Cover

Tell Me Your Lies

Kate Ruby

You think she wants to help.

You’re wrong.

‘I couldn’t bear it to end’ Louise Candlish

‘A deliciosly twisted psychological thriller’ JP Delaney

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Title Page

Dedication

For Anne, with love

LILY

I know what you’re thinking. You’ve read about us in the papers, haven’t you? Something scurrilous in the Mail with a picture of our perfect family, our perfect daughter, before she burnt it to the ground, or an ‘opinion piece’ in a broadsheet masquerading as a treatise on modern life. You’ve probably seen that terrible picture of Nick and I coming down the stone steps of our house – correction, my house – his arm lassoed around my shoulder, looking more like a harness than an expression of love. You thought how much older I looked than in the previous shots, how unkempt. It’s ironic: I used to think nothing of a blow-dry or a manicure for some pointless drinks party in Shepherd’s Bush on a Thursday night, and now I’m so far divorced from my old life that I’m prepared to be googled into perpetuity looking like some kind of crazed bag lady.

It pains me to admit it, but Nick was probably right to hold me back. He knew how much I wanted to scream at the huddle of journalists – bedraggled and desperate in the grey drizzle, like foxes skulking around the bins – to tell them that it was her who needed restraining, not me.

I won’t say her name. Whatever she says, whatever Rachel’s behaviour implies, it’s a lie. They’ve re-cut the truth, stitched a false flag from the scraps. I loved Rachel with all my heart – with a mother’s heart – even when she was at her very worst. All I wanted to do was protect her, from herself most of all.

What I know now is this: you don’t know what rock bottom feels like until you’re face down on the ground.

ONE YEAR EARLIER

RACHEL

He was coming into focus for me now, as if my head was pushing up from underwater. My eyes were clearing, the sickness lessening. He was handsome.

‘Can you follow my finger?’

His wedding ring hovered above my head – he was left-handed. Creative, thoughtful, but still clever enough to ace the sciences. The metal was battered and tarnished, but that was probably a sign of commitment, not carelessness. He looked like he was only a little bit older than me, thirty-five or so. He’d probably met her at medical school, nailed his colours to the mast early.

‘That’s good, Rachel. Do you know where you are?’

How had I done this? Sunk this low? I turned the shame inside out, smiled up at him.

‘Judging by your nice white coat, I’m guessing a hospital.’

I looked down at myself. Some kind of weird cotton sack clung to me like a shroud. A monitor was emitting an insistent beep that acted like a screwdriver on my eardrum. I sat up abruptly, grabbing at the plastic beaker of water on the bedside table, dizzy suddenly. Thank God it was only the one bed in this room. But then – I knew what that meant. If I was in a private room, she must already know.

‘That’s right. You’re in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Do you remember why you’re here?’

I lay back down, retreating from him. A starburst of memory, a hot flash of shame. A tight cubicle, smelling as rank as they always do when it’s long past the witching hour. Mopping the cistern with a damp piece of loo paper, leaning low over it as Rob’s hand covered my bum so tightly it felt like suction. And then?

‘It was a bit of a late one, wasn’t it?’

The doctor looked down at the manila cardboard folder he was holding. He took a theatrical pause to read the notes.

‘You could say that, Rachel. Sounds like having a bit of a late one is something of a pattern. Am I right?’

‘It was my best friend’s birthday. It got out of hand. I mean… it’s not a regular occurrence and I’m not going to get in this state again.’ I sat up, pointed to my no-doubt ravaged face, regretting immediately making him study it. ‘This kind of hangover is definitely not a lifestyle choice.’

His frustration was visible. ‘This is more than a hangover, Rachel. We had to pump your stomach. You tested positively for cocaine. It’s no exaggeration to say you could have died.’

You can make words into other words in the space between a person’s lips and your own ears. They hang between you for a few precious milliseconds, open to reinterpretation. I vaporized these ones before they had any meaning.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, deliberately plaintive. If I could make him feel sorry for me, or attracted to me – if I could make him feel anything – I’d know I was in charge. ‘I just really wanted to honour my friend, and it went too far. She’s like a sister to me.’

Let God forgive me: no one was like a sister to me, apart from my beloved Sophie.

‘You were lying on the pavement. You were covered in vomit. You’re lucky a cab driver stopped and called 999. If that’s your idea of fun…’

His words were getting harder to pulverize. So Rob hadn’t even brought me here. Did we say goodbye in the club, or could he just not be bothered to make sure I got home in one piece? I groped for more facts, but none came.

