You Can Trust Me: A Novel Read online

  Will stomps past me into the kitchen to fetch his jacket and briefcase. He returns to the hall and crosses to the front door.

  “Daddy?” Hannah’s shaky voice sounds from upstairs.

  Will and I look up together.

  “Everything’s fine, Hanabana,” Will says. “I just have to go away for work.”

  Zack zooms out of nowhere, hurling himself at Will’s knees. Will picks him up and hugs him, but his eyes are still on Hannah. She nods, but I can tell she’s only pretending to believe what Will has just said. A deep sense of shame fills me.

  Will sets Zack down. He says good-bye, then looks meaningfully at Damian. Damian gives me a glance.

  “It’s okay. Go,” I say.

  And then he follows Will out the front door. Suddenly the house is quiet. Zack drifts away, into the living room. He’s used to his father’s sudden absences and clearly hasn’t registered the tension—or, if he has, doesn’t know what to make of it. I turn to Hannah. She’s looking at me in disgust. I open my mouth to defend myself, to tell her the truth about her precious father; then I shut it again. She is only twelve. It wouldn’t be fair.

  “Dad’ll be back soon,” I say reassuringly, though I don’t know if that is true. Or if, indeed, I want him to come back.

  Hannah just stares at me for a second, then goes back into her room and slams the door. I wander into the kitchen and start, absently, getting tea ready. As I put the pasta into the boiling water, I decide that once both kids’ terms end, I’ll take them to my mum’s for a few days. It will give us all a bit of respite—and me a chance to think about my marriage.

  Damian texts to check I’m okay. I really think he is worried Will might have doubled back to kill me. Through gritted teeth, I reassure Damian that though my husband may be a lying, cheating ass, he is not a murderer.

  Damian doesn’t respond to this, but sends another text to say he’s got his “geek” friend Gaz trying to trace Shannon and that he’ll keep me posted.

  It’s not enough. I need answers now. Where is Shannon? What has happened to her? A shiver snakes down my spine as I imagine Julia’s killer tracking her down. I tell myself I’m overreacting, that there could be a million explanations for Shannon’s departure from Honey Hearts. And yet I can’t stop worrying. I feed the kids, then go online and search for reports of missing persons, of mysterious deaths.

  It’s depressing work—a sad litany of runaways and down-and-outers. There are only two truly unexplained deaths from the past week. A girl was stabbed to death in Bristol a few days ago, but she’s younger than Shannon; another fell to her death from a high-rise balcony, but she’s older, in her late thirties. There’s nothing that can possibly be linked to Shannon.

  Trying to put Julia’s death, Shannon’s disappearance, and my bust-up with Will out of my head, I call Mum. Her bout of flu has cleared up and she’s delighted at the prospect of having the kids for a long weekend. I promise to drive them over as soon as Hannah gets out on Thursday. Zack is thrilled. He loves Mum’s house with its big garden, huge-screen TV, and endless supply of chocolate cookies. Hannah is predictably furious, though to my relief, she doesn’t mention the row she witnessed earlier; I’m hopeful she didn’t actually overhear the specifics of what Will and I said.

  “But I’m going out with my friends after school on the last day,” she wails. “It’s a tradition.”

  “How can it be a tradition?” I scoff. “You’re at the end of your first year, you haven’t had time to build up any end of term traditions.”

  “Great.” Hannah slouches off into the corner and slumps down into a sulk.

  I contemplate saying something myself, about how spending a few days with her doesn’t exactly fill me with joy; then I remind myself that I’m the adult in the relationship, that Hannah has the equivalent of a degree in winding me up and that the situation will only get worse if I react.

  The next day passes in miserable isolation. Martha calls from her holiday to check I’m okay. Damian does the same. Will rings to speak to the children. I try to talk to him, but he flies off the handle again when I ask if he’s still seeing Catrina.

  Why won’t he admit it? Surely he knows the truth will come out eventually, as it did before.

