The Lying Game (25 page)

Unknown number.
She answered it anyway.

‘It’s me,’ Oliver said tersely. ‘I don’t have long before Harriet comes back. Where are you?’

‘At the station in Bath, waiting for a train to London. I just saw the newspaper. Oliver, I’m so,
so
sorry.’

‘Where’s Nell?’

‘Staying at her friend’s. Oliver, what’s happening? How’s Harriet? And Florence, please, tell me, how’s Florence?’

‘How d’you think they are?’

She deserved that. ‘What have you told them?’

‘I told them it was just a kiss. What else could I tell them? I don’t know if Florence believed me, but Harriet certainly doesn’t. That photograph was pretty fucking damning.
She’s barely talking to me right now. I don’t even know if I have a marriage left.’

‘I’m sure once she calms down—’

‘How did the photographer know where to find us?’

She straightened, taken aback by his tone. ‘I don’t know. They’re journalists, I suppose. Tracking down people is what they do.’

‘It probably helps when someone tells them where to start looking.’

‘But who would
do
that?’

‘You tell me.’

Her stomach plunged. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just tell me the truth,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m sure they paid a lot of money for this story, and we both know you need it. Did you talk to the paper? Did you set me
up?’

‘You really think I could
do
something like that?’ she demanded incredulously. ‘You think I’m so desperate for money that I’d actually blow all our lives
apart?’

‘Look, I know what these bastards are like. Once you let the genie out of the bottle, it’s very hard to put it back in. You probably didn’t mean for it to go this
far—’

‘I didn’t mean for it to go
any
where! I haven’t spoken to anyone, I swear! Oliver, you have to believe me! I would never,
never
do anything so underhand, so
vicious
!’

There was a long silence. For a moment she wondered if he’d hung up on her.

‘Yes. Yes, I believe you,’ he said finally. ‘I’m sorry, Zoey, of course I believe you. I’m just – this is such a fucking shit-storm, sweetheart. I don’t
know what I’m going to do. Harriet’s threatening to rain seven kinds of hell on my head, Florence can’t even look at me, I’m worried frantic about you and Nell, and to be
honest I just want to crawl under a rock and hide till it all blows over.’

Despite her grief and panic, Zoey glowed.
He’d called her sweetheart. He was worried about her.
He still cared, then.

‘Is there – is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked hesitantly.

‘We need to talk about this properly and make sure we’re on the same page. You can’t go back to your flat – it’s probably staked out by bloody journalists.
You’ll have to stay at a hotel until this dies down.’

‘I can’t afford a hotel!’

‘Yes, I know that. I’ve already booked you a room at the St George; it’s a nice, quiet hotel not far from me in Kensington. No one will bother you there. It’s all paid
for, so please don’t argue. You can call Nell and tell her to stay with her friend, or have her join you at the hotel.’

‘What are you going to do?’

He sighed heavily. ‘Harriet’s working on a press release to get the vultures off our backs. We need to get some kind of story out there and see if we can put a lid on this. Text me
when you get to London.’

‘Oliver—’

‘Sorry. I have to go.’

She dropped the phone back in her bag, shaken and unnerved by the conversation. How could he have thought, even for a moment, that she could do something like that? She’d
never
sell out her own daughter – or anyone else for that matter. She despised what her mother used to call ‘yellow journalism’: sensational, sex-driven stories that had nothing to do
with news or information, and everything to do with a prying, sleazy interest in other people’s lives. She didn’t mind a bit of celebrity gossip, of course – that was fair enough;
celebrities invaded their own privacy to make a living, and they knew the score. But
this
? She shoved the newspaper deep into her carpet bag. How could a story like this do anything to
make the world a better place?

She hadn’t sold the
Daily News
the story, but clearly someone had. Oliver was right: it had to be someone who knew they’d be at the market that day, who’d picked them
up there and followed them to the pub beside the canal. They must have thought all their Christmases had come at once when they’d seen the two of them making out like a couple of horny
teenagers. What on earth had they been
thinking
?

And the details in the story – they went beyond anything an employee of the hospital would know. The trip to Vermont, the lobster on the beach in Maine – who would know that sort of
thing but someone who’d been there?

She knew the answer before she’d even formed the question in her mind.
How much do we owe? Thirty thousand? Jesus, Mum! What did you plan to do, sell a kidney?

Oh Nell. My darling, what have you done?

The London train pulled into the station. She climbed aboard, her body aching all over as if she had flu. Nell must have thought she was doing the right thing, the only thing to save the shop
and bail her mother out. She was only fifteen. She’d have had no idea what happened when you let the genie out of the bottle, as Oliver had put it. Once a story was out there, you had no
control over it. Nell was as much a victim of these jackals as they were. She’d never have done this on purpose. No matter how much money they were paying her.

She tried calling Nell’s mobile for the umpteenth time, but yet again it went straight to voicemail. This time, she left a message. ‘Darling, it’s Mum. I know about the
Daily News
story, and you’re not to worry. I know you didn’t mean for all this to happen. We’ll sort it out. But please don’t talk to any more journalists. Call me
as soon as you can. Love you, darling.’

She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. Regardless of what she’d just told Nell, she had no idea how they were going to fix this.

