Three Little Lies Read online

She agrees reluctantly and taps it into her phone. She opens the front door for me and I almost miss it because I’m looking around, drinking in the details for what I suspect will be the last time, but I just catch the end of a glance Olivia throws up the stairs. I follow her gaze and she immediately launches into chatter, telling me what she’s got to do that afternoon, a meeting with a director she’s worked with before. In the doorway, I hesitate, wanting to embrace her, to relax into her arms, into the once-familiar smell and feel of her, but she steps back, folding her arms.

  ‘Goodbye, Ellen.’

  I blink back the tears that threaten, and walk quickly down the street. When I reach the last point where I can see the house before the road bends away, I take a quick look back. At the window that used to be Sasha’s, I catch the tail end of a quick movement, the curtains quivering as if they’ve just been dropped back into place. Is it Olivia, taking a final look at me, the girl she was once so close to?

  Or is there someone else in the house?

  Ellen

  October 2005

  I didn’t tell Karina that Sasha had invited me to the party. I knew she would make me ask Sasha if she could come too, and I wanted her all for myself. There was a risk Karina would see me going in, but it was one I was prepared to take. What could she say, after all? I was allowed to have other friends, wasn’t I? Even as I justified it to myself, I knew I was being disingenuous. The fact was I knew Karina would be upset and I did it anyway.

  Mum seemed pleased I’d found a new friend. She’d always been a bit concerned about my reliance on Karina. Not that she thought there was anything wrong with her – in fact, she and Karina’s mum were friends, sort of – but she worried I was too dependent on her, with no other friends to fall back on if things went wrong. She hadn’t even said anything when she saw me ready to go to the party in a very short skirt I’d bought specially.

  I wanted to linger for a moment outside the house, to compose myself, but the longer I did, the more chance there was Karina would look out and see me, so I hurried through the gate and up the short path to the front door with its stained-glass panel. Goosebumps bloomed on my arms as I stood in the shadow of the corner house, so much larger than any of the others on our street, waiting for someone to let me in. When I heard footsteps inside, I risked a brief look behind me; it might have been my imagination, or a trick of the light, or maybe I really did see a swift movement at Karina’s window, someone drawing back into the shadows. Whichever it was, I turned quickly back to the door, where Sasha was standing, luminous in a silver, sequinned dress that winked at me where it caught the light from the streetlamp.

  The hall was decorated with hundreds of tiny fairy lights, and a buzz of conversation spilled from the kitchen. On the wall hung a huge picture of a loosely drawn, naked woman’s body, the dark lines sweeping languorously across the canvas. To my left there was a low telephone table; its surface was dusty and underneath, instead of legs, an intricately carved elephant held up the tabletop. Through a partially open door to my left I glimpsed a room with floor-to-ceiling shelves, full of books. There was a wood-burning stove, with logs stacked either side of it, and in the corner, the grand piano Karina and I had watched being delivered back in the summer.

  ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs.’ Sasha grabbed my arm and pulled me towards a wide staircase in the centre of the hall. To the left, behind the stairs, there was a door to what I took to be the kitchen, with a huge oak bookcase next to it containing yet more books. As we were starting up the stairs, the dad came out of the kitchen singing to himself operatically. He had the paisley scarf thing around his neck again and a glass of red wine in his hand.

  ‘Hello there!’ he said to me.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, blushing, remembering what Karina had said about him that first day. She was right: he was good-looking. For a dad, obviously.

  ‘Why don’t you two come into the kitchen and meet some people?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Sasha. ‘Come on, Ellen.’

  ‘OK. Have fun,’ he said, wandering off, still singing.

  In Sasha’s room, the one Karina and I had seen her looking out of that first day, she sank down on the bed.

  ‘Thank God you’re here.’

  I glowed with pride, although I had no idea why it was so good that I was there. I didn’t really care. No one had ever made me feel indispensable before, especially not someone so glamorous, someone who seemed as though they ought to be in the cool girls’ gang.

