The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  I move forward. “Why are the police here? Why isn’t Julia going to the hospital?”

  Nicole tells the girls to go to the kitchen and have a snack and draws me into the front room. Green walls, dark wood furniture; somber already.

  “It’s awful,” Nicole says. “So awful. I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t know who to call.”

  I give her a hug. Nicole slumps against me, weeping onto my neck. She pulls away, straightening herself up and sniffing, wiping the trail of snot away with her sleeve. She sits down on one of the ornate chairs and takes a deep breath. “We came round last night, right? You were invited too?”

  I nod.

  “We thought the girls would like a sleepover, since they’ve been working so hard. A chance for Julia and me to catch up, too. We haven’t seen as much of each other this term as we’d like.” Nicole’s voice is low. I have to lean in close.

  “We ordered in pizza. The girls ate theirs in front of the TV. We sat in the kitchen and drank a couple of bottles of wine.”

  “Like Thursday then,” I say.

  “Well, yes. Like Thursday. But Julia was a lot more relaxed. At least, I thought she was. She said she’d talked to Daisy and they’d worked out a plan. It was all going to be fine. Daisy was going to pull it together and would be getting better marks from now on.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Nicole catches sight of it.

  “You’re right,” she says, answering my unspoken question. “You’re right. Her marks are brilliant anyway.”

  “How was Daisy?” I desperately want Nicole to get to the point of what’s happened to put Daisy in an ambulance this morning, but I don’t want to rattle her by rushing her through the story.

  “She wasn’t great, in retrospect. Really nervy, complaining of a tummy ache, headache. She couldn’t settle, even though they were watching Mean Girls. She kept coming down, wanting to talk to Julia. I think she was worried about something.”

  “What?”

  “The tests. Julia being angry with her. I don’t know. But I wish I’d seen quite how ill she was getting.” Nicole takes in another deep breath. The volume of her voice is sinking even further as she gets closer to the end of the account. “In the end, she went to bed early. Pippa stayed up a bit longer, chatting to us, before she went up too. I did suggest we leave, but by that stage I’d had a bit too much to drink.” She looks at me as if for absolution. “You know how it is?”

  I nod again. “I do. Friday night. Of course I know how it is.”

  “We could have got a cab back, but Julia made up a spare room for me. We went to sleep. It really wasn’t that late, either. About eleven, I guess. Pippa woke up early and came through to me. She told me that Daisy was still flat out. We went down to get some breakfast, and Julia went to get Daisy.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “What happened next, Nicole?”

  She looks at me, white as a sheet. “That’s when the screaming started.”

  33

  Nicole doesn’t say any more, but sits silent, her face drawn with shock. I want to ask her what happened next but every time I start to speak, she raises her hand to hush me, as if she’s trying desperately to hear what’s going on in the rest of the house. Julia is with the police for what feels like hours, though it’s less than twenty minutes. She comes out of the living room and in to us, her face tearstained, hands clenched. I hear heavy footsteps climbing the stairs—the police can’t have left yet. Julia won’t speak to either Nicole or me. We go into the kitchen and Nicole makes a cup of tea for Julia and tries to get her to drink, but she pushes it away.

  Finally, Nicole asks, “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you?”

  Julia is looking at her phone. She looks up at Nicole, her expression blank. “They’ve told Daisy’s dad. He’s going to be there. I know he’ll be on his way. I don’t want to see him.”

  “But Daisy…”

  “She’s unconscious, Nicole. You saw her. They can’t wake her up. She won’t know if I’m there or not. It won’t make any difference to her.”

  “She might be able to hear you,” Nicole says. “Don’t you want to see her?”

  “I said no!” Julia is standing now. My fingernails are jammed hard into the palms of my hands, trying to control my shock at Julia’s reaction. No one speaks for a moment, the silence palpable, vibrating between us, before it’s broken by Pippa’s entrance, Robin behind her. She goes straight to Nicole’s side, strain apparent on her face, too.

  “This is all your fault,” Julia says, turning on Nicole’s daughter. There’s so much venom in her voice that it could crush Pippa to the floor under its weight. “You should have woken. Then we’d have found her sooner. If she dies, this is all on you.”

  Pippa bursts into tears. Nicole steps forward, eyes blazing, before she makes an effort visibly to control herself.

  “You’re saying this because of the shock,” she says. “You know that’s not true.”

  “How the fuck should I know what’s true and what isn’t? They both went to bed absolutely fine. And now your daughter is fine and mine is in a fucking coma. Who the fuck else should I blame?”

  Every time Julia swears it jolts through me. Pippa visibly sways under the onslaught. Nicole puts her arm around her.

  “I know you’ve had an appalling shock,” Nicole says, “but this is insane. You can’t blame Pippa for this. God knows what’s happened—the hospital will run tests. It could be anything. You mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Why not? The police are jumping to conclusions. That woman officer, she said something about a possibility of an overdose, toxicology reports. They’re going to search the house.” Julia sits down abruptly, covering her face with her hands.

  “What are they looking for, Julia?” Nicole says, chill, insistent.