‘Okay, I get it. I’ll do a detox. Dry October. It could catch on.’ His gaze was cold. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant. I’m just trying to process what happened.’ I let my voice drop. ‘It’s a shock.’

I felt a tiny softening. I threw a smile at him, took another sip of my water.

‘There’s plenty of help available, Rachel. Twelve-step programmes, counselling…’

Twelve steps? It took everything I had not to throw that back in his face, but before he could even finish his laundry list, Mum had appeared at the door. She was pale that day, the thinness she prized so much making her look unexpectedly fragile. It punctured me.

‘Rachel.’ I could hear it, that familiar cocktail. Anger and relief, each fighting for supremacy. She hurried across the room to my bed, touched my face. ‘You’re awake.’

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said. My voice had a crack in it. It was for real this time, and I wondered if the doctor could tell the difference. Men rarely could in my experience.

‘Darling…’ she said, voice thick with worry. She found steel. ‘You cannot keep doing this. You cannot.’ The good looking doctor’s eyes ping-ponged between us. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said with a hint of noblesse oblige. ‘Let’s talk outside in a few minutes.’

Once he’d gone, she sunk into the armchair underneath the window. I looked past her, my eyes fixing on the naked, wintry branches of a tall tree outside.

‘It was Lou’s thirtieth. You know what she’s like.’

Mum held up a manicured hand, eyes closing in disgust.

‘No. I know what you’re like. I don’t want to hear it. None of us do. You were meant to be a godmother next week. I’m not sure Josh will even allow it now. Aunt is quite enough for that little girl to handle.’

Some part of my brother would be loving this. I pushed the thought away. My thoughts still felt so muddled. But perhaps they always did back then, even without a gram of coke and a bottle of vodka to contend with. Clarity was dangerous.

‘Mum, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’ A sob choked its way out of me and I twisted up a corner of the sheet to dry my eyes, leaving a smudgy black mark on the pure white cotton.

‘We can’t carry on like this. I barely sleep. I’m just waiting for the call.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘That call. What’s wrong with you, Rachel? Why are you destroying yourself?’

‘I…’ My heart beat an insistent tattoo in my chest. I wanted to wrap words around it all – the creeping feeling of being not quite good enough that ran for cover when I drank myself happy. The other pieces, the shadows from long ago that kept me permanently wrapped in darkness. But we both knew she didn’t want to hear too much truth, so I swallowed it down, bitter medicine. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, pathetically.

Mum sank into the chair, let her head drop forward. Her blonde shoulder-length hair, highlighted by a salon so expert that their clients could go to the grave without ever experiencing a whisper of grey, framed the smooth planes of her face. It was hard to believe she was a grandmother. I don’t remember a time when people didn’t tell me how beautiful my mother was. Even at nursery school, I doubted I’d ever measure up. There’s pretty and there’s beautiful – I’m still not sure which one serves us best.

‘Sometimes when I’m lying there, waiting for the phone to ring, I wonder if it’s me. If it’s something I did – it’s always supposed to be the mother, isn’t it? But then I look at your brother and sister…’

I heard my cue, clear as a bell.

‘Of course it’s not you,’ I interrupted. ‘You’re an amazing mum. I’m just… you and Dad, you taught us to be the life and soul.’ She smiled: she couldn’t help but be flattered by that. ‘I know I’ve been behaving like I’m still in my twenties, and I know it’s time to grow up.’

‘When I was thirty-two, I’d had you and Josh, the business was taking off—’

‘I know,’ I said, interrupting again. ‘I know I haven’t ticked the boxes, okay? But I really want to change. I want to feel like a grown-up.’ It was true: every wedding invitation made me feel like even more of a loser, even though the feminist in me knew that was pathetic. ‘And it’s over now, I promise. This was the wake-up call I had to get, Mum.’

The words felt dry, lines from a play that I’d performed a hundred times, but they somehow had the desired effect. Mum abruptly stood up and leant over me, enveloping me in a hug so tight that I could only breathe in that familiar mix of Coco and expensive shampoo. I let myself sink into her, melding my body against hers. Perhaps some cellular part of us never forgets what it was like to be a single entity, nestled inside our mother’s body, their gentle cage our only hope for survival.

