One in Three: the new addictive, twisty suspense with a twist you won’t see coming!

by Tess Stimson

  POLICE

  So how would you characterise the relationship between the two women?

  AL

  Shit, is how I would characterise it.

  POLICE

  Care to explain?

  AL

  All that stuff about Caz in the papers, none of it’s true. I can’t believe Louise has the balls to play the grieving widow when she’s the one who killed him!

  POLICE

  If we could just stick to the facts, Ms Lark, rather than speculate—

  AL

  I’ve seen Louise in action. She comes across so nice and sensible, right? Mother of the year. But I’m telling you, underneath it all she’s a fucking psycho.

  POLICE

  In what way?

  AL

  Well, for a start, she used to call Caz all hours of the day and night, yelling and crying down the phone. I mean, Caz is tough, but she’s put up with years of it; it’d wear anyone down.

  POLICE

  You witnessed these calls?

  AL

  I was there when Caz got some of them, yeah. But Louise is smart. She never called when Andy was around.

  POLICE

  Did you hear what was said between them?

  AL

  I didn’t need to. My best mate ended up in tears, and she doesn’t cry easily. It wasn’t just the phone calls. Louise was a bloody stalker. She wouldn’t let Caz alone. Turning up at the house, at her work, and then claiming Caz was harassing her. I thought there were laws against stalking these days?

  POLICE

  Yes—

  AL

  She’s got form, you know that, right?

  POLICE

  “She” being—?

  AL

  Louise.

  POLICE

  Yes, right.

  AL

  She got done for stalking before. Caz said some bloke had to take a restraining order out against her.

  POLICE

  When was this?

  AL

  I don’t know the details. Look, don’t you people have computers or something? You can look it up.

  POLICE

  Ms Lark, are you all right? You seem a little upset. Would you like to take a break?

  AL

  Sorry. It’s just … [Pause.] I know Caz is my friend and everything, and I would say this, but she’s, like, so the opposite of a drama queen. I’ve been telling her for months to report Louise, but she wouldn’t have it, said it’d just make things worse. But that woman hated Caz … [Pause.] Sorry.

  POLICE

  We can take a break here if you’d like.

  AL

  Sorry, no, I’m … I’ll be fine.

  POLICE

  Roy, would you get Ms Lark some tea? For the tape, Detective Sergeant Steve Roy is leaving the room.

  AL

  I told Caz not to go to that damn party – I knew something bad would happen.

  POLICE

  Why?

  AL

  Things have been building up. Ever since—

  POLICE (SR)

  DS Steve Roy re-entering the room.

  POLICE

  Here you go. Careful, it’s hot.

  AL

  Thanks. It’s just … no one believed Caz and look what’s happened. Louise is really plausible, but I’m telling you, there’s another side to her; honestly, I think she’s unhinged. I mean, that business with the cat, and all the nonsense she pulled with the school play. Who does that?

  Six weeks before the party

  Chapter 6

  Min

  Luke is curled up on the sofa when I come downstairs on Saturday morning, a small boy snuggled into the crook of each arm. All three are covered with Coco Pops, the empty cereal box on the floor testament to their nutritious breakfast. Akin to the unshod cobbler’s child, the offspring of doctors are the least healthily nourished in the land. ‘I can’t believe I slept in so late,’ I exclaim. ‘It’s after eight. You should have woken me.’

  My husband cranes his neck around me so he can still see the television. ‘You pulled a double shift. You needed your sleep.’

  ‘Mummy! You’re in the way.’

  ‘What are you watching?’ I ask, glancing at the screen.

  ‘Stranger Things,’ seven-year-old Sidney says.

  ‘Luke! Isn’t that a bit scary for them?’

  ‘We like scary,’ Archie says, burrowing further into his father’s arms.

  I pick up the cereal box and open the curtains, ignoring the boys’ squeals of protest as the Stygian gloom is dispelled. ‘Where are the twins?’

  Luke finally yields to the interruption and pauses the TV. ‘It’s not lunchtime yet. Where d’you think?’