  She raises her head from her hands. “I don’t know, all right,” she spits. “I don’t fucking know! My daughter is unconscious in hospital and they won’t even let me go and see her. I have to stay here under some sort of guard while they tear my house apart, and instead of it being me with her, her own mother, they’re letting that bastard Paul go and see her instead.”

  Nicole is looking grave. “You really don’t have any idea what they’re looking for?”

  “Of course I don’t! Just because they found a pill box by the bed… It’s vitamins, all right!” Julia is yelling now. She gets up and paces over to Nicole, right up close to her face. Pippa shrinks away. Nicole stands her ground and finally Julia backs off, sitting back down, slumped at the table.

  “Do you want me to go to the hospital?” Nicole says. “I can report back.”

  Julia shakes her head. It looks as if her anger is now spent. “There’s no point. They won’t let you in. She’s going to be in intensive care. The paramedics promised that the hospital would call me.”

  A female police officer comes into the room. “Mrs. Burnet,” she says, “we’re going to make a start in your bedroom. Is that OK?” She’s pulling on a pair of disposable gloves.

  “Nothing I can do to stop you, is there,” she says. Then she looks over at me, her expression sharpening up. “You’re the lawyer. Can I stop them?”

  I’m caught in her gaze, a rabbit in headlights. “I don’t really deal with cases at this stage… I think that if you say no, they will have to apply for a search warrant. It’s not completely certain they’d get it, but the chances are they would. Under the circumstances, maybe it would be best to call a solicitor?”

  Julia waves a dismissive hand. “Let them search. I don’t care. And I don’t care about seeing a solicitor. They’ll see I’ve done nothing wrong.” She looks again at me, her expression even more sharp. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Nicole asked me to come,” I say.

  “How strange,” Julia says. “Well, the show’s over. You might as well go.”

  I look over at Nicole, who shrugs, her face neutral, though there are hints of pink rising on her neck.


  “I thought Sadie might be helpful,” she says.

  “I just don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t think anyone can help at this point,” Julia says. “You should go, too. All of you. I might have to put up with the police in my house, but I don’t have to tolerate all of you. Get out of here. Please.” She walks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  I turn to Nicole. “We should go.”

  “I don’t like to leave her like this.” Still, Nicole stands and picks up her bag. Pippa already has her overnight bag with her, and we all file out of the house. Robin is close by my side, her eyes wide.

  “At least the police are here. They’ll keep an eye on her,” I say. They’re standing by the steps. I turn to look at the house. The morning is dark, clouds hanging heavy, and the basement light is on. I can see Julia clearly from the street, moving through a series of sun salutations. I pull at Nicole’s arm, gesturing at the basement. We watch Julia stoop in downward dog pose. A male police officer comes out of the house. He asks us both for our names and contact details, which we give. After he’s written them down, I turn back to see if Julia has stopped. She’s now balancing on her head, her feet straight up perpendicular from the floor.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” the police officer mutters.

  “Someone doing yoga?” Nicole says.

  “Someone standing on their head while their kid’s in a coma,” he says. He stares for a second more, before moving back into the house.

  34

  I keep Robin close for the rest of the weekend. I resist the temptation to call Nicole or Julia to ask how Daisy is, taking the view that they will be in touch if there’s any news. The whole episode has left me unsettled, worried about the effect it might have on Robin.

  We work in the garden together, watch films. Robin has nightmares on the Saturday night, coming through into my room, but she’s calmer by Sunday evening, exhausted by all the work we’ve done hacking down plants, cutting them back. The front windows are less obscured by ivy now, more light coming into the rooms, though the disadvantage is that it shows up even more clearly the terrible state of the paintwork and the stains on the wallpaper.

  “It could be a really nice house, though,” Robin says, looking around the living room early on Sunday evening. “I like it more than Julia’s house. It feels more homey.”

  I look at the stains, the gas fire, the tatty mantelpiece that stands empty since I put away the figurines. “Really?” I say.

  “Really, Mom. We’re making it our own. Like they say on that singing program. If we just decorated it some more, it would look great. We could even sort out your old bedroom.”

  “We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see. Anyway, it’s time for bed.” I give her a hug. “It might be quite difficult tomorrow, you know. We haven’t heard anything yet about Daisy. There’s probably going to be some news.”

  Robin hugs me back.

  The following morning it’s in and out at school. Even though I’m desperate to find out what might be going on with Daisy, with Julia too, I’ve had a text from Barbara confirming that the case is going ahead today. The complainant, Freya, is fully recovered from her “migraine” (the quotation marks loud in Barbara’s text) and the court will certainly be sitting. I hope that even though we’re early, we might still see Nicole, but she isn’t at the gate. There are clusters of parents whispering quietly together. It’s very subdued. News has clearly leaked out.

  I say goodbye to Robin, tell her not to gossip to anyone, and leg it to the tube, not wanting to be late on such a significant day in the trial. As I go, I write a text to Nicole, asking if she will still be able to take Robin after school. Totally understand if not up to it, I say, but could you let me know so I can book her into the after-school club? As I enter the station, Nicole messages back saying Yes of course—I’ll catch you up then. Hoping to get into the hospital today. No word from Julia.

