The Last Lie: The must-read new thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Alex Lake

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       Alfie

      Standing in front of the fireplace, Alfie tapped his glass – crystal, full of vintage champagne, he loved this stuff, he really did – with the handle of his fork – silver, antique – and watched as conversations died down and heads turned to face him. When the room was silent, he smiled and started to speak.

      ‘Thank you all,’ he said, ‘for coming to celebrate this very special day. My wife’ – he turned to Claire and smiled – ‘it’s still a thrill to call her that, even after three years, is celebrating her thirtieth birthday. I told her before the party that I had something special for her, and I do.’

      He gestured to Jodie, who moved to the front of the guests and handed him a guitar. It was a Martin D50 which Claire had bought him, after some not-too-subtle hints, for his last birthday. It was an instrument he had dreamed of owning all through his childhood, but which, until he met Claire, had been woefully out of his reach. Woefully out of most people’s reach.

      ‘Alfie,’ Claire said, ‘what are you doing?’ She looked at Jodie, eyebrows raised.

      Jodie held up her hands, palms facing Claire. ‘Merely doing what I was told,’ she said.

      ‘Thank you, Jodie,’ Alfie said, and then turned to Claire. ‘I wrote you a song,’ he said. He slipped the strap over his neck and held up his right hand. ‘I know, it’s soppy and over the top but I don’t care. I’m the luckiest man alive, and I want everyone to know it. So, here we go. It’s called “Since the Start”.’

      He strummed an E chord and started to sing.

       ‘Since the start

       Since the day I met you

       Since the start

       I have known I loved you.’

      He sang the rest of the song. It was pretty good, in a way. Highly derivative, basic chords, minimal musicianship required, but writing and playing and singing it would be far beyond most people, which was what mattered. When he finished, he could tell that the guests’ reactions were mixed: the women were touched at his display of naked emotion, the men looked faintly embarrassed for him.

      Which was good. That was exactly what he wanted them to feel. He wanted everyone to see how much in love with his wife and how different to all the other guys he was.

      Claire, predictably, had tears in her eyes. As the applause died down she hugged him, kissing his cheek and ear and mouth.

      ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘That was beautiful. I love you.’

      ‘I love you too,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’

      After the song, Mick, Claire’s dad spoke. He gave a tearful tribute to her and talked about how proud Penny, his wife and Claire’s mum, would have been of her daughter. He didn’t mention Alfie – or his song – which was par for the course. When he had finished and the guests had returned to their increasingly drunk and loud conversation about politics or sport or something else they knew nothing about, Alfie slipped out to the kitchen.

      He put on his jacket. He had a packet of Chesterfields and a book of matches and he was planning to sneak off and find a secluded spot – there was a bench in a corner of Mick’s vast back garden that would do – where he could light up and have a quiet smoke. He had a packet of mints, too; on one occasion before they got married he’d said he’d do anything for her and Claire had asked him to give up – for his sake, she said, because she loved him so much and couldn’t bear the thought of him poisoning himself, the soppy bitch – and he didn’t want her finding out he’d lied.

      He walked through the kitchen and opened the back door to the terrace. There was a footstep behind him.

      He turned around. It was Mick. He was holding a large tumbler of whisky, his face red with a combination of high blood pressure and too many drinks.

      ‘Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘Thanks for hosting. It’s a great party.’

      ‘No problem. Anything for my little girl.’ Mick nodded at the terrace. ‘Going out?’

      ‘Could do with a bit of fresh air.’

      ‘Too warm in here?’ Mick glanced at the window. The moon was visible, still low in the sky. ‘It’s dark out.’

      ‘It’s fine in here.’ Alfie smiled. ‘I was just thinking of taking a walk. But I don’t have to.’

      Mick held up a hand. ‘No. You do whatever you want. I was only asking. I did want to talk to you, though.’

      ‘Oh?’ Alfie said. Mick and he had never been close. They had probably had no more than two or three one-on-one conversations since he and Claire had met. Mick was not the kind of father who warmed to the men who were sleeping with his daughter. No doubt he had fantasies of taking Alfie shooting and accidentally unloading both barrels on him. Alfie didn’t mind. He’d had the same thoughts СКАЧАТЬ