Three Little Lies Read online

  My legs want to propel me upwards, out of here. I can’t listen to any more of this. I grip the edge of my seat. I mustn’t make a scene. It will be over soon. I keep repeating to myself: she’s lying, she’s lying, but there’s something about it that sounds true. I can’t help it, I have to look at him, to see what effect this is having on him. When I do, though, I wish I hadn’t. His anguished eyes are fixed on me, and I am terrified that he has seen the doubt in mine.

  ‘What happened next, Miss Barton?’

  She twists her hands around and around, licking her lips and trying to control her breathing.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know this is distressing for you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she manages. ‘He forced himself on me. He raped me. And then he said if I told anyone, he’d really hurt me. He put a T-shirt under me and cut my thighs with the bottle. He said it was a reminder. Not to tell. That if I told, he’d do something worse next time. When he’d finished, he got up and went to the bathroom. He said he’d see me downstairs in a bit. I couldn’t get up. I just lay there for a while, I don’t know how long, and then eventually I managed to get up off the bed and stagger out on to the landing. There was no one around. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I felt hot so I thought I’d go outside. I went into the garden. I suppose it was freezing out there, but to me it was a relief. I sat down under the mulberry tree. That was where Ellen found me.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Barton,’ says the barrister. ‘I appreciate this is difficult. Now, you said that Mr Monkton threatened you with worse injuries if you told anyone what he had done. How did you feel when he said that?’

  ‘I was frightened. I believed he would hurt me badly.’

  ‘Can you tell us why you believed that?’

  ‘Me and Daniel had been in a sort of… relationship. For about three months.’

  I thought we had got to the worst of it, that I had known what the worst of it was, but I was wrong. I sense a movement from the dock and I realise that Daniel’s head has whipped round to look at her, an expression of horror on his face. I can’t see his barrister’s face from here, but I can tell from the set of her back that she is shocked, her pen poised over the papers in front of her.

  ‘Can you tell us what type of relationship, Miss Barton?’

  She hangs her head. ‘A… sexual relationship.’

  My heart is racing. All those times she was in my house. I would have known, surely? I found out quickly enough about… the other thing. Is she saying this was going on at the same time?

  ‘During the course of this relationship, can you please tell us how Mr Monkton treated you?’

  ‘He was violent towards me.’ She’s more defiant now. ‘He hit me on several occasions. Once he stubbed a cigarette out on my back.’

  Daniel can’t tear his eyes away from her. I am horrified to find myself wondering if he’s shocked because she’s making it up, or because she’s telling the truth.

  ‘He was also…’ She presses her lips together, then gathers herself. ‘He was violent in the bedroom. He didn’t rape me, exactly, but… he was violent.’

  The barrister regards her solemnly. ‘Can you explain what you mean by that?’

  ‘There were times… when I didn’t really want to do it, to have sex, or it was hurting me, but I didn’t say. I didn’t say no. But I think he knew. I think he knew I didn’t want to, and he… he liked that.’

  My hands clutch the bench tighter and tighter. One of the screws that hold the seat to the legs is coming loose and the sharp edge of it digs into my palm, but I welcome the pain, increasing the pressure until I feel the wetness of blood, because it dulls the voice in my head: the one that tells me that Karina is speaking the truth, and even worse, that this is all my fault.

  Ellen

  September 2017

  It’s years since I was this close to the Monktons’ house on foot. I drive past it all the time on my way to visit my parents, but I never walk this way any more. It’s smaller than I remember, as things from the past usually are. I try not to look at Karina’s old house opposite.

  I need to be at the studio at 6 p.m., so I’ve only got an hour or so. I suppose there’s a possibility Olivia won’t talk to me at all, a thought that gives me a little stab of pain.

  I haven’t been able to stop myself keeping an eye on the Monktons over the years, although I’ve kept my association with them a secret in the industry. If any of the editors I’ve worked for, or my boss at the radio station, knew I had a personal connection to the elusive Olivia Monkton, they’d never stop hassling me to get an interview. There are often articles written about her, but it’s very rare for her to actually speak to a journalist. I can only think of one interview that appeared in the online magazine Opera Today a couple of years ago. She was appearing in a touring production of The Marriage of Figaro, and they must have pressured her into doing some press. The journalist had obviously been briefed not to ask about her children, but he did manage to slip in a question about how she had been able to balance family life and career. She glossed over it, talked about how supportive Tony was, how the arts could be more flexible than you might think, but I could feel the strain beneath her stock answers; I could hear the real story.

  There’s less to find online about Tony, but I suppose it was always Olivia who was the star. Even the music press isn’t particularly interested in a second bassoon. Nicholas is on LinkedIn, he’s a business development manager for a software company, but there’s very little information about him. He doesn’t seem to be on any other social media sites, or to have done anything newsworthy. There’s lots to read about Daniel from around the time of the trial, of course, but nothing recent.

