by Tara Bond
After a long period of misdiagnosis, my mother was finally told she had colon cancer on 23 August 2013. By then, the disease was terminal. She’d always been my biggest supporter, and her greatest wish was that she’d be alive to see Beautiful Liar published. Sadly, that wasn’t to be, as she died less than six months after diagnosis, on 6 February 2014.
My mum was born in Ireland, and only moved to England in 1962. She never lost her lovely Irish accent, or her easy, outgoing nature. She was the kind of person who woke up happy in the morning, and always had a smile on her face. She had such enthusiasm for life, and people who met her were always shocked to learn her age, because she seemed a decade younger than she was. I miss her so much, as does my father, John James Hyland, and my husband, Tom Beevers (her Tomsy-womsy). This novel is for my lovely mummy, as there’s nothing else I can do for her now.
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Sweet Deception
Tara Bond
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Chapter 1
Present day
I burrowed farther under my duvet, trying to block out the incessant ringing. I wasn’t sure where the shrill sound was coming from, but it was the last thing I needed after the tequila shots I’d downed the previous night. All I could think about right now was the incessant throbbing pain hitting me right between my eyes, beating away like a pulse. I just wanted the noise to stop, so I could fall back to sleep, and hopefully wake up hangover-free in a few hours.
It was only when I heard my flatmate, Lindsay, throw open her bedroom door and stomp across the hallway, that I finally figured out the source of the noise—it was our intercom. That was when the pieces fell into place.
It was him, of course; the bane of my existence—here to ruin my day.
As Lindsay answered the intercom, I closed my eyes and willed her to pretend that I wasn’t in. She knew how much I hated these occasions, and had been known to lie on my behalf more than once. But it was too much to hope for today, I realised as I heard her tell him to come up. Lindsay was a good friend, but she didn’t like to get up before midday, and I knew she’d hold me responsible for today’s early-morning call. This was her revenge.
She didn’t bother waiting for him to climb the five flights of stairs up to our top floor flat. Instead, I heard her leave the door on the latch, and then on the way back to her room, she threw something against my door, to make sure I was awake—from the thud it sounded like a shoe.
“Charlie? Mr. No Fun’s here,” she called out. I winced at the volume. “You might want to make yourself decent. If that’s even possible . . .”
I heard her bedroom door slam shut, as she headed back to sleep. Lucky her.
As though I didn’t have enough problems already, the mattress next to me shifted, and I froze as a warm, hairy leg brushed against my bare skin. I came out from behind the pillow, peeled my crusted eyes opened and saw a man lying next to me, naked apart from a sheet pulled over his middle, mercifully preserving his modesty. My alcohol-addled brain couldn’t exactly place him right now, but he was an attractive guy, if you liked that rough, rock-band look. His hair was way too long; his nose and lip were pierced, and both arms were covered in tattoos. He was entirely my type.
I couldn’t remember much about last night, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. I worked behind the bar at a pub in Camden, and he was typical of our clientele. No doubt I’d served him, we’d got talking, and then after my shift we’d headed on somewhere to continue drinking. One thing led to another. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened—in fact, it was kind of a weekly event for me. I was just surprised I’d let him stay over. Most of the time, I kicked them out straight after the deed was done. It was the best way to avoid that awkward morning-after moment, where the guy felt obliged to pretend he was going to call, and I felt obliged to pretend I wanted him to.
But I didn’t have time to worry about getting rid of my unwanted guest right now. I had far more pressing problems with my other male visitor, who by the sound of it had just let himself into the flat.
I’d barely managed to sit up and pull on my black kimono dressing-gown when the door to my bedroom door was thrown open by my self-appointed protector—and gigantic pain in my butt—Richard Davenport.
Even at this time in the morning, Richard was the epitome of a young, successful businessman. Tall and tanned, no doubt from Saturday mornings on the tennis court, he was, as always, impeccably turned out in chinos and a blue button-down shirt. He never seemed to step out of the house looking anything less than perfect, and today was no exception—his dark hair was short and neat, his strong jaw clean-shaven, and I could smell the fresh scent of his shower gel from where I sat hunched over on the side of the bed, reeking of my own signature aroma of fags and booze.
I’d known Richard for most of my life. He’d gone to the same boarding school as my older brother, Kit, and they’d been best friends since they were eleven. We’d never had much to do with each other growing up. After all, I was five years younger than him, and a girl—he’d barely seemed to notice me. But when I’d moved to London seven years ago, that had all changed. I guess out of some sense of duty to my brother, he’d taken it upon himself to keep an eye on me, which entailed phoning every few weeks to check up on me, and making sure that I attended the obligatory family get-togethers. Which would explain his presence in my flat today.
Of course, his interference irritated me no end. At twenty-five years old, it wasn’t like I needed a babysitter. I wasn’t sure why he couldn’t just mind his own business.