  ‘All these people here supposedly for me,’ she went on. ‘None of them gives a shit; most of them have never even spoken to me. It’s all their friends.’

  ‘Whose friends?’ I said, confused. Sasha hadn’t told me the party was for her, she’d just said there was going to be one, and asked me to come. That had been a couple of days before, and I hadn’t seen her around school to ask her any more. We weren’t doing any of the same subjects for A level, and also Karina was back at school and for reasons I couldn’t fully identify, I didn’t want her to find out I’d got to know Sasha.

  ‘Olivia and Tony’s.’

  ‘You call your parents by their first names?’ I’d heard of hippies and alternative types who did this, but never met anyone who did it in real life.

  ‘They’re not my parents.’

  ‘Oh. So who…?’

  ‘Olivia and Tony are my godparents. My mum’s a model, she works all over the world, but she’s mostly based in America.’ Sasha sounded as if she was reciting something pre-planned, lines in a play. ‘She used to take me around with her, but now she thinks I need to be in one place, for my education. She wanted me to finish my studies in the UK, so she sent me to live with Olivia and Tony. They’ve always been close to my mum.’

  ‘So… did you know them, before you came to live with them?’ I tried not to sound shocked.

  ‘A bit,’ she said. ‘I’d met them a few times, when we were visiting.’ She slung a quick glance at me. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, laughing. ‘Don’t look so horrified. Olivia and Tony are great. I’m sixteen, not five.’

  ‘So those boys…?’ I thought of their dark heads bent together as they went into the house the day they moved in, Sasha following behind, all alone.

  ‘Their sons, yeah.’

  ‘How old are they? I haven’t seen them around school.’ Karina hadn’t stopped going on about it, in fact: where are those boys?

  ‘Nick’s sixteen, he’s got a scholarship to Dulwich College, and Daniel’s eighteen. He’s recently started at the Royal College of Music.’ I sensed a subtle sneer there, millimetres below the surface.

  ‘Blimey, he must be dead talented.’ Even I’d heard of the Royal College of Music.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘He plays the piano. They’re all musical. Olivia’s an opera singer, quite a famous one, and Tony plays the bassoon in the London Symphony Orchestra.’

  ‘Wow! Really?’ My uncle Tim would get his electric guitar out at parties sometimes and play ‘Stairway to Heaven’, but as far as I knew I’d never met a classical musician. Sasha shrugged, clearly unimpressed. I was about to ask more when there was a tap at the door.

  ‘Sasha, darling, are you in there?’ The tone was plummy, rich; nothing like my own mum’s reedy tones.

  ‘Come in,’ Sasha called, and the door opened. Olivia was both taller and wider than she’d seemed from Karina’s window. She was dressed in a long, deep-red tunic over flared black trousers, a tangle of mismatched glass beads hanging from her neck over her voluptuous bust and down to her waist. Her dark hair, spidered with a few silver strands, was piled in a messy bun on top of her head, secured with what looked like chopsticks.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ A huge smile spread across her whole face when she saw me. ‘You must be Ellen, the friend from school! Sasha said you might be coming!’

  ‘Hello, Mrs…’ I blushed, realising I had no idea what her surname was.

  ‘It’s Monkton, but call me Olivia, please. Mrs Monkton is Tony’s mother to me, and Go
d knows I don’t want anyone confusing me with that old bag.’ She smiled conspiratorially and I couldn’t help warming to her. ‘Are you girls all right up here, or do you want anything? There’s some Cokes and stuff in the fridge.’

  ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Sasha, more coolly than I was expecting, given her professed happiness with her living situation.

  ‘OK, I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, her smile still firmly in place, although I could sense disappointment. ‘Let me know if you want anything.’

  As she closed the door behind her, Sasha slumped back on the bed.

  ‘Coke! What does she think we are, little kids? I’ll go down in a bit when they’re all pissed and get some proper drinks.’

