House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist. E. Seymour V.

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      “I’m sorry, Rosamund. I’ll give you a great reference, of course.”

      “Thank you.”

      “What will you do?”

      I respond with a dry smile. “You know, Elliott, you’re the second person to ask me that this morning.”

      I don’t reveal that I have a plan that does not include a job search, catching up on domestic chores or hacking through the wilderness that passes for my garden. Shock and anger is replaced with a demand for truth. I do not fess up that the thought of never seeing Tom again cripples me. No man should hold that power.

      I pack up my stuff and head back home to where my car, a clapped-out Ford Fiesta is parked on the street, the only advantage being it’s re-sprayed canary yellow. You’d be blind not to see me coming.

      According to the blurb, the Argo Homes sales office opens at 10.30 a.m., giving me plenty of time to get there. Setting my sat nav, I follow A roads all the way to Ledbury, through and on to Holmer, a residential suburb that also plays host to an ugly-looking steel stockyard.

      Banners flying in the chill breeze denote the development and I hang a left off a roundabout, following signs for the site and sales office, before finally pulling off another roundabout and swinging into a visitor car park. With diggers, cranes, dumper-trucks and forklifts, it’s a swarm of rattle and hum and bone-jarring activity.

      Climbing out of the car, new homes in varying states of assembly eyeball me and convey a sense of how massive the development actually is. There are literally hundreds of shiny rooftops.

      The sales office is set at the end of a row of three show homes with majestic- sounding names that infer, as a homeowner, you too will scale the social ladder of life should you be smart enough to purchase a ‘Kingston’, for example. Fat chance.

      Inside, a large desk around which three women, wearing simple navy shift dresses, discuss business of the day. An entire wall is dedicated to an artist’s impression of each house model, together with descriptions and floor plans. A large site diagram sits astride another wall, under which lounges a large squashy sofa. One section of the room is reserved for floor coverings and kitchen finishes, the choice so dazzling it would make most would-be buyers giddy, if not downright confused. By contrast, sensible yellow hard hats, boots and high-viz jackets hang on hooks near the entrance, a stark reminder that this is about dirt and bricks, pipes and drains and the labour required to amalgamate the lot.

      The squeak and bubble of conversation comes to a halt. Three smiles greet me as I stride through a blizzard of dry, oxygen-sapping heat. I have no problem in identifying Stephanie Charteris. We could pass for each other in the right light. If Stephanie spots a similarity in our looks, she keeps it to herself. The youngest and possibly most junior of the three, she is first to engage me with a pleasant “Can I help you?” The others scatter to another part of the office that sits behind a dome of glass, in which there’s a desk, a water filter and drinks machine.

      I return the smile. “Could I view the show homes?” I slide my eyes towards the door on the other side, beyond which a paved path leads to three houses.

      ‘”’Course you can.” She’s sprightly and ‘can do’. I hesitate, thinking that she will take me on a guided tour, but this isn’t the way it works, apparently. “Through there.” She indicates with a hand that wears a single wedding band.

      My chest expands and contracts. Lightheaded, I fake a smile and wander through. How to engage Stephanie in conversation without involving the others?

      I go through the motions and enter the first house, slip on a pair of overshoes, and pad around inside. My first impression is one of space. It smells squeaky-clean fresh and new. Carpet springs beneath my shoes and the kitchen diner, with its shiny laminate floor, is a triumph of modern design. Most of all, there is no damp, no suggestion of mould; a little-discussed, if common, problem with many older houses in Cheltenham. Having always rated the average new-build as a thin-skinned sterile excuse for a home, I’m prepared to modify my opinion. Throughout the viewing, I reason and observe as if in stereo, the other track in my head fastened on the wedding ring, the fact that Stephanie seems perfectly nice and without guile.

      The second house, a four-bedroom design has a glorious landing. I don’t bother with the five-bedroom. I suck up enough information to help me ask intelligent questions and pass myself off as a potential buyer.

      The sales office is one woman short by the time I return. Stephanie pecks away on a computer while the remaining sales advisor, a middle-aged woman with super-greased, tightly braided hair so that the skin on her scalp shines through thin and white, sits inside her glass dome like a scientist in a laboratory. She is talking to a couple with a young child, who’d rather be climbing the furniture. I get the impression that braided woman is leader of the pack. The upright way she sits and sweeps from one sheaf of papers to another, using the desk like a pianist playing a piano; she’s definitely in charge, the domed office her personal fiefdom. I bet there isn’t anything she doesn’t know about the job or the people who buy and view, me included. Worrying.

      Stephanie looks up. Unlike me, she has a dimple in each cheek when she smiles, which is a lot – me before my life crashed and burned.

      “What did you think?” she says.

      “Very nice.”

      “What stage are you at?” Her eyes flicker with hope. She indicates a seat and I sit down.

      “We have plenty of good deals on at this time of year. Between you and me …” She drops her smoky voice, so similar to mine, and leans in with another wide beam, “… we’re about to start a new phase so, if you’re in a position to buy, now’s the time to clinch a bargain. On the larger models we’ll pay your stamp duty, turf the garden, and carpets all thrown in.”

      “I see.” I give her a sage look, giving the impression that it’s worthy of proper consideration. “Actually, I’m scouting for my mother.” I curb the fake ring in my voice. “She’s travelling right now. Renting at the moment.” My whopping lie plays well with Stephanie, who leaps on it as if I had handed her combined power of attorney and access to my bank account.

      “The perfect position in which to purchase.” Her smile travels from her face, skips around and lights up the entire room. The woman is liquid sunshine.

      Feeling as if I’m deceiving a toddler, I step in before she gets carried away. “I’m afraid it’s slightly complicated.”

      “It usually is.” She trills a good-natured laugh.

      Extemporising like crazy, I say, “Like I said, Mum is travelling through South-East Asia, Australia and Vietnam. She’s currently having a high old time in Thailand, so it would be some time before …”

      I stop, not because I run out of steam, but because sunny Stephanie looks as if I’ve produced a crowbar and am about to smash her teeth in with it. Recoiling, she lets out a low moan. A hand shoots to her mouth. Eyes film with tears, one pounds down her cheek and carves a thin white line through her foundation. Visceral. Agonised. How can such an innocuous remark yield such a raw reaction?

      Her chair screeches back, “Excuse me.” She scrabbles to her feet, the hand still clamped to her mouth, the other spread-eagled against her stomach after the vicious verbal punch I threw. Streaming with tears, she flies out of the room, to a back office, I presume.

      I sit rigid, conscious that three СКАЧАТЬ