  Dom and Jack transitioned effortlessly from getting up at five to sleeping in till noon as soon as the clock struck teenager. The sadist in me takes great pleasure now in waking them up for school, frequently with the aid of cold water, after a decade of being rudely bounced from my bed before sunrise. ‘I promised I’d go over and help your mother with the party this morning,’ I say. ‘Can you make sure the twins get to footie practice on time?’

  ‘What’s she need help with? The party’s not for weeks.’

  ‘She’s invited Andrew and that woman,’ I say indignantly. ‘Someone has to talk sense into her!’

  ‘Ah. So not exactly help then. More like interfere.’

  Sidney grabs at the TV remote. ‘Dad! Push play!’

  ‘Your mother and I are talking,’ Luke says, holding the remote out of Sidney’s reach. ‘Honestly, Min, it’s up to Mum who she invites. I wouldn’t get involved.’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t,’ I say crossly.

  Luke Roberts is the very definition of a good guy. He loves his family, works hard – doing what, I’ve never quite worked out, something unfathomable in IT, I think – and buys me flowers for my birthday, our anniversary, and sometimes for no reason at all. I’ve loved him heart and soul for more than thirty years, ever since he walked into double biology and tripped over my backpack, literally falling at my feet. But he is aggravatingly neutral about everything. Nothing bothers him. He never takes sides, or voices an opinion. Which is all very well, but we can’t all be Switzerland, or the world would be overrun by Nazis.

  I’m not saying Celia Roberts is a Nazi, of course. But she could run the Gestapo with one hand tied behind her back. God knows, she’s had to be strong to survive what happened to her family; not many women could go through a tragedy like that and stay on their feet. But that’s no excuse to let her get away with murder. This nonsense with Andrew has to stop. It’s been four years. It’s not healthy to keep giving Lou false hope. She insists she’s over Andrew, but she isn’t, not even a little bit. She hasn’t even dated anyone since he left her. We all know how intense she can get, and I fear Celia’s started something with this party that won’t end well.

  I leave the boys to their dystopian television programme, feed the dog, and drive over to Celia and Brian’s. They’ve lived in the same lovely old stone property on the outskirts of Steyning for nearly forty years; Lou and Luke both grew up there. Celia’s very lucky her children both live so close to her – something my own mother, up in Yorkshire on her own, never tires of reminding me.

  My mother-in-law is kneeling by a flowerbed in the front garden when I arrive. She puts down her trowel and stands up when she spots me. ‘Min, how lovely to see you,’ she exclaims, tilting her cheek for me to kiss. ‘Was I expecting you?’

  ‘I’m sure you were,’ I say dryly.

  ‘Lemonade, darling? I made it fresh this morning. We can sit on the terrace in the back garden and enjoy the sun.’

  I follow her around the side of the house. Brian waves genially in my direction, but doesn’t come over. He’s perfected the art of fading into the background over decades, and, like his son, hasn’t offered an opinion on anything in years.

  Celia pours a tall glass of fresh lemonade for each of us, and we settle into a pair of wick
er chairs on the veranda, for all the world as if we’re in an episode of Downton. My eyes water as the tart lemonade hits the back of my throat, but it’s delicious, especially on such a warm day.

  ‘You’ve got new tomato beds,’ I say, suddenly noticing the rectangle of dark, loamy earth enclosed by old railway ties at the end of the lawn. ‘How wonderful. You’ve wanted a raised bed for ages. When did you have it put in?’

  ‘Andrew came over last weekend and did it,’ Celia says.

  ‘Andrew did it?’

  Celia takes a sip of lemonade. ‘You needn’t look so surprised. He knows how to get his hands dirty.’

  That’s not what I meant, and she knows it. ‘Yes, but why? What was he doing here?’

  ‘He often comes over when he’s down this way. He and Brian like to go down to the White Horse for a few beers on a Sunday afternoon. He offered to sort out the flowerbed a few weeks ago, when Brian had that bout of sciatica.’

