House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist. E. Seymour V.
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Название: House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist
Автор: E. Seymour V.
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780008240851
isbn:
Our song.
So I thought.
My eyes swim with misery.
For all Tom’s occasional moodiness, his edge and fire, I cannot imagine my life without him. I love the way he talks, how he touches me, his intensity, so much a part of his personality, thrills me. Is it possible to recover from such desolation? Hot tears seep out of the corners of my eyes. Unlike previous encounters, ours was a ‘safe’ relationship that I was sure would run the distance. Certain that this was the man I would have children with, and grow old with. Even my mum liked him, which was a first. I go through it all again and again. I’m not normally obsessive, but I can’t help it.
Damn him.
Relaxed, Tom could be funny and quick-witted. Composed, he could be aspirational with dreams of one day running a restaurant of his own. Calm, he made me feel secure. I thought I did the same for him. I thought I smoothed out his occasional edginess and lightened his life. Racked with misery, I see now that although he lit me up inside, I failed to do the same for him. Fond, Stevie said, like Tom was my elderly aunt and I his niece.
I see now that Tom always had the drop on me.
When will I stop hurting?
When will I quit raging?
Tempted to phone Mum, I change my mind. Currently trogging through Vietnam with Al, she’s probably out of reach of a signal and the last thing I need is a lecture on the grief cycle following another failed love affair, or her views on karma, which, actually, I share.
Fractious, I set the mug down on the table. The magazine and apparent source of all my problems, lies open at the very page in question. But what if it represented a tipping point, what if something else was going on? What might it be? Instantly, I remember the colour draining from Tom’s features at my innocent remark about my visit to the police station.
Maybe, it’s my curious gene kicking in, but I’d rather put my investigative powers to good use than either dissolve in self-pity or self-combust with anger, as tempting as the latter is.
Feeling a little bit more sorted, I reach for, and look at, our picture, really look this time, not through the lens of my own absurd imagining, but with 20-20 hindsight. Sadness washes over me at how happy I appear. My dark hair, natural for once, is swept back from my face, neat chin tilted, smiling lips parted, as if I am about to burst into laughter. Vital and alive, I am the personification of joy.
But it’s Tom I zero in on.
Several inches taller than me, his build is lean and rangy. His short hair seems much darker in a way I hadn’t noticed before, and it’s suspiciously at odds with the distinctive blonde stubble that obscures the lower half of his face. He wears a castaway smile, out of synch with his otherwise strong features. Although his mouth does the talking, the words don’t reach his watchful eyes. There is nothing off-centre about his pose and yet the way he holds himself, shoulders rounded, dropping one knee to disguise his height, suggests a man unhappy with the body he inhabits. This is not a man at ease with himself. My conversation with Reg darts through my mind.
“How did he seem?”
“Scared.”
“God, I’m sorry, Roz.”
Vick calls first thing. I imagine Reg beating his Tom-Tom drums the previous evening while relieving Vick of half a ton of spaghetti. For a slim guy, he packs away a lot of food – another source of conflict between Tom and me, due to the strain on the household budget. All the time, I remember with a thud, Tom was funding a drug habit and possibly preparing to run. What else is hidden?
“Yeah,” I say, masking the effect of the previous twenty-four hours. Every room, stick of furniture in the house yells cold and empty.
“Think Tom’s gone off with that woman on Facebook?”
“Who knows?” Who cares? Who am I kidding? If I don’t give a damn, why did I phone him first thing this morning? Same result: Not switched on. Not listening. Not answering. God, I hate being ignored, but this is intolerable. I’m owed answers.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” I squeak not a word about the Welsh connection, drugs or smoking.
“Roz, do you– ”
“Sorry, Vick, I need to get moving. Don’t want to be late for work.”
I’m never short or moody with Vick, or anyone for that matter. In reality I have bags of time, but if I don’t get up and soon I’ll draw the covers over my head and stay there. Obsessively, I trawl the past. Again.
Surely, he wouldn’t leave without a goodbye? Surely, he will come back at some point if only to reclaim his things? Or am I wildly optimistic, some might say delusional?
When I told Vick that I would not act, I was dishonest. That phone call Tom took after I left for the second time yesterday proved a game-changer. This thought bugs me.
One moment, I seethe with anger. Another, I want to howl. I have no desire to make Tom change his mind (I do, but don’t admit it aloud). I certainly won’t stalk him but I need to understand his reasons for leaving. Living together as we have for so long, I demand an explanation, even if it means that he loves someone else – the bloody cheat.
I shower and dress, skip breakfast and beat Elliott to the office, which rates as a first. He lumbers in and I expect to see, at the least, a flicker of surprise and pleasure in his eyes. He doesn’t even ask for coffee. He utters five words and they don’t start with ‘Good morning.’
“Meeting at nine. Tell Helen.”
He avoids my gaze and his face is a shambles of shadows, creases and lines. His clothes are rumpled and I suspect he had a bad a night, like me, but for very different reasons. I think back to the meeting yesterday. Perhaps the rumours are true.
I’m right. It takes Elliott two minutes to deliver the news, eighteen to justify the publisher’s decision. Straight away, I deduce that Elliott secured a deal for himself that allows his only members of salaried staff, bar the girl who answers the phones, to be shoved out into the cold. Helen’s field of expertise is narrower than mine and she recently took out a mortgage. Her face falls into a portrait of stunned disbelief. Normally, I’d sigh, accept it for what it is and resign myself to looking for gainful employment. It might even trigger a panicky phone call to Mum. I have stockpiled a little money, but my big savings plan is now officially screwed. If Reg weren’t off to LA I could charge him rent. On a monetary level, it’s a bummer, yet with a spring in my stride I embrace the freedom to get to the bottom of Tom’s vanishing act. I’m determined he is not going to get away with it, as if what we had meant nothing.
Helen flings herself out through the door, muttering about tribunals and back pay, leaving me with Elliott. СКАЧАТЬ