The Lies You Told: From the Sunday Times bestselling author of Blood Orange Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Harriet Tyce

  The right of Harriet Tyce to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain

  By Wildfire, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group in 2020

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover images: woman in window © Magdalena Żyźniewska/Trevillion Images;

  foliage © Regina Foster/Shutterstock. Cover adapted from a design by Faceout Studio

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 5281 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About Harriet Tyce

  Praise for Blood Orange

  Also by Harriet Tyce

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Sunday, 6.07 a.m.

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Sunday, 9.35 a.m.

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Sunday, 11.05 a.m.

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, 11.09 a.m.

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Sunday, 12.15 p.m.

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Sunday, 12.30 p.m.

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Sunday, 12.48 p.m.

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Sunday, 12.57 p.m.

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Part 2

  Sunday, 1.00 p.m.

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Afterwards

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Have you read Blood Orange yet?

  Harriet Tyce grew up in Edinburgh and studied English at Oxford University before doing a law conversion course at City University. She practised as a criminal barrister in London for nearly a decade, and subsequently completed an MA in Creative Writing – Crime Fiction at the University of East Anglia.

  Blood Orange, her debut novel, was a Richard and Judy Book Club pick and a Sunday Times bestseller. The Lies You Told is her second novel.

  Praise for Blood Orange:

  ‘Harriet Tyce brings a new layer of visceral, addictive dark to domestic noir. Obsession, revenge, lust and murder play out on the pages as a female barrister tries to hold her life together while her personality tries to tear it apart. At once shocking and riveting, I simply couldn't stop reading. Bravo’ Sarah Pinborough, author of Behind Her Eyes

  ‘Blood Orange is destined to be the debut that everyone is talking about in 2019. Dark, original and utterly compelling, I could not put it down. And what a twist at the end!’ Lisa Jewell, author of Then She Was Gone

  ‘A classy thriller with complex and compelling characters’ Clare Mackintosh, author of I See You

  ‘Complex and menacing, this is a very impressive debut’ Alison Flood, Observer

  ‘Blood Orange is dark and immensely readable. An impressive debut’ The Times

  ‘Fans of Apple Tree Yard and The Girl on the Train will love the atmosphere of clenched ambiguity Tyce sustains so well’ John O’Connell, Guardian

  ‘A sizzlingly addictive read . . . its mysteries unfurl brilliantly to that often most elusive quality: a genuinely satisfying end. Five stars’ Lisa Howells, Heat

  ‘A dark and disturbing domestic noir’ Louise Jensen, author of The Sister

  ‘Blood Orange kept me frantically turning the pages, desperate to know what would happen next. A superb, compulsive read’ Tess Gerritsen, author of I Know a Secret

  ‘This brilliant debut from Harriet Tyce has it all – a tricky murder case, a complex and conflicted female barrister battling her own demons, and layer upon layer of intrigue’ Rachel Abbott, author of Only the Innocent

  ‘We get it, every thriller going is “the new The Girl on the Train” but this one really does have you turning the pages in the same obsessive way . . . It’s not all about the twisty ending like some other thrillers. Instead it deals with issues faced by career women and the notion of “good” and “bad” in a way that will keep you thinking long after you’ve found out what happens’ Cosmopolitan

  ‘Gripping’ Daily Mail

  ‘A smash hit’ Best

  ‘This thriller breathes new life into the domestic noir genre and grips until the final page’ Daily Express

  ‘A heart-pounding thriller . . . and deliciously twisty plot’ Good Housekeeping

  ‘This is essential reading for fans of Girl on the Train and Apple Tree Yard, and it is just as unpredictable and page-turningly good. It is as disturbing as it is gripping and not for the faint-hearted’ Herald

  ‘If The Girl on the Train gave you a taste for alcoholic female narrators grasping at their last chance to turn their lives around, you’ll like Blood Orange, which I think is even better’ Sunday Express

  ‘Glittering and fierce and resolutely unsentimental, a glorious bonfire of a marriage thriller’ Irish Times

  ‘Gritty and compelling, Blood Orange drags you right into the hearts of the flawed characters and their stories from the get go. A book that will keep you up all night’ Kate Hamer, author of The Girl in the Red Coat

  ‘Brilliantly done. Writing, plotting, characters – wonderful and deeply satisfying, devour-in-one-sitting stuff’ Lucy Mangan, author of Bookworm: A Memoir of Childhood Reading

  ‘We were gripped’ Bella

  ‘An addictive and unforgettable domestic noir, at once shocking, sharp and seriously twisted’ Culturefly

  ‘One of the best psychological thrillers I have read for a long time . . . This book truly has it all! 10 stars out of 10’ Peterborough Telegraph

  ‘This gripping novel, an absolute page-turner with m
any twists and turns, had me hooked from start to finish . . . If I didn’t have to rise early for work I would have finished Blood Orange in a single sitting’ RTE Guide

  ‘A deftly plotted domestic noir thriller of the highest order with a shocking twist in the tail. Debut novelist Tyce is going places’ Irish Times Independent

  ‘It is a terrific domestic noir that will be one of THE book club reads this year’ Sun

  ‘The way in which these two themes are entwined – Alison’s humiliatingly sozzled, sex-mad life, and the case she is defending (rather well) – are deftly handled. There is a marvellous denouement’ The Tablet

  ‘Dark and compelling’ Mel McGrath, author of The Long Exile

  ‘An addictive and unforgettable domestic noir, at once shocking, sharp and seriously twisted. It's the perfect book to binge read over the weekend’ Culturefly