  I steel myself as I walk up the path. Nothing much about the outside of the house has changed, it’s all just a little shabbier. The front door hasn’t seen a coat of paint since I was last inside, the windowsills are chipped, and a couple of tiles hang precariously from the edge of the roof. To the right of the house, the old garage, which was never used to house the car, is even closer to falling down than it was eleven years ago.

  The doorbell chimes as it always did, bing bong, bing bong, like Big Ben. My stomach dances as I hear footsteps and a shape looms through the coloured glass panels. There’s a brief second of incomprehension on her face, and I think I’m going to have to tell her who I am, but then recognition dawns and she gives a sharp intake of breath, her hand flying to the butterfly necklace she’s wearing. I remember that necklace. The butterfly’s wings are made of dark amber, threaded with golden, spidery swirls. She twists it in her fingers, the skin on her hands loose and dry.

  ‘Oh!’ It’s more of a primitive sound, an exhalation, than a word. She doesn’t greet me, and continues to stare in what I hope isn’t horror, but shock.

  ‘Hello, Olivia.’ It comes out smaller than I intended and I clear my throat. I drink in her appearance, taking in her hair, which is almost completely grey now, the collar-bone that protrudes where there used to be a comfortable plumpness, the lines on her face. I wonder if she’s as struck by the change in my appearance.

  ‘Ellen.’ One thing that hasn’t changed is her voice: the melodious, warm richness of it. ‘What… what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I would have phoned but… I needed to see you in person. To talk. It’s Sasha.’

  A shadow falls over her face. ‘Sasha? What do you mean? I haven’t seen her since… well, I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘I know. Can I come in? Please? I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Of course.’ She gives herself a mental shake and the old Olivia kicks in: the hostess, the heart of the home, the one who liked to have everybody gathered around her kitchen table. ‘Come in.’

  Inside, again everything is the same. I don’t think they’ve decorated, and through the door I can see that the piano room is still festooned with piles of books and old newspapers. Even the telephone, on its dusty elephant table in the hall, looks the same, the yellowing handset unb
elievably still attached to the cradle by a twisted cord. She leads me past the huge oak bookcase into the kitchen, and I automatically sit down at the table, in what my body obviously still considers to be ‘my’ chair, the one on the other side of the Aga. I can see through the window, which looks to be as painted shut as it was eleven years ago, into the garden. The grass is overgrown and I’m reminded of that long-ago day when Karina and I explored it, years before the Monktons moved in.

  Olivia fills the kettle and places it on the Aga to boil before sitting down opposite me.

  ‘I’m sorry I seemed so shocked. It’s lovely to see you, Ellen. It’s just… it’s been so long, and what with everything…’

  ‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s good to see you too. I’ve wanted to come before, but I wasn’t sure…’

  It’s true – there have been many times I’ve wanted to see her. So many times I longed to tell her what I do for a job. I’m longing to tell her now, even when there are so many more pressing things I need to say. Part of me is wondering, breathlessly, if she is going to ask me that most mundane of dinner party questions: what I do for a living. My parents are immensely proud of me, of course, although I’m sure they wish I had chosen something more reliable as a profession than freelance classical music journalist. Nonetheless they are proud that I am managing to scrape a living from the thing I love, however precarious and meagre. I’ve always thought it would have really meant something to Olivia, though, to know how much she had inspired me.

  ‘I wish you had come,’ she says. ‘I would have loved to have seen you. I’ve seen some of your work, over the years.’

  Oh. So she knows, has always known, and yet never got in touch to say… Well, what could she say, really? The gap between us was too wide for ordinary communication. It was always going to be something like this, some cataclysmic event that drew us back together.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want to see me,’ I say. ‘I thought if you didn’t want to see Sasha, you certainly wouldn’t want to see me.’

  ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her, exactly,’ says Olivia, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. ‘But… she could hardly live here before the trial…’ With a potential rapist, against whom she was testifying. The words she doesn’t say rattle around in the silence between us. ‘And afterwards… she went off to university and that was that, we never saw her again. I tried, Ellen, I honestly did. She wouldn’t take my calls, though, so what could I do?’

  ‘She wanted to see you really, I’m sure,’ I say, although I am nothing of the sort.

  ‘I don’t know, Ellen,’ she says. ‘Things were never the same, after she got back from France.’

  ‘Because of the money?’ I say, tentatively. I’ve never discussed this with her.

  ‘What do you mean? What money?’

  ‘The money that went missing from your purse. She said you argued about it, so when she bumped into those old friends of hers and they said they were going to France, she just took off.’ I remember the night she finally told me the truth about that summer. It wasn’t long after we’d moved in together in London, after university. We’d sat up late one night, working our way through bottle after bottle of wine, and it had all come spilling out. The accusations, Olivia’s refusal to believe that Sasha was telling the truth.