  ‘Great.’ I tried to sound enthusiastic, but I’d never had more than a sip of my dad’s beer when we were on holiday, and a couple of alcopops at Tamara Gregg’s party last summer. My mum and dad didn’t drink at home so there was never any alcohol in the house, apart from an ancient bottle of brandy languishing at the back of the cupboard that my mum bought in a failed attempt to make mince pies one year.

  Just then there was a jostling sound on the landing outside. The door opened again and the two brothers tumbled in. They were very alike with their thick, dark hair and long, straight noses. What I assumed to be the younger one was a touch shorter and less broad, with a sprinkling of acne across his forehead and cheeks.

  ‘You could knock, you know!’ said Sasha, sitting up.

  I tugged uselessly at my skirt, pressing my thighs together. It felt much shorter than it had when I’d left my house.

  ‘Sorry,’ drawled the older brother, openly eyeing my legs. ‘Bit pissed.’

  ‘A bit!’ said the younger one. ‘You’ve been drinking all afternoon. Sorry,’ he said to us. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘You’re new,’ said the older one, swinging his eyes up from my legs to my face, as if he’d only just realised I was someone unknown. ‘I’m Daniel.’ He plonked himself down next to me on the bed. I shifted away from him slightly, and his brother laughed.

  ‘Look, Dan, she’s trying to get away from you! Leave the poor girl alone.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Nicky! I’m being friendly. Like a normal person. Just because you can’t talk to girls without embarrassing yourself.’

  The younger brother blushed. Daniel shook my hand in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Very nice to meet you…’

  ‘Ellen.’

  ‘Ellen, of course. Heard all about you.’

  I didn’t know if he was saying it to be polite, but that was the second person now who claimed to have heard of me, and it warmed me inside a little. Had Sasha really mentioned me? I wasn’t used to being talked about.

  ‘Seeing as you’re here, you can make yourself useful and go and find me and Ellen something proper to drink,’ said Sasha coldly.

  Daniel stood up unsteadily and bowed elaborately.

  ‘Your wish is my command, Lady Sasha.’

  His brother nudged him, and I got the impression that this was a nickname they usually only used behind her back.

  ‘It’s all right, Nick,’ Sasha said. ‘I know that’s what you call me.’ Nicholas, whose face had only just returned to its normal colour following Daniel’s earlier remarks, blushed again. ‘Just go and get us a bloody drink, OK?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Nicholas muttered to Sasha, and the two of them shuffled out of the room.

  Five minutes later, Nicholas reappeared, plonked a half-full bottle of wine and a couple of tea-stained mugs from the kitchen down on Sasha’s bedside table, and left us to it. I winced at the first sip, but once I’d forced a mug of it down I stopped noticing the sour taste. Emboldened by the wine, I pressed her again.

  ‘So, how are you finding it so far? Living here, with them?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty self-sufficient anyway. Used to looking after myself, I mean. I don’t need to feel… part of the family. I’m happy doing my own thing.’

  ‘I don’t always feel like part of my family,’ I confessed. I’d never voiced this thought before, but as I said it, I realised it had been there, lurking in the corner of my brain, for quite some time. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m a changeling child, you know like in one of those fairy tales? I like books and art, I’m interested in what’s going on in the world. My mum and dad are only interested in what’s happening in EastEnders, or the football results, or John and Linda’s new conservatory.’

  ‘They sound nice,’ said Sasha. ‘Nothing wrong with being a bit boring.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that… well, something like this would never happen at my house.’ I waved a hand towards the door. Downstairs, someone was playing the piano and a man was singing an opera song. A heady babble of conversation, laughter and music drifted up the stairs. As it had in the classroom that first day, Sasha’s hand stole to her cheek, where I could still see a faint scar through her expertly applied foundation. I took another gulp of wine.

  ‘How did you do that, to your face? If… if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Why should I mind?’ She dropped her hand. ‘I got locked out once, at my old house. Forgot my keys. My mum wasn’t due back for hours, so I had to break a window to get in. Stupid, really. Thank God for make-up!’ Sasha drained her mug and picked up the bottle, but it was empty.

