Three Little Lies Read online

  Laura Marshall grew up in Wiltshire and studied English at the University of Sussex.

  After almost twenty years working in conference production, in 2015 Laura decided it was time to fulfil a lifetime’s ambition to write a book, and enrolled on the Curtis Brown Creative three-month novel writing course. Laura’s debut novel, Friend Request, was a Sunday Times bestseller and an ebook number one bestseller and was shortlisted for both the Bath Novel Award and the Lucy Cavendish Fiction Prize 2016. Three Little Lies is Laura’s second novel.

  Laura lives in Kent with her husband and two children.

  Also by Laura Marshall

  Friend Request

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Sphere

  978-0-7515-6838-7

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Laura Marshall 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  SPHERE

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Three Little Lies

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Laura Marshall

  COPYRIGHT

  Dedication

  Olivia

  Ellen

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  Olivia

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  Olivia

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  Olivia

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  Olivia

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  Olivia

  Karina

  Ellen

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  Karina

  Ellen

  Karina

  Olivia

  Ellen

  Karina

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  Olivia

  Olivia

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  Olivia

  Ellen

  Karina

  Ellen

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  Acknowledgements

  For Michael

  Olivia

  July 2007

  My little boy. He looks so alone up there. It’s the first time he’s worn a suit since he left school, which God knows feels like five minutes ago, although it’s over two years. It seems only yesterday that I was sending him off to school for the very first time, his hands lost in the sleeves of a jumper I’d bought with growing room. I can see that boy in his face, which is the same to me as it’s always been. Yes, of course he’s changed, but the new faces have just been layered on top of his original face, the one that only I can see now – smooth-skinned and perfect, a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, his expression completely open.

  It’s closed now, seemingly emotionless, although I’m not fooled. I’m the only one that can feel the tremors running through him, because they run through me too. Flesh of my flesh. Until a baby is around six or seven months old, it has no idea that it’s a separate person to its mother. Up until then, it thinks they are one person, which is why separation anxiety kicks in around this time. Eventually, the baby gets it, but for the mother it never goes away. You and your child are, always and forever, one. You feel every cut, every mean remark, every heartbreak.

  ‘Court rise.’

  There’s a bang on the door signalling the judge’s imminent arrival, startling Daniel, who looks instinctively up at me for guidance. I try to smile but my lips won’t press themselves into the right shape. His eyes sweep the public gallery hopefully, even though he knows Tony won’t be here; can’t face it. I can’t face it either, but I’m here. It’s merely the latest in a lifetime of things I couldn’t face but did anyway – getting up five times a night to feed him or soothe his crying, spending endless Sunday mornings watching him playing rugby in the freezing rain, driving him all over the country to play piano concerts, sitting beside him all night the first time he got drunk, too petrified to sleep in case he choked on his own vomit. Everything I’ve done has been to protect him, to make things better. This is what we do, we mothers. I need to keep reminding myself of that, whatever happens, whatever I’ve done. It was never about me. It was for Daniel.

  The judge sweeps in, a caricature in a frayed wig with florid cheeks, the jury watching him expectantly. They are nervous, overawed; it’s probably the first time most of them have been in a courtroom, let alone been a crucial part of the process. Some of them let their eyes flicker to Daniel, but they don’t linger on him long. What is it that makes them look away? Disgust? Fear? How much do they already know about him, about what he is accused of?

  I lean forward, resting my arms on the rail. I will be here every day until this is over. I can only let myself see a positive outcome, where he is exonerated – the witnesses discredited, the… victim admitting she lied. We will take a taxi home and I will put him to bed and he will sleep, and his body and mind can begin to restore themselves.