  In the end, I call Paul. He works in the same office as Will every day. I can’t believe he hasn’t sensed the affair with Catrina starting up again. Indeed, it’s possible that Leo—or even Will himself—has told him about it. However, once I’m actually on the line I can’t bring myself to ask directly what he knows, instead mumbling a vague and incoherent question about whether Will has seemed “different” recently.

  Paul is too tactful to ask straight-out if I mean an affair.

  “Will’s been a bit stressed with work,” he muses thoughtfully. “I suppose now that you mention it, he has seemed a bit distracted for the past few weeks since that trip to Geneva.” He pauses. “Livy, are you guys having problems? Is there anything I can do?”

  So neither Will nor Leo have told him what they know. That doesn’t really surprise me, but I’m hardly reassured by his reference to Will’s being “preoccupied” since the very trip that reunited him with Catrina. I can’t bring myself to tell Paul the whole, humiliating truth of the matter, so I say I’m fine and get off the phone. I spend the rest of the evening slumped on the sofa, trying to numb the pain with a combination of red wine and trash TV.

  In contrast to the dark misery inside my head, Thursday dawns bright and sunny. Zack, of course, got out yesterday, but he’s up and hugely excited to be allowed to go with me as I drop Hannah at school, still wearing his pajamas. Back at home, I pack a bag for the three of us. We don’t need much—I keep quite a few old clothes in Mum’s spare room wardrobe, while Hannah has already made a careful selection of outfits in a separate case.

  Zack and I make some cookies to take to Mum’s, then pick Hannah up and drive to Bath. The traffic is terrible and it takes over two hours to get there. We eat supper around Mum’s kitchen table, then spend the evening watching TV. Mum clearly senses something is wrong, but she doesn’t pry and I don’t volunteer any information.

  I used to talk to her a lot, before Kara died. We argued, but we also shared our feelings and our worries. Now we talk only about superficial stuff. I might tell her about problems with the kids—as I did over Hannah’s leopard-skin lingerie—but nothing really personal … certainly nothing about my relationship with Will.

  I lie back on the sofa after the kids are in bed, watching Mum snooze in her armchair across the room and wondering when we stopped confiding in each other. Maybe it was after Dad died. Maybe we were both suddenly aware that the other person was all we had left and we didn’t want to risk being intimate in case it led to a fight. I don’t know. I can’t really make sense of it. Perhaps I don’t really want to. I like things with Mum being easy and stable. Despite the memories of Dad and Kara that the house holds for me, I always find it comforting to be back here. Mum hasn’t changed her style of décor since we were kids, so the house is as cluttered with her willow pattern display china as it always was. Even the squashy sofas in the living room sport homemade scatter cushions from the 1980s that I remember Mum sewing from designs in Good Housekeeping.

  Will calls at about 8 P.M. to speak to the kids. I go on the phone for politeness’ sake but, again, he is cold and distant. “Any plans tonight?” I say lightly.

  “Just the usual drinking and whoring,” he snaps back.

  And that’s that.

  Damian rings me first thing the next morning. He says his friend has dug up Shannon’s address and cell number at last, but that the number has been discontinued, so he hasn’t been able to speak to her or even leave a message.

  “She lives in Torquay,” Damian says. “Not that far from Aces High. I’m going to go there now.”

  It takes only a moment for me to get him to agree to wait until I can join him. I leave a note for Mum—the whole house is still asleep—telling her I’ve just remembe
red a dentist appointment that I have to rush home for, but that I’ll be back later this afternoon. It’s a pretty lame excuse, but it’s all I can think of in the time available.

  As I set off, I find myself driving along the same route Kara and I used to walk to school. I feel the familiar stab of guilt at the memory of my many efforts to ditch my dreamy little sister, too old to be cute and too young to be cool—at least as far as the girls in my class that I wanted to impress were concerned.

  I drive back to Exeter at top speed, knocking nearly half an hour off yesterday’s travel time. Once home, I park and get out of the car. I spot Damian instantly, standing beside a smoky blue convertible a few meters down the road. It’s a classic Mercedes—from the late ’80s, I’d say—with a large, square trunk. Sunshine glints off the metalwork, and Damian, leaning against the door in his aviator sunglasses, jeans, and black shirt looks for all the world like a model. I can’t help but stare at the handsome picture he makes, his hair falling in blond waves around his face as he concentrates on pulling a cigarette from its pack. Several passing women clearly think so too, checking him out as I walk over. Damian, still busy with his cigarette, doesn’t notice either them or me.

