The Last Lie Read online

  She walked towards one of the waiters for a refill. She’d already had three – or maybe four – glasses, but more champagne was the only way she would get through the party. As she reached him, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  She turned around. A guy called Hugh was smiling at her. He was wearing red trousers and a designer cardigan. His thinning hair was cut short and his eyes were glassy. She’d known him for as long as she could remember; his parents were friends with her mum and dad, and he had been invited to family events – birthday parties, weddings – over the years. He was a few years older and for a while their parents had harboured ideas that they might get together when the right time came, ideas that Hugh had clearly shared; on her fifteenth birthday he had tried to kiss her and, when she twisted away, had grabbed her breasts with both hands. She froze, and he took advantage of her shock by thrusting his hand up her skirt and into her underwear.

  As soon as she realized what was happening, she ran downstairs, intent on telling her dad what Hugh had done, but when she got there he was standing with Bill, Hugh’s dad, laughing about something. She hadn’t seen him laugh much since her mum died, and she stopped, suddenly unwilling to do anything to upset him.

  So she said nothing. And she’d said nothing ever since. But every time she saw Hugh she felt sick.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, his hand running down her arm to her elbow. ‘Nice party.’

  She shrugged his hand away. ‘Thanks for coming.’ Her voice was cold.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ he said. ‘We’ve not seen each other for ages. Since the wedding, I think?’

  ‘Could be,’ Claire said.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Have I caught you in a bad mood? You can tell me. We go back forever.’

  ‘No,’ Claire said. ‘I’m looking for Alfie. He’s gone missing.’

  ‘Alfie,’ Hugh said. ‘The lovely Alfie. I must say, it was quite a song. Quite a … scene.’

  Claire looked at him for a while before she answered. She realized she was no longer embarrassed by Alfie’s song. It represented everything that was good about him, everything that was genuine and decent and honest. Everything that made him different to Hugh.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was. It was wonderful.’ She smiled. ‘Very few men could do something like that, Hugh, don’t you think?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I have to go. And hopefully it’ll be another three years before we meet again.’ She sipped her drink, then added, ‘Or maybe longer. A lot longer.’

  She walked across the room, not sure where she was heading but simply glad to be away from Hugh. She saw her dad walking into the living room. He caught her eye and gestured to her to come over.

  ‘You got a second?’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I was just chatting to Alfie,’ he said. ‘Telling him I’m glad you two are happy …’

  Claire raised an eyebrow. That kind of conversation was not the norm for him and his son-in-law.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m getting soft in my old age. Anyway, he mentioned something about trying for a baby.’ He looked at her, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Is everything OK?’

  Claire nodded, then, after a second, shook her head. ‘It’s been a while,’ she said.

  Her dad pointed to a man standing by the fireplace. He was tall, with neat grey hair. ‘That’s Tony Scott. He’s a friend of mine, and a doctor. I asked him for the name of a good fertility specialist—’

  ‘Dad!’ Claire said. ‘I don’t want everyone to know.’

  ‘They won’t. He’s a doctor. He’ll keep it to himself. And he gave me a name. Dr Singh, in Harley Street. Call him and say that Tony Scott gave you his name. He’ll see you.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘We’ll be OK. It’s not time for a doctor yet.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ her dad said. ‘See him, get checked out. If there’s nothing wrong, it’ll put your mind at ease.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘OK? You going to do it?’ He smiled a sad smile. ‘Your mum would want me to do whatever I can to help. She loved you, Claire. I know she had her problems, but she was a good mum. All she wanted was for you to be happy. That’s all I want.’

  ‘I am happy, Dad,’ Claire said. ‘And I’ll do it. Thank you.’

  Her dad nodded and headed off towards the waiter. Claire watched him go. He was as good and loving a father as anyone could wish for. Between him and Alfie, she had the best two men possible in her life.