  I can’t countenance the alternative. I shudder at the idea. For me, as for most people, prison has always been an abstract concept; at most, I have driven past them, imagined the prisoners inside, but as a race apart: criminals, not ordinary people. Completely alien to me and my way of life, something I will never come across or have to think about. Well, not any more. When you have other mothers as friends, the conversations move on over the years. First it was all sleepless nights and nappies, first words and potty training; then schools, friendship dramas, puberty. Most recently, it was drugs, sex and alcohol. I thought they would be the last problems we would have to deal with before I forged a new relationship with my sons, an adult one. I imagined them taking me out for lunch, consulting me for advice on home improvements, hugging me again, like they did when they were little, but this time it would be them making me feel safe instead of the other way around. I never in a million years imagined I would be here, in this unknown landscape where none of my friends can, or would want to, follow me. I would swap places with any of them in a heartbeat.

  The judge sits down, and so does everybody else apart from the prosecution barrister, who turns to the jury to make his opening statement. And so it begins: my little boy’s rape trial.

  Ellen

  September 2017

  Sasha’s not in when I get home from the studio, so I put on a CD of Olivia’s recording of ‘Dido’s Lament’ by Purcell, full blast. Of course I’ve got everything she’s ever recorded downloaded, but this is my absolute favourite, softer and more intimate than some of the showier arias. It was the first thing I ever heard her sing live, and there’s something about slotting the CD into my old hi-fi that feels right. I played it on the show today, shoving down any misgivings I had about whether Sasha might be listening. She was at work; there’s no chance they were playing Simply Classical in her office. I don’t suppose any of her colleagues have even heard of such a tiny digital radio station unless she’s mentioned it,
which I doubt. She hardly even talks to me about it – a silent signal that she disapproves of my choice of work, redolent of the Monktons as it is. Classical music was their world and she rejected it utterly, as she has done everything connected with them since the day she moved out.

  It was different for me, though. I loved it as she never did. My parents weren’t ones for listening to music. My mum listened to Radio 2 in the kitchen sometimes, and they had a few CDs in a dusty stand in the front room, one of which might be put on if they had friends round, but they didn’t care about it. It didn’t stir any emotion in them. I went through the motions of fandom when it came to the bands other girls liked, blu-tacking posters to my wall and even going to a couple of gigs with Karina, but my heart was never in it. It wasn’t until that first concert where I sat in the darkness next to Daniel, heart pounding, tears in my eyes, Olivia’s voice pouring over me, into me, like warm water, that I understood what music could be.

  I lie down on the sofa, wanting to relax into the music but keeping one hand on the remote control, alert for Sasha’s key in the door. I hadn’t been expecting her last Friday – I thought she was going out straight after work – but she’d come home around 7 p.m. in a foul mood and found me listening to Olivia. She hadn’t said anything about the music, but I could feel her displeasure, radiating out like soundwaves, invisible but powerful. I’d switched it off and tried to talk to her, but she’d stomped off to her room, saying she was tired. There was definitely something up with her but I never got to the bottom of it. This Friday it’s not Sasha’s key but the door buzzer that interrupts me, jerking me upright like a marionette. I hastily turn off the music and take the few steps into the hall.

  ‘It’s Jackson,’ says a terse voice on the intercom. No hello, how are you. Not for Jackson the fripperies of the normal greetings that oil the social wheels. I sigh and buzz him up, waiting until I hear his footsteps in the hallway before I open the door.

  ‘Is she here?’ he demands, sweeping past me into the front room.

  ‘No, she’s not back from work yet. Was she expecting you?’ I am chilly, matching his brusqueness note for note.

  ‘Clearly not,’ he says, flinging himself down on the sofa, legs apart. ‘I went to meet her from work… as a surprise.’ He has the grace to look shamefaced about this last bit. We both know he was checking up on her. ‘She hadn’t been there all afternoon. The receptionist told me she left at lunchtime, and her phone’s going straight to voicemail. If she’s not here, where is she?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? I’m not her keeper.’ I try to maintain a cold note of indignation, but a thread of worry tugs at a far corner of my brain. Where is she?

  ‘You’re not far off,’ he says. ‘Best friends, aren’t you? So close? Tells you everything?’

  A small voice in my head wonders if this is true, but I want it to be, so I agree.