  I feel a rising tide of indignation. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit … odd?’

  ‘Why? He’s quite handy around the house. Did the whole thing himself in two days.’

  She’s being deliberately obtuse. I love my mother-in-law, but sometimes she can be extremely infuriating. ‘I honestly don’t understand you, Celia!’ I exclaim. ‘How can you even bear to speak to that man after what he did to Lou? Anyone would think you’re on his side!’

  ‘Min, darling, it’s very sweet of you to care so much about Louise,’ she says firmly, ‘but I’m not sure that sort of attitude is entirely helpful. Andrew is still part of this family. We didn’t stop loving him just because he stopped loving Louise. He’s been very kind to Brian and me. We’re extremely fond of him. And he’s Tolly and Bella’s father.’

  I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Andrew is so charming and handsome and everyone’s taken in by him, even Celia, even now, after everything he’s done. If she knew what he was really like, she wouldn’t want him and Lou to get back together. She’d stab him with her gardening fork and bury him in a bloody flowerbed.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ I say angrily. ‘Andrew can’t just dump Lou and still keep you! There should be some … some shame! Some consequences! You can’t destroy someone’s life and be allowed to carry on like nothing’s happened!’

  Celia puts down her glass and takes my hot hands in her cool ones, and my vision suddenly blurs. She is truly like a mother to me: I’ve known her more than half my life, ever since I was a teenager, and have spent far more time with her than I have with my own mother, whose chilly, detached temperament is so different from – and incompatible with – my own. Outwardly, Celia may be the epitome of the composed, stiff-upper-lip Englishwoman, but I’ve known her long enough to understand how fiercely passionate she is about people and causes she cares about. I know she’d do anything for Luke or Lou or me; that’s the trouble. She doesn’t realise she’s just making everything worse.

  ‘Min,’ Celia says, ‘I appreciate your loyalty to Louise. I do. But Andrew isn’t the devil incarnate. I’m not saying what he did was right—’

  ‘Well, at least we can agree on that!’

  She looks hard at me. ‘Do you think, darling, perhaps you care about this a little too much?’

  That brings me up short. I don’t want Celia getting any peculiar ideas; I am married to her son, after all. ‘It’s this party,’ I say. ‘It’s bad enough having to see that woman at things like Bella’s play, but inviting her to such a special, family time like your anniversary – it’s as if you’re giving them your seal of approval. You do see that,’ I add earnestly, ‘you do see, don’t you, Celia?’

  She releases my hands, and picks up her lemonade again. ‘You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, darling.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you don’t need to worry,’ she says serenely. ‘It’s all in hand.’

  I recognise that expression on Celia’s face; I see it on those of my four sons whenever they’re plotting trouble. ‘Celia,’ I say suspiciously, just as her phone rings. ‘What, exactly, are you up to?’

  Chapter 7

  Louise

  I lean on the horn and check my watch again, even though I already know how late we’re running. In the back, Tolly bounces delightedly in his car seat, clapping his hands. ‘Do it again, Mummy! Do it again!’

  Unbuckling my seatbelt, I open the car door and lean on the window frame to shout up at the house. ‘Bella! We need to go!’

  ‘I’m coming!’ Bella yells.

  It’s another five minutes before she finally appears. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that are more holes than denim, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt I haven’t seen before, emblazoned with the slogan ‘Friday is my second-favourite F-word.’ Her father would have a fit if he saw her, but we don’t have time for her to go back and change.

  ‘It’s twenty-eight degrees,’ I restrict myself to saying mildly, as she flings herself into the front seat. ‘Aren’t you hot?’

  ‘No,’ she snaps.

  She pulls a woollen cap from her backpack, and tucks her hair under it, until the only thing showing are a few dark wisps at the front. A thick line of kohl is smudged beneath eyes smeared with heavy grey shadow. It looks as if she’s slept in her make-up beneath a bridge somewhere. Wisely, I say nothing, even though it breaks my heart to see my beautiful girl doing her best to disguise her loveliness. Her best friend, Taylor, is exactly the same, the two of them dressing as androgynously and monochromatically as possible, like extras from a dystopian movie. I suppose it’s better than crop-tops and micro-minis. And it’s just a phase, I remind myself with an inward sigh. She’ll grow out of it.