It was hard to believe he was only thirty, a mere five years older than me. The contrast between us couldn’t have been greater. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me how I looked—I’d had enough mornings like these to know that I had mascara and eyeliner smeared round my eyes, and my bleached hair was sticking up all over the place. I no doubt resembled something even the cat wouldn’t bother dragging in.
With a strength I was surprised I could muster, I forced myself off the bed and stood to face him, my arms folded across my chest. “You could’ve knocked.”
Irritation at being woken, and the pounding in my head, put me on the defensive. But if I was hoping he might apologise, I clearly had no chance. He looked just as furious as I felt.
“And you could have answered the door. I’ve been ringing that wretched intercom for twenty minutes.”
“Yeah?” I affected a bored look. “Well maybe you should’ve taken the hint and left.”
“Oh, no, Charlotte.” I winced at his use of my full name—only he and my family ever called me that these days. To everyone else, I was Charlie. “Not today. It’s your parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party. You’re going, even if I have to drag you there, kicking and screaming.”
I didn’t doubt that he would, so I wisely kept my mouth shut. I felt too fragile to be getting into one of our arguments this early in the day.
Richard cast a quick glance around my room. I could sense his disapproval, and I felt a twinge of guilt at the state of the place. Lindsay and I were lucky enough to live in a top-floor warehouse conversion in the heart of Shoreditch. Even though the area’s relentless gentrification meant it was no longer considered cutting-edge, it was still a decent enough area for going out, with lots of good bars and clubs. Our flat was pretty impressive, too—it had double-height ceilings, exposed brickwork and original iron beams—way out of our price range. A school friend of Lindsay’s owned the place, and when his lucrative banking job took him to Hong Kong, he’d let us stay here for a fraction of the market price—I suspected because he had a crush on my friend. We’d repaid his generosity by completely trashing the place.
My room was by far the worst. Dirty plates and mugs were scattered across every surface; it was impossible to see the polished concrete floor with all the clothes strewn over the floor; and there were two used condoms on the bedside table. Oh, well—a
t least Richard should give me points for practising safe sex. It always amazed me, my instinctive sense of self-preservation—no matter how drunk I was, I always managed to insist on that.
Richard’s eyes finally settled on the naked man in my bed—taking in his long, greasy hair, the piercings and tattoos.
“And who might this be?” Richard made no effort to disguise his distaste. It didn’t bother me in the slightest. I’d never made any attempt to hide how I lived my life, and while this might be the first time he’d been so directly confronted with it, I didn’t give a damn if he had a problem with it. If anything, I hoped this might make him stop coming round. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Richard, I just resented his interference in my life. It had become a game, whenever we saw each other I’d try to push his buttons, being deliberately rude and ungrateful, and he’d do his best to ignore me. One day I was sure I’d find his Achilles’ heel and get him out of my life for good. Until then, I’d just have fun goading him as best I could.
I followed his gaze to my unwanted bedfellow and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Richard’s nose wrinkled at that, which was exactly the reaction I’d been trying to elicit. In fact, I knew exactly who the tattooed guy in my bed was. It had come back to me now—his name was Gavin—he was the lead singer in a band who’d played at the bar a few times. But it amused me to try to shock calm, unflappable Richard.
My bed-mate was by now wide-awake and struggling to sit up. His eyes were wide with apology and fixed firmly on Richard. “Aw, shit. I didn’t realise she had a boyfriend, mate.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said automatically.
“And if I was, you wouldn’t still be in that bed. Trust me. Mate.”
Richard’s silky smooth voice belied the threat behind his words. I could see Mr. Rock Band swallow, hard, and I bit back a smile. Richard might act and dress all corporate, but at six foot three and 180 pounds of pure muscle, it was clear he wasn’t someone to pick a fight with. Even if you didn’t know he had a black belt in Taekwondo, it was obvious from the cold, ruthless look in his eyes that he was entirely capable of taking care of himself.
He turned his attention back to me, his eyes sweeping over my kimono and dishevelled appearance. “I take it you’re not planning to attend lunch looking like that?”
“Of course not. Give me fifteen minutes to have a shower and get ready.”
“You have five. We’re already late.”
He didn’t need to bother adding that it was my fault we were in that predicament. Earlier that week, when he’d phoned to arrange picking me up, we’d agreed that I’d be outside, ready and waiting when he arrived. Personally I thought he should have known better than to expect me to be so willing.
“Fine.” I wasn’t about to argue with him, but I had no problem teaching him a lesson for being so inflexible. “If that’s how you want it . . .”
Before he could figure out what I was about to do, I loosened the tie on my kimono and slipped it from my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor so I was standing there stark naked.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have been such a statement if I had the kind of boyish figure that fashion models possess. But instead I had Jessica Rabbit curves, which I’d given up trying to hide a long time ago. Even Richard, the master of self-control, couldn’t help letting his eyes linger on my 34C breasts a second longer than he should have. I watched his jaw tighten, which was pretty much the biggest reaction I ever got from Richard, and then he averted his eyes.
I crossed the room, walking deliberately by him, and started hunting in my drawer for underwear.