‘We’re going to get you proper help,’ she said, the words whispered into my smoke-stink hair. ‘I’ve had her number in my phone for months now, but I was too frightened to call. To make all of this real.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Her name’s Amber. She’s got… – well, apparently she’s a miracle worker. She’s an angel for addicts. All the people I’ve talked to can’t stop raving about how she changed their children’s lives.’ She manoeuvred my tear-stained face upwards with a light touch of her hand, looking into my swollen eyes. ‘What we need right now is some divine intervention.’

Addict.

I couldn’t quite screen out those two harsh syllables, but nor was I ready to accept them. I knew better than to challenge her, however.

Divine intervention. That was one phrase for what was coming.

LILY

I thought it would be a comfort. Her childhood bedroom, freshly ironed sheets, home-cooked meals. But of course ‘gratitude’ has never been Rachel’s middle name. She was surly and combative when she returned home. Nick was too infuriated to bother with her after a day of it, so I was left to take the flak. She holed up in her bedroom watching endless episodes of American dramas, tinny and nasal, through her battered laptop, ignoring the surround-sound TV in the living room. ‘Binge is such an unattractive word, isn’t it?’ I prompted her, but she kept her eyes trained on the screen as if my voice was the buzzing of a fly she was too lazy to swat.

The truth was that it hurt me. I would never have told her that – a fatal mistake perhaps – but every time I sent a spiky dart in her direction it was my heart that it pierced. I don’t know what I’d expected – your daughter being scraped off the pavement, unconscious, drooling tequila, is hardly the perfect precursor to quality mother/daughter time – but clearly some part of me was as deluded as she was. By the time the doorbell rang out on day five I was desperate for someone to break the spell.

There was something about the way she stood there that unsettled me – the sureness of her stance, as if the doorway was a gilt picture frame and she was a priceless piece of art. She didn’t speak immediately, just smiled.

‘Amber?’

She didn’t look entirely like the picture on her website either, but nor was she brandishing a copy of The Watchtower, so it had to be her. Her dark hair was cut to just below her ears, where it kicked up in the kind of girlish curls that demanded product and a roller brush. She wore gold earrings, tiny, shiny tassels that brought out the brightness of her cornflower-blue eyes. There were gold studs, too, that ran up the ear lobes in a punky flourish. The eyes themselves were watchful, quickly scanning my face as if an internal computer was downloading the data faster than the speed of light.

‘Yes,’ she said, sticking out a gloved hand. ‘And you’re Lily?’

‘I am,’ I said, stepping aside.

I swallowed, suddenly unsteady. I clung to the door handle, fixing a smile on my face. Every step was like this. The phone call. The drive to the hospital. Each one was an incontrovertible admission that there was something deeply wrong with my child.

‘I’m so glad to be here,’ she said, her voice soft, and I felt something inside me unfurl.

‘It was wonderful you could fit us in,’ I said, opening the door fully and ushering her into our wide hallway. There’s a large bamboo-framed mirror that hangs down the length of it, an inlayed lacquer table where post and keys get dumped. I automatically de-focused my eyes, not wanting any stray folds of jowly skin to make themselves known to me. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘Something herbal would be great,’ she said, her gaze still trained on me. I was glad. Everything looked so untidy: Nick’s giant, muddy wellies discarded by the doormat, a pizza leaflet shouting loudly about extra mozzarella. I kept a brisk pace towards the kitchen.

‘Rachel’s resting upstairs. I’ll put the kettle on and go and find her.’

‘No rush,’ she said, smiling at me.

I grabbed it, then filled it from the fiddly little filter jet. My hands were shaking, and a few drops of scalding water dripped onto my bare flesh. I winced, tried to hide the pain.

‘No…’ I said. ‘I’m just conscious we’ve only got an hour with you.’

She waved an airy hand.

‘The first session has its own pace. I try not to get too hung up on time…’ She pantomimed hitting an imaginary watch on her wrist, which was ringed by a set of silver bangles. ‘Heal faster! Not really my approach. Kind of counter-productive, don’t you think?’

And I realized with a jolt that I didn’t know what I thought. I hadn’t thought beyond… her turning up, her making it better. I hadn’t imagined how any of this would unfold. Looking back now, I want to slap myself for the lack of foresight, even if it was born out of desperation.

‘Yes, no – absolutely,’ I said.

Suddenly my feet felt rooted to the tiled floor.