She couldn’t help feeling guilty as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a huge, fluffy white bathrobe. She was only here because she’d done an
awful, horrible thing; she was effectively a pariah, cast out and unable to go home. But it had been fifteen years since she’d set foot in a hotel as luxurious as this, during her affair with
Patrick; she couldn’t help delighting in the chocolates on her pillow, the complimentary massage when she arrived – a
massage! –
the bottle of champagne on ice beside her
bed, even the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner which she’d already squirrelled away in her carpet bag. Ever since she’d had Nell, she’d been robbing Peter to pay Paul;
she’d got so used to cutting her own hair and squinting because she couldn’t afford a trip to the optician’s, she’d forgotten what it was like to be pampered. Richard had
tried, of course, but she hated being beholden, and besides, there were so many more important things to spend money on than facials and manicures. Like the electricity bill, for one.

She didn’t want to think about Richard. When they’d agreed to take a break, she hadn’t breathed a word about Oliver. He’d accepted her excuses about needing time before
taking such a big step as marriage with his usual stoicism. It would break his heart when he read about this.
Oh, Richard. Why couldn’t you have fought for me a bit harder? Maybe then
none of this would ever have happened.

She padded over to the mini-fridge and took out a bottle of still water. Goodness knew how much this would cost. She picked up the list of prices and nearly dropped the bottle in shock.
Four
pounds fifty!
For a bottle of
water!

Hastily she shoved the bottle of water back into the fridge and filled a toothbrush glass from the tap in the bathroom. Even if she wasn’t the one paying, she couldn’t in all
conscience drink a bottle of water that cost nearly five pounds.

The phone beside her bed rang suddenly, and she jumped, spilling her water.

‘Ms Sands?’ the receptionist said. ‘You have a visitor. A Mr Lockwood?’

‘Oh,’ Zoey gasped. Oliver had said he’d come round that afternoon, but she hadn’t expected him so early. She wasn’t even
dressed.

‘Ms Sands? Is it OK if he comes up?’

‘Yes, yes – of course.’

No point trying to change now. She raked a brush through her damp hair and pulled it into a scrunchie, then picked up her clothes from the floor, bundling them into a drawer. She just had time
to slick some Vaseline onto her lips before there was a knock at the door.

She opened it. Standing behind Oliver, looking like an avenging Valkyrie, was Harriet.

‘May we come in?’ Harriet inquired icily.

She nodded dumbly and backed away from the doorway, tightening the belt of her bathrobe. Being confronted by your lover’s wife was bad enough, but did it have to happen when she was
barefoot and make-up free in her
dressing gown?

‘I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,’ Harriet said coolly, taking in the champagne, the 800-thread white Egyptian cotton sheets, the chocolates. ‘Easy to do on
someone else’s dime, of course. Or did you pay for it yourself with thirty pieces of silver from the
Daily News?’

‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘I told Oliver, it wasn’t me who talked to them!’

He shot her a warning look. She realized he didn’t want his wife to know they’d had a chance to compare notes and get their stories straight.

‘I’m sure this all seems very amusing to you,’ Harriet said bitterly. ‘Screwing up my life, screwing up my daughter,
screwing
my husband. You must’ve been
laughing all the way to the bank.’

‘Harriet,’ Oliver said wearily.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Oliver, we agreed to stick to the facts, didn’t we?’ She turned to Zoey ‘It was the only condition under which he’d lead me to your little
love-nest, you see. No
unpleasantness,
just the facts.’

‘What facts?’ she asked faintly.

‘The fact
that you were photographed kissing my husband,’ Harriet spat.
‘The fact
that my private life has now been splashed across the front page of the
tabloids, thanks to you. The
fact
that yours was the first face my father saw when he woke up from surgery in hospital and a helpful nurse gave him the newspaper he asked for. The
fact
that my children are asking why Daddy is kissing Florence’s mommy – her
real
mommy – in front of everyone. Those facts might be a good place to
start.’

‘It was . . . just . . . a kiss,’ Zoey managed.

‘Is that really what this looks like to you?’ Harriet thrust a copy of the newspaper in her face. ‘My husband conveniently also tells me it was just a spur-of-the-moment
embrace. The happy result of a joyful reunion between friends, in the sunshine, with a glass of wine.’

She pushed the paper away. ‘Yes, that’s all it was.’

‘It was broad daylight,’ Oliver sighed. ‘For God’s sake, Harriet, we were sitting in a pub garden in full view of anyone walking past. What the hell d’you
think
we were doing?’

Harriet glared at him. ‘Well, you weren’t playing tiddly-winks, were you?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ he demanded. ‘You said you wanted to come and talk things through so we could decide how to handle this, for the girls’ sake. Why are you
turning this into some kind of witch-hunt?’

His wife ignored him and threw the paper on the bed. ‘Did you sleep with my husband?’

Zoey squirmed. Answer yes, and she’d hurt Harriet, lose Florence, and condemn Oliver as a liar and a cheat. Answer no, and she’d betray Harriet yet again, compounding her own deceit
with yet more lies.

She refused to look at Oliver. This was between her and Harriet. Either way, she lost.