  I go down the escalator, losing signal. However concerned I am for Daisy, I’m going to have to park it for now, concentrate on the case. Barbara will need proper notes from me, and for me to go through again all the cross-examination evidence that I found in the social media messages. I need to have my brain switched on—no distractions.

  “Sadie,” Jeremy says as soon as he sees me. He takes my hand, shakes it. Alexandra is standing beside him, and she smiles too, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. This is going to be a stressful day.

  “You doing OK?” I say to him, and he nods once, his face tight.

  At this point Barbara appears. “We’ll robe up,” she says, “and meet you outside court.”

  Jeremy nods.

  “Let’s see what we get,” Barbara says as we make our way to the robing room. “If they’ve dressed her up in something sensible, we’ve got an issue. If she’s chosen her own outfit, we might just be OK.”

  A ripple of noise from the public gallery greets Freya’s entrance into court. Her outfit is restrained enough, a black top and skirt, but she’s gone heavy on the makeup, foundation and eyeliner applied so thickly no trace of her youthful complexion is left visible.

  I look closely at her as she reaches out to take hold of the Bible, swearing to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. I move my gaze from her face to the hand that is holding the book. Given the effort she’s made with her appearance, I would have expected a manicure, gel extensions or the like. But her nails are chewed nearly down to the quick, the skin around the nails red and swollen. And when I look back at Freya’s face, I now see past the war paint, past the mask that I recognize because it’s one I put on myself when I need the reinforcement, albeit with a lighter touch. I can see Freya’s eyes are red, too, and her lip trembles as she takes the oath, her hand shaking as she gives the Bible back to the usher. I lean my head forward, looking through the brief, engulfed in pity for the girl.

  Once I’ve recovered myself, I look over at the jury. They do not look friendly. They turn between Jeremy, in the dock, and Freya, in the witness box, and their faces shift from each to each, a softening toward the clean-cut, smartly turned out young man, today in shabby chinos and worn-in blazer. He’s the ideal client—no need to tell him to dress sensibly. From a defense point of view, the setup is ideal, the weight of opinion, at least for now, firmly on their client’s side, their case all but won. But thinking about what Freya is about to experience, the mud through which Jeremy’s own name has been dragged, it’s hard to think any victors at all are likely to come out of this situation.

  SUNDAY, 12:48 P.M.

  Around the corner, down the hill. This isn’t a bear hunt, though. I don’t know if I’ll get through it.

  One step after the other. I’m half-running, half-walking, the stitch still catching at my side. And the closer I get, the slower I’m going, until I come to a halt. I’m so focused on getting there, breaking down the door, finding her and bringing her out. But what if she’s not there? What if I’ve got this wrong?

  Maybe he’s got her. Maybe he’s come back and he’s taken her. Maybe he found a way to get to them somehow and they’ve plotted together and he’s got her and he’s going to take her and I’ll never see her again and…

  Stop! I have to stop this.

  One step at a time.

  One foot in front of the other.

  I can see the house, right there, just there, and I’m going to be there and I’ll ring the bell, I’ll knock on the door, and she’ll come running out and she’ll hug me and it’ll be good, it’ll all be fine.

  All shall be well.

  All shall be well

  and all manner of thing shall be well.

  I’m nearly there. Just a few more steps.

  Then I’ll find her.

  35

  The prosecutor takes Freya through her evidence gently. At first her voice is low, but after the judge asks her if she can speak a little louder, she becomes more audible. She looks at Jeremy directly from time to time as she talks through the early days of what she d
escribes as her relationship with him. I have to admire her courage—it would have been open to the prosecution to make an application for special measures, methods by which the girl could be spared this direct confrontation with him, giving evidence from behind a screen or even by way of a video link, but Barbara told me that morning that, according to the prosecution, Freya had said she didn’t want them. She wanted Jeremy to see what the effect of his behavior had been on her.

  They met when she was fourteen, Freya says, when he started teaching her history lessons. History became one of her favorite subjects, and he brought it to life. Edward asks her to expand on what she means by this, and she says that one of the things he did that she really liked was to recommend novels set in the same period as they were studying, because she enjoyed reading those stories. Edward asks if there was anything in particular about the novels that she noticed.

  “They had a lot of sex in them,” she says, looking down at her hands.

  “Can you elaborate on that?”

  “The first ones he recommended, they were ordinary stories, but then they got more like love stories, with a lot of sex scenes.”

  “What did you feel about that?”

  “I didn’t realize history could be like that—I thought it was really boring. Kings and queens and battles. I didn’t know that it could feel like real life, that someone like Elizabeth the First would think about sex, too.”

  The grooming continues over two terms, Freya describes. The light erotica of popular historical fiction is replaced by more explicit material, books Jeremy told Freya to buy or take out of the library. She’d write book reports for him, extra homework for the first time ever. It’s not just the first time she’s found history interesting, Freya says, it’s the first time that any teacher has taken her seriously, seeing beyond her superficial appearance to acknowledge an academic worth she didn’t know existed in her before.