  Alfie

  Alfie sat on the stone bench and sucked on his cigarette. The house was at least fifty yards away and he was hidden from view by a pergola. He looked back at the house, watching for anyone coming towards him. He could easily put out his cigarette and vanish into the bushes, if he needed to.

  It was ridiculous, hiding out to smoke a cigarette. He was a grown man. But it was typical of his wife: she had gone on and on at him about quitting since what felt like the day they’d married.

  I know I’m nagging, Alfie, but it’s only because I love you. I can’t bear to see you harming yourself. And what about our kids? I don’t want them to be deprived of their father.

  Over and over and over again, until in the end he’d given in and promised to stop, a promise he had no intention of keeping, so now he had to do it in secret.

  It was the perfect symbol of how trapped he was by his stupid bitch of a wife.

  They had met at a house like this, at the ostentatious wedding of some school friend of Claire’s. It was quite a party – magicians working the crowd, a mini-fairground, all the booze you could drink. The champagne fountain alone probably cost more than Alfie earned a month. Three months.

  Not that he was drinking from it. Claire was there as a guest. Alfie was the help.

  Specifically, he was in the band, playing bass. Alfie was a recent, part-time member. The band had been mildly successful – a few top twenty hits – in the early 2000s, but had been playing smaller and smaller venues as their popularity dwindled, until they ended up doing cover versions of bigger hits than theirs at expensive weddings. Over time the line-up had changed until only the singer and drummer remained. To fill the gaps they brought in jobbing musicians and Alfie was merely the latest.

  He noticed Claire early on. At first he wasn’t sure why, but something set her apart. It wasn’t the way she looked – she didn’t particularly stand out from the other expensively dressed, tanned, yoga-bodied mid-twenties women. It was amazing what expensive clothes, professional make-up and a flattering haircut could do. All of them, whether naturally pretty or not, looked like models. The kind of models you’d see in a Land Rover advert at any rate.

  Alfie found them both fascinating and repellent. He hated the way they took all this for granted, as though this kind of party, this kind of wealth, was simply how the world was. They had no idea how other people – people like him – lived, and they didn’t want to know. They kept to their own set, gave their kids names that marked them out as belonging, as being ‘one of us’.

  Yet at the same time he couldn’t keep his eyes off them. He was jealous, and hated that too.

  But more than anything he hated the fact these people would never accept him.

  Strangely, though, it was that which drew him to Claire. She seemed vulnerable, a little apart from her friends. Watchful. Later he’d find out it was because her mum had died when she was young and she had lost the ability to trust – other people, her future, the world in general, or so her therapist had told her – but looking at her from the stage at that moment he didn’t care why it was.

  He cared that she turned away from the braying City boys who grabbed at her hand in an attempt to get her to dance, and then watched them, almost wistfully, as they turned their attention to someone else. He could see she was glad they had left her alone, but also disappointed. All she needed was the right one, one who understood her insecurity, who knew how fragile she was.

 
; He could see she needed someone who wasn’t threatening. Well, he could be that. He could be whatever she wanted, if it meant he got to come to these weddings as a guest.

  Not to mention all the other benefits that went with life as someone like Claire’s boyfriend. Smart address, smarter holidays, no money worries ever again. So, yes, whatever she wanted, he would be.

  Midway through their set, the band took a break. He declined their offer of a joint behind the stage, and walked to the bar, where Claire was getting a drink.

  Water please, he said, then nodded at Claire. Hi.

  Hi, she said. Are you in the band?

  Yep. Hope you’re enjoying it.

  Up close she was very pretty. Unlike most of the other guests she didn’t need the expensive grooming.

  You guys are great! I loved your song. You know – the one – she blushed as she realized she didn’t remember the name of the band’s hit. Alfie smiled.

  Don’t worry. I wasn’t in the band then. At the moment I’m helping them out.

  Is that what you do? Help out bands?

  I’m a musician, yes. If that’s what you’re asking. I do all kinds of stuff.

