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

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       Chapter 1

       Present Day

      It kicks off the moment Tom spots his photograph in our county magazine.

      “For God’s sake, how the hell did that happen?”

      It all began with a party at Lily Gin’s, a popular cocktail bar off the Promenade. Free booze. Ear-bleeding beat. Everyone hollering. The local newspaper I work for has a sister magazine that held a joint bash there for advertisers and the great and good of Cheltenham. Their way of saying ‘thank you’. A roaming rookie photographer snapping folk glad-handing is the source of Tom’s ire. It’s strange because he isn’t confrontational or quick to anger. Not chilled, like me, but quiet and mostly silent with an undertow of edge that I find a bit Darcy-like and dead exciting. Tom blowing his stack isn’t a thrill at all; it’s worrying.

      Personally, I think how nice he looks. “It’s a great snap.” It really is. The picture isn’t posed. We are deep in conversation. Slightly turned away from the camera, the scar at his temple that makes him look dangerous and sexy is more prominent than usual; dark-blonde beard neatly trimmed; his nose with a slight kink at the bridge, full kissable lips close to my cheek. For once we are captured together, which makes a change. Anyone viewing my photo album for the past few years could be forgiven for thinking I’m single.

      “Fuck’s sake, you know I hate having my photograph taken.”

      To the point of phobia, but as it was clicked, with Tom unawares, by some newbie photographer, I can’t see what the problem is. Sleek, monumentally happy and relaxed, Tom is whispering something in my ear that makes me smile, although I can’t for the life of me think what it was, mostly because I’m now half into my dress, trying to get ready for work.

      “It’s only the county mag,” I point out, finally zipping myself up.

      “Yours,” he says, fury in his eyes, as if I am personally liable. I don’t bother to point out the inaccuracy of his accusation.

      “For goodness’ sake, I’m not the editor, Tom. You know very well I don’t write a thing for the magazine these days.” Still, he glowers. “Look, I’m sorry,” I say, spreading my hands, thinking that I really should be heading out. It was all right for Tom to chunter on. He’d got a day off from the restaurant where he works as a chef.

      “I told that bloody photographer to go away.”

      “She’s only a kid.” Which explained why the celebrity especially invited didn’t get so much as a look-in, to the embarrassment of all.

      “I never wanted to go to the launch in the first place,” he growls, prowling around our tiny sitting room.

      Didn’t you? I can’t recall any protest at the time, but think it best not to say so. “Well, you did. It’s done now,” I say, softening my tone. In my experience with men, it’s never a good idea to get arsey. Not really in my nature in any case. Others remark that I’m laid-back to the point of horizontal, a family trait, care of my mother. Somehow my chalk-and-cheese relationship with Tom works. Classic attraction of opposites.

      “In a week’s СКАЧАТЬ