The Last Lie: The must-read new thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Alex LakeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 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