“Jesus, Charlotte,” he muttered.
I turned back to him, affecting an innocent look. “What? I’m just getting ready, like you asked.”
His scowl deepened. “I’m not in the mood for your games today. I’ll wait downstairs in the car for you. Be there in five minutes, or I’ll come back up and drag you out. Like the child that you are.”
He swept from the room before I had a chance to reply.
Once he was gone, Gavin let out a long sigh of relief. I started at the sound—I’d almost forgotten he was there.
“Wow.” He shook his head. “That’s one tightly wound arsehole.”
“Tell me about it.” I turned back to my underwear drawer, selecting the only clean bra and panties left in there. I put them on with my back to Gavin, but he didn’t seem to get the hint that I just wanted him to shut up and quietly disappear from my life.
“Well . . .” I rolled my eyes as he drawled the word. Why was it that men felt obliged to make conversation with their one-night stands? I blamed all those movies that suggested women got upset if a guy didn’t automatically propose after they slept together. I forced myself to face him. Gavin had on what I presumed was the most polite expression he could manage. He scratched his head a little, looking beyond awkward. “I guess I should get your number or something. Maybe we could hang out sometime.”
“Yeah.” I spoke with exaggerated seriousness. “We should totally do that. Maybe go for dinner and a movie. We could hold hands and everything.”
“Huh?”
It took all my willpower not to laugh at his obvious confusion. It was clearly his looks rather than his quick wit that had attracted me last night.
“Look,” I said as I wriggled into a denim miniskirt and pulled on the cleanest white tank top I could find, “let’s not pretend last night was anything other than what it was. We got drunk, I invited you back here and we shagged. To be perfectly honest, I can’t remember much about the whole evening, but I’m guessing that we both got what we wanted out of it. So, as far as I see it, that’s pretty much the end of our involvement.”
I couldn’t help enjoying the look of astonishment on his face. He obviously wasn’t used to the women he bedded behaving this way.
“So, you’re saying you’re happy with what went on last night. You don’t want anything else?”
Ten out of ten for catching on so quickly. I’d obviously picked up the equivalent of a dumb blonde.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” I said with exaggerated patience.
He looked at me with the kind of undisguised admiration that should be saved for whoever cures cancer. “You know something? You’re a really cool girl.”
“Yeah? My parents will be so proud.”
I reached for my biker boots, my footwear of choice, but then noted the sun streaming through the Velux windows that lined the ceiling. It was late September, but it looked more like mid-summer, and so I slipped on a slightly grubby pair of cream pumps instead. I dug through the pockets of the jeans I’d had on last night, found my purse and keys, and chucked them into the busted-up, faux leather bag I took everywhere.
“Help yourself to tea, coffee, and whatever we have in the fridge,” I said, as I made my way out the door. It was meant to be a good exit line, but it seemed to throw Gavin even further.
“What? You mean, you don’t mind me staying here once you’ve gone? That’s a bit trusting of you.”
“Not really. If you even think about disturbing my flatmate, she’ll stab you in the eye, and”—I gave a pointed glance round the room—“if you can find something worth stealing in here, then you’re more than welcome to it.”
The intercom sounded then, Richard’s way of letting me know that my five minutes were up. I popped briefly into the bathroom, deciding he’d rather I took the time to brush my teeth and gargle some mouthwash than have me breathing stale alcohol fumes all over him for the two-hour drive.
Once I’d finished, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror above the sink. Panda eyes stared back at me. Why couldn’t I ever remember to take my makeup off? I ran a hand through my bleached hair. I was still getting used to it. I changed the colour every few weeks—I’d been everything from bright pink to ebony-black. Platinum-blonde wouldn’t have been my choice, but I’d told Lindsay to surprise me, and she had. If my skin had been more tanned, maybe i
t would have looked tartier—but the white-blonde against my Casper the Friendly Ghost colouring gave me an emo, edgy look, and made my eyes look an even more unnatural cornflower-blue than usual.
A wave of exhaustion washed over me, which had nothing to do with how little sleep I’d got last night. I so wasn’t prepared for this day—lunch with my parents and one hundred of their closest colleagues and friends. I can just imagine my mother’s face when she sees me—her troublemaking youngest daughter, the university dropout who works in a bar—turning up hung-over and in a ridiculously tiny miniskirt, amongst a sea of overachievers in floral dresses and suits. Ah, being the black sheep of the family was always a fun role to play.
I took a deep breath, mentally shaking myself out of my moment of self-pity. Then I grabbed face wipes and stuffed them in my bag, sprayed on a liberal amount of deodorant that I feared still wouldn’t mask the smell of fags and booze, and headed downstairs to see what the dreaded day would bring.
About the Author
Photograph by Sheila Burnett
Tara Bond grew up in Surrey, England. She read history at Cambridge University before working in various sensible office jobs. She lives in London with her husband and loves reading and writing, as well as watching movies and TV box sets. Her guilty pleasures are cocktails and chocolate desserts.
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