The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  “While this is an extreme example of the dangers of competitive parenting,” the letter that arrived from Mrs. Grayson said, with remarkable understatement, “we are anxious for the future not to encourage an atmosphere that lends itself to any behavior of this kind.”

  Good for Robin. Good for Pippa.

  Too late for Daisy, the poor child put under such deadly pressure by her mother, stuffed full of performance enhancing drugs in Julia’s vain attempt to make her shine.

  And too late for Zoe. There won’t be any charges there. But it’s only because of lack of evidence. The police told me that Zoe’s mother is convinced that Julia was behind her daughter’s death, somehow, Zoe’s place at the top of the class too much of a challenge to Julia even when the children were only in Year 4.

  I look at Robin. I know just how lucky we are.

  Pippa comes around to play later that day. She’s going to sleep over. As soon as she arrives the girls run upstairs together, giggling. They’re thick as thieves.

  Nicole gets out of the car and hands over Pippa’s bag at the doorstep. I know I should ask her in, but I’m speechless at the sight of her, prettier than I’ve ever seen her before, hair newly cut and colored, lipstick on. “Paul is waiting in the car,” she says. “We’re going away for the night. To a hotel in the Cotswolds.”

  There’s a beat, a pause, before I come up with a reply. “I hope you have a lovely time,” I say in the end.

  Nicole’s halfway down the path before she turns, comes back.

  “I do hope Robin will be back at school soon,” she says. “We miss her. You, too.”

  I look at her blankly.

  “We can’t wait to get you volunteering for the Christmas Fair! I’ve taken over from Julia, now—I’m head of the PTA. Given how closely I worked with her, the decision was unanimous,” Nicole says.

  I wave as they drive off. Her words are bright, but they tinkle like ice.

  An image flashes unbidden into my mind. Nicole, this time. Her face as she looked at Daisy in the hospital. Eyes dark with an emotion I didn’t recognize at the time. But now I wonder. Could it have been envy? Did she hate the girls who got so much better marks than Pippa? Did she covet Julia’s position in the school? Could she have drugged Daisy and tried to kill Robin, leaving Julia to take the blame? She had motive, method—opportunity.

  I shake my head. I’m being stupid, drawing connections where there are none. I know what the story is—there’s no need to complicate it.

  “Can we make a cake, Mom? Is that all right?” Robin says, all pink and excited, Pippa behind her.

  “Yes, of course you can,” I say.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Robin says, running out of the room. Pippa is close behind. But before she goes out, she turns to me.

  “I like Robin,” she says. “She’s not like Zoe or Daisy—they showed off all the time and made me feel stupid. Robin doesn’t, though—she’s my friend. She’ll always be my friend.” She looks at me, unblinking, her eyes intent.

  There’s no logical reason for it, but chill fingers pass through me. Then Pippa smiles and they melt. She’s a child, just a child. I go through to the kitchen and turn on the oven, ready to help.

  EPILOGUE

  No one ever remembers me. Maybe I don’t exist.

  Mummy says I’m real, though. Mummy sees me. She sees everything I do. We do everything together. Solve every problem together.

  I’m a part of her, she says.

  They don’t think I’m as clever as the other girls. Though they’re wrong. I like hiding it so they don’t notice. They know I can do some things better, though.

  Running, jumping. Swimming.

  Zoe, I said, Zoe. Just a bit deeper. You can do it.

  Don’t be scared.

  I’ll help you.

  I didn’t help her. She never helped me. I didn’t like her.

  But I helped Robin. I made sure she’d be found. Even though Mummy said no, Robin would only end up being nasty to me too.

  Mummy’s wrong. Robin’s kind to me. I hope she’ll always be kind to me.

  Robin’s my friend.

  Acknowledgments

  Second novels are difficult, and this book has been no exception. My deepest of thanks to my editor, Kate Stephenson, at Wildfire for her endless patience and skill in bringing the best out of this book, and to my agent, Veronique Baxter, for her great know ledge and support through the whole process. It has been brilliantly copy and line edited by Karen Ball and Julia Bruce—my thanks to you both.

  I am very lucky to be published by Wildfire in the UK and Grand Central Publishing in the US, the best in the business—I am very grateful to the team at Wildfire, and to Seema Mahanian and the team at Grand Central. Thanks in particular go to Andy Dodds in his support of me through the publication tour of Blood Orange—I loved visiting so many great US bookshops, and I can’t wait to come back again as soon as I can.

  Dr. Rosie Baruah gave up some of her valuable time off from treating patients on the Covid-19 frontline to give me information about the effects of drug overdoses, and Anya Waddington was extremely helpful in her advice about entrance procedures for secondary schools—my deepest thanks to you both. Any mistakes, in these or any other areas, belong to me alone.

  I was given reassurance, advice and encouragement at the earliest stage by my first readers—thanks so much to Jemma Arvinitis, Louise Hare, Laura Joyce, Amanda Little, Maxine Mei-Fung Chung, Kate Simants and Trevor Wood.

  I’ve stolen your names and taken up a lot of your time moaning about the difficult second book syndrome—thank you, my friends. Susan Chynoweth, Norma Gaunt, Kristian Glynn, Katie Grayson, Sarah Hughes, Femi Kayode and Sandra Labinjoh—I can’t wait to see you all in person rather than on a computer screen. A special thanks to Sarah Pinborough, too, for all your support during this first time of publication—it’s very much appreciated.

  Helen Chatwell—thank you very much indeed. You know what for. Ruth Davison, you were a glaring omission from the Acknowledgments of Blood Orange, but again, thank you very much indeed. You also know what for.

  To all teachers, everywhere, you have my unqualified respect and gratitude. And, in particular, everyone who has ever taught my children. I hope I have never been as difficult as any of my fictional mothers at the school gate. I’m glad that world lives only in my imagination…

  I never expected that my first novel, Blood Orange, would reach as many readers as it has, and I’m very grateful indeed to every single one of you for picking it up and giving it a go. I have loved seeing it being discussed in book clubs and reviewed by bloggers—you’re all amazing and I really appreciate all the work that you do for the best of reasons, the love of books and reading.

  My family has given me a huge amount of support over the last year while I’ve written this—my parents, Bill and Jenny, my brother Alex and niece Amelia and nephew Ali, my parents-in-law, Ian and Cathy, and my brother-in-law Oli, thanks so much to you all. I’m very glad to have a normal family with no strange legacies in place.

  Finally, to Nat, Freddy, and Eloise. I couldn’t do it without you—you’re the best lockdown companions I could ask for. I love you all.

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  Harriet Tyce grew up in Edinburgh and studied English at Oxford University and law at City University in London before working as a criminal barrister for nearly a decade. She completed her MA in creative writing at the University of East Anglia. Her debut novel, Blood Orange, was published by Grand Central Publishing. She lives in north London with her family.

  ALSO BY HARRIET TYCE

  Blood Orange

 

 

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