  I start the car, and the engine makes its usual clunking, grating sound before reluctantly coughing into life. And then suddenly it cuts out. I try again, but the engine grinds ominously and then dies. The third time, it doesn’t even turn over.

  ‘Mum!’ Bella cries. ‘I can’t be late!’

  ‘We already are,’ I say crossly. ‘I wasn’t the one who kept us all waiting for twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be there at ten! It’s the dress rehearsal, they can’t start without me!’

  I let it go, knowing how nervous she is. She was up half the night practising her lines, and this morning she vomited up her toast five minutes after eating it. She was the same when she took her GCSEs last summer. ‘I know that, darling,’ I say. ‘It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose.’

  ‘The car’s been making weird noises for ages! You should have got it fixed!’

  ‘I don’t have the money to fix it, Bella.’

  ‘Dad gives you money, doesn’t he?’

  ‘None of your business, darling,’ I say nicely.

  ‘It is if our car breaks down!’

  My patience frays. ‘Bella, please don’t talk to me like that.’ I get out of the car again. ‘It’s not the end of the world. We’ll just call the school and let them know you’ll be a bit late. These things never start on time anyway. I’ll call Gree and ask her to take you,’ I add, reaching into the back and unbuckling Tolly from his car seat. ‘She’ll be here in ten minutes.’

  ‘I’m too old to call her Gree,’ Bella mutters, storming towards the house.

  I have a sudden flashback to Bella’s babyhood, and a smiling apple-cheeked cherub lisping Grelia – soon shortened to Gree – because Grandma Celia was too much of a mouthful. The contrast with the spiky, resentful teenager stalking ahead of me is painful. I would have treasured those sunlit childhood years more had I known how brief they were. ‘Fine,’ I sigh, shooing Tolly into the hall and speed-dialling my mother. ‘You can take it up with your grandmother. Hi, Mum,’ I add, as my mother picks up. ‘I’ve got a bit of an emergency. Can you do me a huge favour? The car won’t start and Bella needs to get to school for her dress rehearsal and we’re already late. She’s in a total state. I was wondering—’

  ‘Of course,’ my mother says.

  Bella glares from the foot o
f the stairs. ‘I’m not in a state!’

  I shush her with my hand. ‘Oh, thank you, Mum, you’re a total life-saver.’

  Bella stomps upstairs to her room, no doubt to text her friends details of the latest monstrous injustice done to her. I open the back door so Tolly can go outside to play, watching him affectionately through the kitchen window, the phone crooked between my neck and shoulder as I run hot water over the dirty breakfast dishes.

  ‘I’ll bring your father with me, too,’ my mother says in my ear. ‘He can have a look at your car while I’m running Bella to school.’

  ‘Are you sure Dad won’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s just deadheading the roses.’ I hear her call his name, with muffled instructions to get ready. ‘Andrew should have given you the Range Rover, and taken the Honda himself,’ she adds reproachfully. ‘I can’t bear to think of you driving that deathtrap with the children.’

  ‘It’s not a deathtrap, Mum,’ I say softly, knowing where this is going. ‘It’s just a bit old. If Dad can get it going again, I’m sure we can limp on for a bit longer.’

  Outside, Tolly is happily kicking a football back and forth across the lawn. It doesn’t bother him in the least to play on his own. He is light to Bella’s dark, sunshine to her shadow. I wave at my son, my heart expanding in my chest as he grins and waves back.

  ‘Nicky was so proud when he bought his first car,’ my mother says suddenly. ‘He worked all summer to save for it. He was out on the driveway every spare moment, washing and polishing and tinkering. Wouldn’t let anyone else drive it, not even your dad. Everything he earned mowing lawns and picking fruit that summer, he spent on that car.’