BooksBarbecue
Back The Lie Save as PDF

The Lie

Hilary Boyd
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. Acknowledgements
  66. Reading Group Questions
  67. Read More
  68. I
  69. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

Cover

Penguin Books

About the Author

Hilary Boyd was a nurse, marriage counsellor and ran a small cancer charity before becoming an author. She has written eight books, including Thursdays in the Park, her debut novel, which sold over half a million copies and was an international bestseller.

Dedication

To my sister, Judie, with love

Epigraph

Just as ripples spread out when a single pebble is dropped into water, the actions of individuals can have far-reaching effects.

Dalai Lama

Penguin Walking Logo

1

Romy stood and eyed the large cardboard box lying on the patio. It was a new garden table, the old one so rotten she could almost push her finger through the wood. Summer was only a few months away and – just possibly – she might feel like having someone over for a meal by then, if the weather was good enough. But she made no move to open the box, just closed her eyes for a moment, slowly breathing in the soft air of early spring, and felt a delicious peace wash over her.

This was new, the sensation of letting go, and she realized she’d been strung so tight in the little over a year since she’d left Michael – strung tight and closed down – her feelings swirling in a tepid soup beneath the surface. As if she had been hibernating.

It was only in the past couple of months that she’d sensed a lightening around her heart, the dreary plod through each day replaced by a small, burgeoning enjoyment in even the most mundane of tasks, as if she were coming to life, like the tight pink buds blossoming on the cherry tree in her neighbour’s garden.

As she stood there, contemplating the morning ahead, she heard a knock at the front door. She was still in her pyjamas and froze, then reminded herself she wasn’t in the London flat now – where she would no more have opened the door in her nightclothes than flown to the moon – but in the garden of her small fisherman’s cottage, overlooking the Sussex harbour.

‘Hi, Maureen.’ Romy greeted her new friend with pleasure. ‘Sorry, caught me on the hop.’

The old lady gave a throaty chuckle, her worn, weatherbeaten face lighting up with amusement. She was Romy’s height – and Romy was tall – ramrod-straight, with thick white hair cut like a man’s and fierce blue eyes that missed nothing. She waved away Romy’s apology as she entered the house, bending surprisingly nimbly for someone of her age to pick up the post from the mat. She handed it to Romy. ‘I forget the rest of the world doesn’t get up at five.’