  ‘We need some more booze. Come on.’

  I stood up to follow her, swaying a little and privately thinking I’d better not have any more. At the bottom of the stairs, Sasha headed for the kitchen in search of wine, but instead of going with her, I was drawn across the hall to the front room, the one with the piano and the books piled everywhere. From the doorway, I could see Daniel seated at the piano. He made to get up, but Olivia, sitting on the sofa by the window, called out to him.

  ‘Oh no, Dan, play something else. What about that Schubert?’

  ‘I think everyone’s heard enough, Mum,’ he said, glancing around the room.

  ‘Oh no, it’s wonderful,’ gushed a thin, olive-skinned woman in a canary-yellow trouser suit. ‘I’d love to hear more.’

  ‘OK.’ He stood up and lifted the seat of the piano stool, searching for the piece.

  ‘Oh, if I must.’ I looked to my left, unsure as to whether I had heard the muttered words correctly. Nicholas was standing in the corner of the room. He grinned at me and rolled his eyes. ‘My brother, the musical prodigy,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve heard enough, even if Mum hasn’t.’

  As he passed me and left the room, my attention was drawn back to Olivia, who was watching Daniel as his hands started to move across the keys again. She was mesmerised, lost in the music, and I thought I saw tears glistening in her eyes. Daniel too was swept up in the notes that tumbled effortlessly from his fingers, filling the room, silencing the chatter. He hardly seemed to need the sheet music in front of him, and for a few disconcerting seconds I thought it was me he was looking at, a peculiar, unreadable expression on his face – hatred, maybe, or longing. Or perhaps both. Then I realised that it wasn’t me he was looking at, at all. His eyes were focused just to the right of my face, over my shoulder. I turned and saw Sasha standing behind me with a bottle in her hand, her face in shadow, bright hair silhouetted like a halo by the hall lamp behind her. She stepped forward to pour some wine into the empty mug in my hand, and as she did so, I caught the tail end of a secret little smile that wasn’t meant for me.

  Ellen

  September 2017

  At the studio, preparing for the show, my earlier encounter with Olivia hangs around me like a cloak. There have been so many times over the years that I’ve dreamed of being reunited with her, but I always imagined it would be my professional life that would bring us back together. I never thought it would be Sasha. In my daydreams, Olivia welcomed me with open arms, delighted beyond measure to discover she had inspired a lifelong love of classical music in me. Finding out that she has always known about my work is a kick in the teeth, the casual way she mentioned it making
me wince every time I think of it.

  I wonder if PC Bryant has got anywhere, or whether she’s even looking for my low-risk, un-vulnerable, non-dangerous friend. I think of all the things Bryant asked me. One of them was about Sasha’s social media accounts, and it occurs to me that I haven’t checked them. I grab my phone and open Twitter. Sasha does have an account but I don’t think she uses it much. I only use mine for work stuff, to keep up with the classical music world and attempt to promote the station, or my articles. She hasn’t tweeted for nine months, and that was only to retweet a newspaper article about domestic violence. I switch to Facebook. I rarely check my account, and post even more infrequently, but I know she’s a bit more active on there. Her most recent update is from the weekend before last. It’s a photo of her and Rachel on the Southbank as evening falls, the London skyline visible behind them. Out on the town in the best city in the world reads the caption. Sasha looks right into the camera, half-laughing at a joke we are not privy to. I remember her saying she was going out with Rachel and some of her other university friends. I always work the Saturday evening shift at the station – I offered when I first started, eager to impress, and now I’m stuck with it, otherwise I would have joined them. It’s not the first time my work has got in the way of my social life, but I’ve never minded. I still feel so lucky to do what I do, to make a living from the thing I love. I think Sasha minds a bit, making occasional digs about how I’m too busy to spend time with my friends. She’ll send me photos of her and Rachel out on a Saturday night – two cocktails on a table, or a selfie of the two of them smudged up together, cheek to cheek, shining with joie de vivre. Look what you’re missing.