  “Nice car,” I say.

  He looks up and grins. The smile lights up his face, making him look even more attractive. Without warning, I feel my whole body respond. I flush, shocked at the desire suddenly pulsing through me. Where the hell did that come from? “Yeah.” He wrinkles his nose. “High maintenance, though.”

  He opens the passenger door and I slide inside, feeling flustered. Trying to collect myself, I focus on the car’s interior. The seats are made of leather, with a gleaming walnut finish on the dashboard. I’ve hardly ever ridden in a car like this. Since Will gave up his last motorbike, he has bought only sensible modern vehicles, like Fords or Toyotas.

  I click the seat belt into place and turn to Damian. “So where exactly are we going?”

  “Central Torquay.” He props his shades on his head and pulls out. The car—and, of course, Damian inside it—attract several admiring glances as we drive along.

  “I bet Julia loved this,” I muse.

  “My car?” Damian offers me a wistful smile. “She did. She loved beautiful things.”

  Including you. I don’t say the words, but I can’t help but think them.

  It’s a hot day, and after my long, sticky drive on the highway, it feels good to be driving with the top down and the wind in my hair. We reach Torquay, where Damian pulls up outside an unprepossessing block of apartments near the seafront. Brick-built and modern, their only distinguishing feature is the green paint used on the railings of every balcony. I look up. There are four floors with what looks like two flats on each one.

  “Shannon is on the third,” Damian says looking over. “You ready?”

  I nod, but the truth is that I’m terrified; in a minute I might get a definite answer to why Julia sent Shannon to entrap Will.

  My earlier desire is subsumed by anxiety as I follow Damian up the stairs to the third floor. The flats are marked 3A and 3B. Damian stands outside flat 3B and presses the doorbell. We wait in silence, the only sound that of the traffic outside. There’s no reply.

  “Guess she’s still not home,” I say.

  Damian takes a long, flat-tipped, brass pin out of his pocket and inserts it in the lock. “Here goes.”

  “You’re going to break in?”

  “How else are we going to get inside?” Damian takes a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and pulls them on. As he hands me a second pair, he raises his eyebrows. “Do you want me to stop?”

  I hesitate, but only for a moment. After all, anything could have happened to Shannon. And I need answers.

  “No.” I take the gloves and step back, giving him room.

  Damian closes his eyes, moving the pin this way and that. I watch him, wondering how on earth he knows how to pick a lock. He might have confessed to being a recovering alcoholic, but there is clearly still a lot that he hasn’t told me. His remark from when we first met about the police not believing anything he said echoes in my head.

  A noise from the ground floor, below, chases such thoughts away. I tiptoe along the corridor and peer down the stairs, my heart racing. A young couple is heading our way. I rush back to Damian. Sweat shines on his forehead.

  “Nearly there,” he whispers.

  “Hurry.”

  As I speak, the lock gives and the door opens with a pop.

  Damian gives me a triumphant smile, then pushes at the handle. The door opens fully, onto a narrow, cream-walled hallway.

  “Come on.” He walks inside.

  I’m suddenly aware of the magnitude of what we’re doing, breaking into someone’s home like this. But as I hesitate again, unable to cross the threshold, I hear the young couple laughing, their footsteps on the stairs. My heart leaps into my throat; I can’t be found here with the door open.

  And so fear of discovery overrides fear of breaking the law, and, still holding my latex gloves, I follow Damian into Shannon’s apartment.

  ANNALISE

  God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.

  —William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  Ah, Annalise. She was special. Not in herself, of course. Unlike my Kara, she possessed neither innocence nor beauty. But Annalise was special as a challenge to me. She set me firmly along the path I am still on today, toward the man I am destined to be.

