t have been nicer on the train. But then what if Jack read his comment? What would he think? Should she delete it?

  Back at the table she knocked back the wine in ten minutes, before rising to her feet. She’d made a mistake coming. She didn’t need this kind of hassle in her life.

  ‘Isla?’

  She turned to see a slim, stunning woman, with blonde wavy hair to her shoulders. For a moment Isla thought it was Veronica. But it couldn’t be. This woman was taller, and Veronica was a redhead now if her latest profile picture was anything to go by.

  ‘Yes,’ Isla said, her voice small and cautious. She picked up her bag, ready to make a swift exit. There was an eight-thirty train. If she was quick, she could make it.

  ‘It’s me, Sara.’ The woman giggled, showing a row of perfect white teeth, her blue eyes bright. ‘Sara Pembroke from university, remember?’ She flung her palms in the air like jazz hands, and wiggled. ‘Ta da!’

  ‘Wow, Sara, you look amazing.’ Shocked didn’t cover it. It was bizarre – no surreal – to think this woman in front of her had once been the dark-haired, chubby girl who always had her head in a book.

  ‘You look great yourself, Isla. Just the same as you did at university,’ Sara said, moving forward and air-kissing each side of Isla’s face, her subtle yet distinctive perfume wafting like a sea breeze. ‘I can’t believe we’re all meeting up. It’s
totally amaze-balls,’ she squealed, grinning widely.

  ‘Yes, yes it is.’ Isla lowered herself back onto the edge of her seat. She couldn’t dash for the next train now. However much she wanted to.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Sara asked. She was well spoken, with a hint of Judi Dench, and Isla realised Sara had barely talked at university. Or, if she had, she couldn’t remember.

  ‘OK, yes, thanks. A white wine please,’ Isla said, noticing her empty glass.

  ‘Large?’

  ‘Please.’ She definitely needed a large one.

  Sara removed a short, figure-hugging jacket, to reveal attractive toned forearms, and slipped it over the back of the chair.

  As she floated away, men’s heads turned at the sight of her sashaying towards the bar in her flared-at-the-waist Fifties-style dress. Isla was transfixed, amazed by the transformation. She would have to stay now. Her curiosity wouldn’t let her leave.

  Chapter 12

  ‘So what are you up to these days?’ Sara placed a mineral water for herself and a glass of wine for Isla on the table and sat down, smoothing her dress over crossed legs.

  ‘I’m a freelance writer and photographer.’

  ‘Really? Wow, that’s utterly amazing. What sort of writing?’

  ‘Travel.’ Isla shrugged. ‘I’m a photographer primarily, but I write too.’

  Sara reached forward and pressed a hand on Isla’s arm. ‘You know I reckon I’ve got a novel in me,’ she said, removing her hand, and leaning back in her chair. ‘They say everyone has, don’t they? Have you?’

  Isla shook her head. ‘God, no, I couldn’t write fiction. I’m not very imaginative.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Although I dream that my travel journal will be published one day.’

  ‘How exciting. Tell me more.’ Sara sipped her water, her eyes on Isla.

  ‘Well, OK then, but stop me if I bore you.’