‘You’ve made a really brave decision,’ she said softly. Her words hung in the ether; the silence broken by the ping of the kettle. ‘If you tell me where the bags are, I can do it?’

‘No, no,’ I said, finding my mojo. I made her a lemon and ginger and shoved the strongest capsule in the Nespresso for my own delight. I kept my back turned as I did it. If she thought coffee was unspiritual, I didn’t need to know about it.

Rachel’s door was closed, no sound from within. I tapped gently.

‘Is she here?’ she eventually shouted.

I opened the door. She was wearing a pair of Nick’s pyjamas, which she’d pretty much had on since she’d arrived. They must have been fetid by now, stiff with sweat. Looking at her there, hunched over her phone, you’d never know she was a thirty-something woman with a civil service job others would have killed for. I couldn’t let the pain in. I snapped at her instead.

‘Rachel… you knew she was coming at eleven. Get some clothes on. We’re paying for this.’

Amber’s words rung in my ears. Heal faster. I wondered if she had children. If she understood how hard it was to smile beatifically when they gave every indication that they simultaneously hated you and loved the soft cushion of your indulgence.

‘I know,’ she snapped back. Her eyes looked puffy. Had she been crying, or was it a byproduct of peering incessantly at all those screens? ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

I wanted to tell her that I was doing this because I cared. We cared. That we didn’t want her to plunge even further down a rabbit hole that we’d soon have no hope of freeing her from. That I wished more than anything that she was still tiny and there was no peril big enough to defeat my maternal might. But I didn’t. Perhaps I thought I’d outsourced human kindness to Amber. Perhaps I couldn’t risk too much analysis of what it was that had sent her underground.

‘Make it ten,’ I snapped. ‘Have a shower.’

She punished me for that. The minutes ticked past, Amber and I perched at opposite ends of the oatmeal linen sofa in the living room like it was a seesaw. Amber put her mug down on the occasional table, a Bridgewater one that Josh had given me when his twins were born. ‘Most Marvellous Granny,’ it said, in curly script, hearts painted all around it. I wished I hadn’t used it today: it made me feel ancient at the best of times.

‘So these are the grandchildren?’ she said, pointing at the mug and examining the jumble of family pictures on the table. There were silver-framed portraits of the boys when they were newly born and a recent shot of a toothless, grinning Nancy, a bow on her bare head. ‘She looks like a real live wire.’

It seemed like an odd description for an infant too young to even take a step unaided, but I seized the chance to distract from Rachel’s mortifying refusal to emerge from her bedroom.

‘She’s adorable. First granddaughter, and my son Josh’s pride and joy.’

Amber studied the photo for a beat longer than felt necessary, but didn’t say anything more.

‘And that’s your wedding, is it?’ Nick and I, in a dusty leather frame. There were plenty of other pictures she could have zeroed in on. School photos of all three of them, six-year-old Rachel wearing a stripy Dennis the Menace–style jumper she used to love. It was a hand-me-down from an older cousin which I hated back then, but now she looked nothing but adorable in it, all gap-toothed and innocent. ‘You look fabulous!’ said Amber, summoning me back. ‘So retro.’

I laughed, not entirely naturally. My hair cascaded in lacquered waves down my shoulders in that picture, my dress a creamy satin bell. Nick’s hand clasped mine tightly, the ancient doors of the Ealing church framing us both, grinning as confetti came at us from all directions. We were only twenty-two, teenage sweethearts who kept a promise.

‘Trust me, considering it was only two years after Diana and Charles’s ridiculous affair, I was the picture of restraint.’

Now it was my turn to conduct an examination. Amber’s skin was smooth, but there was no hiding the lines that fanned out from her eyes like sun rays. There were no greys peppering her dark hair, but that proved nothing, a fact I could attest to. Her hands were a giveaway – they had the kind of sun damage that could only have been caused by decades of beach holidays. She had to have been at least a teenager when our wedding photograph was taken, however much she was choosing to behave as if it was a fascinating artefact.

My sneaky studying was stopped by Rachel’s appearance, her bare feet rendering her as quiet as a cat. Her wet hair was slicked back, her pale face left bare. Amber smoothly stood up, cocking her head to take her in. She smiled a smile that looked as if it contained the warmth and wisdom of the ages, and my spiky inner dialogue melted into ambient noise.

‘Rachel,’ she said, extending both hands just far enough that they welcomed my sullen child, without demanding a response. ‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.’

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