  Wow, Claire said. I wish I could play an instrument.

  You could, if you tried.

  You’re very kind, but I don’t think so. I’m tone deaf. She laughed. You should hear me singing.

  I’d like to. And anyone can learn.

  Not me!

  The barman handed Alfie his water.

  Not drinking? Claire said. I thought you musicians were wild?

  I have to drive home. I have work tomorrow.

  Another wedding?

  Alfie shook his head. Tutoring. It’s hard to make a living from royalties alone.

  Royalties? Claire’s eyes lit up. Have you released records?

  Quite a few. At least, I’ve been on quite a few.

  Anything I’d have heard of?

  I doubt it.

  Her smiled faded. Are they alternative indie things that only the arty kids listen to?

  They’re certainly things kids listen to, but I’m not sure about the alternative indie part.

  Come on, then. Tell me one of them.

  Well, Alfie said, the most recent one was a ballad. It tells the story of a worm who lives at the bottom of a garden, and whose name is Wiggly-Woo. The one before you might remember from your infant school – I played piano on ‘The Dingle-Dangle Scarecrow’.

  Claire burst into laughter. You sing children’s songs?

  I do. What’s so funny? Music is an important part of childhood development.

  I know, but – it’s just – well, I had an idea of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll and that’s a bit more—

  Nappies and wet wipes and singalongs? I know. Not exactly living the life. He shrugged. But I enjoy it. And it pays the bills. And I do think it’s important for kids to have access to quality music from an early age. It might only be ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ but it doesn’t have to be bad.

  I agree, she said. And I admire you. It’s very impressive.

  He glanced at the stage. The rest of the band was re-emerging. He grabbed a napkin and took a pen from his pocket.

  Here, he said, and wrote his number down. Give me a call sometime. I’ll play you some of my back catalogue.

  He handed it to her and headed back to the stage. She’ll call, he thought. She’ll call because she feels superior to me. Stronger. Because I’m a kids’ entertainer and anyone who does that is safe. Weak. Not going to leave her. And that’s what she wants.

  So that’s what he’d be. He made a mental note to buy some kids’ music CDs the next day. He’d never played on a kids’ CD in his life, but he’d tell her he was on them. She wouldn’t know any different.

  Back on stage, he picked up his bass as the band played the opening bars of ‘Wild Thing’. He glanced at her. She was talking to a friend who had her back to the band, but as he watched she looked up at him. He gave a little wave. She waved back at him.

  He knew then this was a done deal.

  And it was. They went on dates, ate meals Alfie couldn’t afford in places he’d never known existed. He met her friends and their husbands, listened to how they spoke and matched his accent to theirs, modelled his behaviour – confident, charming – on the way they acted. She fell in love with him, head over heels. He fell in love with the life she offered him.

  It was a life he could get no other way. He worked, on and off, but he didn’t get very far. It wasn’t his fault; he was as able as anyone else but he had the wrong background. He’d managed to get into a marketing firm at one point but had got sick of seeing graduates with RP voices and degrees in art history from Warwick and Durham and Oxford show up and take all the promotions. He hated them, hated taking orders from a fucking idiot who just happened to have been to the right school and the right university and whose dad had the right connections and whose mum had the right clothes and gave head to the right fucking people.

  And there was nothing he could do about it. He had nothing and he was going nowhere.

  But Claire fixed both his problems. She had money, and she had connections, and at first he had quite liked her, which was, for Alfie, as good as it got. He didn’t really care about anybody – he certainly didn’t love anyone in the way other people claimed to; in fact, it seemed absurd to him that anyone could ever be so dependent on someone else – so why not Claire? And what wasn’t to like? She was pretty, quiet, and, if he was ever getting too bored with talking to her there was always sex. Like most new couples, they did that a lot.

  But it had all changed now. Now he hated her.