  ‘That wasn’t… no, it didn’t happen like that. That wasn’t it at all.’ The kettle is whistling and she gets up, busying herself with mugs, teabags, milk, keeping her back to me.

  ‘What was it then?’ I ask.

  She puts my tea down in front of me. She has made me Earl Grey without asking; not too much milk, exactly how I like it. Why would Sasha have lied to me? Or is Olivia lying to me now?

  ‘It’s all so long ago,’ she says. ‘I honestly can’t remember. I’m sure we did argue about something. Anyway, you said you were here to talk about her?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pull my focus back. ‘She’s gone missing. I’ve spoken to the police, and they’re going to want to talk to you. I wanted to let you know that, and… also I thought you might know something, or… I don’t know, be able to help.’

  ‘Sasha’s missing?’ I can see the blusher on her cheeks where her skin has paled beneath it.

  ‘Yes, she didn’t come home from work yesterday and no one’s seen her since. I called the police today, but they say she’s not vulnerable, or a danger to other people, so she’s classed as low risk, at the moment, anyway.’

  Something passes over Olivia’s face, either at the word vulnerable, or possibly at the idea of Sasha being a danger to others, but it’s gone so quickly I can’t identify it. Her face closes down.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ellen. As I said, I haven’t seen her for more than ten years. I haven’t even heard from her since she left for university. I certainly won’t be able to help the police. Do you and she live together then?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve shared a flat since we left university.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There’s a twist of pain in her face, and I feel suddenly guilty. Why did I take what Sasha said at face value? But then why wouldn’t I? She had no reason to lie. I assumed if she felt such anger towards Olivia, she must have had good reason.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure why you came,’ she says, and there’s a slight edge that wasn’t there before, a coolness. ‘I’m the last person who would know where she is. As for calling the police… let’s face it, it’s not exactly unknown for her to disappear without warning, is it? Sounds as though she’s done another of her flits. She’ll be back.’

  ‘She’s different now,’ I say. I can’t bear this. I know Olivia hasn’t seen Sasha in years, but surely it’s obvious something isn’t right here? ‘Something’s happened to her, I’m sure of it. She always lets me know where she is. We’ve been living together for seven years, and in all that time, she’s never done this. I’m scared, Olivia.’

  Her face softens a little at this, but she won’t be moved.

  ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you, Ellen. I know how much you loved her, and I can see you still do.’ She says it as though it’s weird, like I shouldn’t still love her, and I go to speak, but she cuts me off.

  ‘This is what she does, I’m afraid. I know you want to see the best in her, but…’ She stands up and puts our mugs on the side by the sink, although neither of us have had more than a few sips. I stand up too, close to being defeated, but there is one more thing I need to ask.

  ‘Olivia, there’s something else. It’s… it’s about Daniel.’ It feels as though there is a small bird trapped in my chest, fluttering its wings in a mad attempt to escape.

  She has her back to me at the sink so I can’t see the expression on her face, but I detect a tightening of her frame, a barely perceptible drawing in. She starts to wash the mugs, squirting a great jet of washing up liquid into one and scrubbing at it with a brush.

  ‘Yes, what?’ she says, still with her back to me.

  ‘Is he… He is still in Scotland, isn’t he?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ she says lightly, as if she’s talking about a mere acquaintance.

  ‘You don’t actually know?’ I say, my fingers curling into my palms, nails digging in.

  She swings round, the brush dripping soapy water on to the terracotta floor tiles.

  ‘Ellen, I hope to God you never have to go through anything close to what I’ve been through.’ For the first time today I see the real her, the woman who had her whole life turned upside down eleven years ago. ‘But if you do, maybe you’ll understand. I had to hear things no mother should have to hear. I have had to try to make my peace with the man my son is. The only way I can do that is by pretending he doesn’t exist. If you think that makes me a monster, then so be it.’

  She places the cup upside down on the draining board and wipes her hands on a tea towel.

  ‘It’s been lovely seeing you, Ellen, but I’ve got things to do,’ she says, slipping smoothly back into her publi
c persona.

  ‘But my mum…’ Dare I broach this? Mum wasn’t sure, after all. I think of Sasha and harden my resolve. ‘Mum said she thought she saw Daniel coming here, into this house, last weekend.’

  ‘She was mistaken,’ Olivia says sharply. ‘Did you not hear a word of what I just said?’ She walks into the hall and I have no choice but to follow.

  ‘What about Tony?’ I ask in desperation to her retreating back. ‘Could Daniel have been here to see him?’

  ‘No!’ She spins to face me. ‘Please, Ellen. It’s time you went.’

  ‘Will you at least take my number, in case you think of anything?’ I ask.