  ‘Yes, she does, and whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true. She’s not seeing someone else, Jackson. She’s really not. She loves you.’ This last part sounds weak even to me. I’m not sure she does. The rest of it doesn’t ring entirely true either. Twelve years of friendship should give you a certain understanding, a shorthand. We shouldn’t have to tell each other what’s going on, how we’re feeling. We should just know. Usually I do, but in the last week or so, since she came home in such a strange mood, Sasha’s been distant, evasive, brushing off any attempt on my part to get her to open up. Jackson deflates a little with the realisation that I genuinely don’t know where she is, and I lower myself on to the edge of the armchair.

  ‘What’s going on with her, Ellen?’ His bluster has evaporated, and with a jolt of surprise, I realise how much he likes her. ‘I mean, she’s always blown hot and cold, but this is something else. It’s not the first time I’ve caught her out in a lie recently.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, torn between my discomfort at discussing her like this and my need to know. What has she been lying to him about?

  ‘Oh, I don’t know… Not being where she said she was going to be, or being… evasive. Cagey.’

  ‘She’s always been a bit like that, though.’ This is true. She liked to retain an air of mystery, even when we were teenagers and had little to be mysterious about. ‘That’s just how she is. It doesn’t mean —’

  ‘That she’s shagging someone else? Oh, grow up, Ellen. She’s not this perfect superhuman being, you know. She’s as flawed as the rest of us. If not more so.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, stung. ‘I never said she was.’

  ‘No, you never said it,’ he says scathingly. ‘But we can all see it, what you think of her, how much you love her.’

  ‘She’s my best friend!’ My cheeks are hot. ‘And what do you mean, “we can all see it”? Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Jackson picks moodily at a loose thread on his jeans.

  ‘Look, she’s not here, and I have no idea when she’s going to be back,’ I say as firmly as I can, standing up and moving towards the door. I don’t want him here, cluttering up our flat with his accusations and insinuations. ‘When she gets back, I’ll tell her to call you, OK?’

  ‘I think I’ll wait,’ he says, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘She’ll have to come back sooner or later.’

  My instinct is to acquiesce, but I force myself to speak. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t. And you can’t smoke in here.’

  He sighs theatrically and puts the cigarettes back in his pocket. ‘Fine, I’ll go. But make sure she rings me as soon as she gets back.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you were here, Jackson. It’s up to her if she wants to ring you or not.’

  After he’s gone, I go into the kitchen, where my phone is charging, and call Sasha. Her voicemail clicks in straight away. I listen to her message as if there’s going to be some clue contained in it. ‘Hi, this is Sasha’s phone. I’m not available right now so please leave a message.’ She’s smiling as she speaks, you can hear it.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. Jackson’s been here kicking off about you not being at work. Where are you? Call me when you get this.’

  I replace the phone on the side and lean back against the worktop, staring out of the window. There’s not much to see from this side of the flat. The next block of flats is about five metres from ours, a strip of potholed concrete in between. A couple of old-style punks with Mohicans live in the flat opposite. Sometimes they smile and wave when they’re in their kitchen cooking, but there’s no sign of them today. You can just see a section of pavement on the route that leads to and from the station, and there’s a steady stream of commuters making their way home from work. None of them is Sasha. That thread tugs at me again; memories push against the door I closed on them years ago.

  I sit down at the tiny kitchen table by the window, taking a biro that has found its way into the fruit bowl and twiddling it round and round, ink staining my fingers where it’s leaking. She would normally be back from work by now, entertaining me with tales of her day, pouring us both a large glass of wine, rooting around in the fridge for something to cook. It’s one of my favourite times of day when I’m in, although I’m not a traditional nine-to-fiver, what with irregular shifts at the station and other freelance work.

  I’m hungry, but there doesn’t seem much point cooking just for me. I toast a slice of bread and eat it without a plate, gazing out into the evening. As the sky darkens, the frequency of the passers-by decreases, but there’s no sign of Sasha. I call her again, but it’s still going straight to voicemail. The nagging voice in my head that I’ve been trying so hard to ignore is louder now. I put Olivia’s CD back on to try to drown it out, but it’s a mistake because it brings those days back, and what had started as a whisper – a question, a suggestion – becomes a voice that I cannot quiet.