  He finished his cigarette and put his lighter and cigarettes back in his jacket pocket. As he did, his fingers brushed the phone he kept with the illicit tobacco. It wasn’t his iPhone; that was in the back pocket of his trousers.

  It was his other phone, a pay-as-you-go Android device he’d bought in a backstreet electronics shop.

  He took it out and glanced at the screen. There were four missed calls and three messages. He swiped and read them.

  The first was from that morning.

  Hey! I’m missing you! Give me a call. It’s been a week! Pippa x

  Then, a few hours later:

  Are you ignoring me? Only kidding. But call! Pips.

  Then a new arrival only a few minutes old:

  Henry! What’s going on? Get in touch. Please?

  It was the ‘please?’ that did it. He’d sensed she was getting too attached and this was confirmation. Besides, he was getting bored with Pippa Davies-Hunt anyway. Most of the thrill with her had been in the chase. She knew how to play hard to get, understood that once she let him screw her the mystery would be gone, the novelty would have worn off.

  And she was right. All the thrill was in the chase. She was well educated and rich and lean and pretty but she was a disappointment in bed. She was stiff and unresponsive; compliant, yes – in order to try and keep himself interested he’d suggested some light bondage the third time they’d slept together and she’d gone along with it, not complaining when he choked her hard enough to leave her gasping – but it was the dumb compliance of a farmyard animal. She seemed to take no pleasure in it, seemed to think it was a grim necessity, the price paid for a boyfriend, the thing boyfriends and girlfriends did. It was like she was acting, and Alfie – Henry – was bored of her.

  Yes, Henry was bored of her. Henry Bryant – handsome and elusive doctor, frequenter of the websites where people like Pippa went to meet men, owner of the Android phone in Alfie’s pocket – was no longer interested in her.

  And there was only one way to deal with it. He had to rip the plaster off. Put an end to it, immediately and irrevocably. It might as well be now. She didn’t know it, but this had been coming from the start. As far as she was concerned, he was Henry Bryant, a doctor, single, and devoted to his work, which was why he would often be out of touch for a few days. She had no idea he was married and called Alfie Daniel
s and about to shatter her dreams.

  Sorry, he typed. Been busy. I’ve been thinking too. I’m not sure this is working out. I think it’s better if we call it a day. Sorry to do this by text, but I’m a bit of a coward.

  Nice touch of humility at the end there, he thought. Bit of humour too. Should soften the blow.

  The reply was immediate.

  Are you fucking SERIOUS??! We need to talk, Henry. You can’t end it like this.

  He chuckled. There was no point being gentle with her. This was the last he’d have to do with her and so he might as well leave her thinking he was an arsehole. It’d help her get over him.

  I can, and I just did. Sorry. It’s over. Please don’t contact me again.

  He hit send and took a mint from his pocket. He slipped it into his mouth. Time to go back in.

  The screen lit up with a message. Pippa, again. Fucking hell. She needed to get the message and fuck off.

  You bastard. You absolute bastard. You can’t do this to me! I won’t let you. I love you, Henry! I need to see you one last time so we can talk about this. I’ll come to your hospital at a time that suits you. OK?

  Shit. She wasn’t going to give up easily. It didn’t matter, though. She had no idea who he really was, and if she did show up at the hospital he’d told her he worked at, they’d inform her there was no Dr Henry Bryant on the staff. He smiled at the thought of it. She really would be shocked then. Anyway, it made no difference to him. He was done with Pippa Davies-Hunt. He deleted her message and headed for the house.

  Claire

  Jodie, Claire’s oldest friend, was walking towards her across the living room. She was with a man Claire vaguely recognized – perhaps a university acquaintance – and as she reached Claire she gestured at her companion.

  ‘You remember Trevor?’ Jodie said. ‘I think you may have met at Bunny’s wedding last year?’

  Trevor shook her hand. ‘Sorry to crash your birthday party. But I was out with Jo this afternoon. Happy Birthday, by the way.’