  I enjoyed a string of encounters after my dealings with Hayley. Much of my time was devoted to keeping these private. My wife is not a stupid woman, and I made sure I still gave her attention. Despite what you might think, you see, I love women. I love the way they look, the way they feel.

  Most of all, I love to watch them surrender. But that’s another story.

  So, back to Annalise. I thought for a while that she herself might be the truly “great challenge” I had been waiting for since Kara. She was certainly clever, with an Oxford degree and a high-powered job. However, her academic and business smarts belied a neurotic insecurity the extent of which I would never have guessed when we first met. That meeting took place in a conference room at her offices. Annalise was a potential client considering whether to use us or not. I was bored during the meeting, as I so often am at work, and she drew herself to my attention with her sparky support for my presentation. She spoke well, articulate and pertinent throughout, and as she tossed her mane of sleek blond hair to make her final point, I felt the familiar twitch in my gut … the itch in my fingers. I knew it was deliciously high-risk. Thanks to our business dealings, there were links between us I was not going to be able to hide, let alone avoid. Still, if anything, that merely heightened my excitement. I talked to Annalise briefly after the meeting, indicating my gratitude for her support and my admiration for the persuasive and intelligent way she had expressed it. As I’d suspected, Annalise showed no inclination to fall for my flattery, simply nodding and walking away.

  My interest now piqued further, I asked around and found out, through a series of casual inquiries, that Annalise was famous for turning down men. All to the better, I decided. It was easy enough to contact her by e-mail.… Another risk to leave a trail, but after Hayley, I was supremely confident that I could face down any problems. My first three e-mails—charming, witty and light in tone—solicited polite but dismissive responses. So I upped my efforts. I knew where Annalise worked, of course, so one day I headed over there. I waited for her outside her office. I pretended to be delighted to bump into her, explaining in brilliantly self-conscious style that I was here again for business reasons. Annalise gave me a skeptical look, just as I’d intended, and I confessed that in fact I was really here (and this was my genius stroke) in order to woo one of her colleagues, a young piece of fluff who acted as PA to the managing director. This Annalise did believe. I could see her attitude to me changing. It was another high-risk tactic from me, but I was sure it was the right one with a woman like her. As l
ong as she thought I was easy to acquire, I would hold no value. Once she believed I had no interest in her, I was confident she would shift her perspective. And I was right. “Hope, blossoming within my heart,” I was repaid with first her interest then, soon, her adoration.

  I still played it carefully, making sure that, on this occasion, none of my colleagues knew about the affair. Even once I was sure she was hooked, I took my time reeling her in. Two months after we met, at the end of our third date, we made love for the first time.

  After that, everything changed. Over the following three months, Annalise gradually lost all the fire she had displayed in that first meeting and showed her true colors, mostly as an insufferable talker. On and on she would go, about how she felt, how I felt, what we both thought and had done and should do. It took all my reserves of discipline not to kill her on the spot.

  The final straw came when she threatened to tell my wife about our affair—talking and talking endlessly about how we felt and how we were meant to be together, all the surface confidence melting away, leaving a puddle of whey-faced, red-eyed insecurity. Ugh.

  Unfortunately I couldn’t kill her straightaway, tempting though it was now to be rid of her. It took me three weeks from leaving her to make sure all ties were cut, that no trace of the contact between us remained. This was a thrilling time as I lived with the huge risk she would go to my wife or someone else. She knew—or knew of—so many people that I did. All I had on my side was my knowledge that Annalise would feel humiliated if our affair was made public. I took two weeks to plan our final meeting, my shining hour. I had everything covered: from the alibi I engineered to the way I contrived to destroy or avoid all records of our final encounter from mobile phone logs to security camera.

  I used acid. An entirely fresh and, may I say, hugely satisfying MO for me. I cleared up and left her apartment, taking a tiny gilt brooch as a memento. I knew the police would interview me. It was no secret we had been seeing each other from her old phone records and the witness statements, but my alibi held and I was able to convince the police that our relationship had never gone beyond friendship and that we hadn’t in fact spoken in the final month before her death. This was the closest I ever came to discovery, even though the police eliminated me from their investigation early on. But I was confident I would prevail. And I did.