  ‘Combines sharp spare prose with a gloriously twisty plot – I read this in one heart-pounding, furiously angry sitting’ Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths

  ‘The debut novel of the year. Harriet Tyce is now on my “must read” list’ Jeff Abbott, author of The Sam Capra Series

  ‘I raced through Blood Orange by Harriet Tyce, which is oh-so-timely and had me gasping aloud at the final twist’ Hannah Beckerman, author of If Only I Could Tell You

  ‘Dark, sophisticated and sexy, Blood Orange is a very powerful debut in the vein of Apple Tree Yard, that had me gripped to it’s very last page. I couldn’t recommend it more highly’ Elizabeth Fremantle, author of Queen’s Gambit

  ‘Tyce gives the domestic noir a timely update with this dark debut’ iNews

  ‘A dark and disturbing thriller – we were gripped’ Closer

  By Harriet Tyce and available from Headline

  BLOOD ORANGE

  THE LIES YOU TOLD

  About the Book

  THE LIES YOU TOLD

  Can you tell the truth from the lies?

  Sadie loves her daughter and will do anything to keep her safe.

  She can’t tell her why they had to leave home so quickly – or why Robin’s father won’t be coming with them to London.

  She can’t tell her why she hates being back in her dead mother’s house, with its ivy-covered walls and its poisonous memories.

  And she can’t tell her the truth about the school Robin’s set to start at – a school that doesn’t welcome newcomers.

  Sadie just wants to get their lives back on track.

  But even lies with the best intentions can have deadly consequences . . .

  For Sarah Hughes – dearest of friends.

  I’ll never forget the Rimmel eyeshadow . . .

  Part 1

  1

  It’s the first time I’ve ever slept in my mother’s room. That I can remember, anyway. It’s cold. My arm is the only part of me out from under the covers and my skin feels clammy, my fingers chilled. I roll over, tucking myself in fully, leeching off Robin’s warmth. She’s snoring gently next to me. It’s a couple of years since she’s wanted to sleep in with me, but the temperature of the house defeated her. The first night we arrived, she walked into the room I made up for her and walked straight out again.

  ‘It’s freezing,’ she said, ‘and I don’t like that weird painting on the wall.’

  ‘I’ll move it,’ I said. But I didn’t argue when Robin wanted to share my bed. I don’t want to let her out of my sight.

  The duvet is too thin. I piled our coats on top last night for extra warmth, but they slipped onto the floor while we slept. I reach over and pull them back on, trying not to disturb Robin, eking out her sleep for at least a few minutes more. It’ll be cold when we get up.

  The gas fire is still here. I remember sometimes in winter, the coldest days, that my mother let me dress beside it, warning me not to get too close. I was never allowed to touch it then. I’m scared to touch it now. It’s brown, shiny, its corners sharp, gouges out of the paintwork. The ceramic burners are black with soot. I don’t even know if it’ll still work. The fireplace around it, once white, has yellowed, scorch marks above the fire. I looked away from the china ornaments on the mantelpiece last night, but in the dim light of the morning, I see they’re still the same; smiling shepherdesses, a Pierrot with a vacuous grin, all crowded close along the narrow shelf.

  Robin shifts next to me, sighs, subsides back into sleep. I don’t want to wake her. Today is going to be hard enough for her. Anxiety spikes through me. The dank room lies heavy on me, thoughts haunting me of the warm house I’ve fled. The contrast between the spare room here, rejected by Robin, and her own bedroom that we’ve been forced to leave behind: the bed draped with pink hangings, the sheepskins on the floor. There are no sheepskins in my mother’s house – only a ram’s skull still displayed on the stairs, resplendent in his horns.

  It’s safe though. Far away. Robin rolls over in bed, closer to me, her arm warm beside mine, the little knitted meerkat my best friend Zora made for her held tight in her hand. My breathing eases. After what happened, I would always have felt chilled in that house, despite the warmth. I shiver now at the thought, the shock still raw. Deep breath in, out. We’re here now.

  I reach over and pick up my phone from the bedside table – nothing. No messages. Its battery is nearly out – of course there aren’t sockets beside the bed. But the electricity is at least still working. As long as we don’t electrocute ourselves before I’ve had a chance to get the wiring checked. I lie back, listing all the jobs that are essential for the safety of the house, overwhelmed at the number of tasks ahead of me. At least there won’t be time to think about anything else.

  ‘What time is it?’ Robin mutters, turning over to stretch her limbs.

  ‘Nearly seven,’ I tell her. I pause. ‘We’d better get up.’

  For a moment longer we lie there, both reluctant to brave the cold. I steel myself, pushing the covers back in one go and jumping to my feet.

  ‘You’re so mean,’ Robin says, sitting up fast. ‘Do I have to have a shower? The bathroom’s freezing.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I’ll try and get it sorted for later.’

  She runs through to her room and I hear her thumping round as she gets ready. I throw on jeans and a sweater without giving my outfit any thought. It’s too cold for vanity.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ Robin says, a piece of toast in her hand that she puts back on the plate, uneaten. She sighs. My heart sinks.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m going to hate it,’ she says, turning away and putting her hair up into a bun twisted on the top of her head.

  ‘It might not be that bad.’

  ‘Yes, it will,’ she says, staring at me. There’s no arguing with her tone.

  She’s about to walk through the gates of a new school in Year 6, new uniform – box-fresh, crisp and stiff – years after everyone else has formed their gangs and factions. The uniform she’s wearing doesn’t even fit properly, collar too big around her throat, skirt too long. Her face is pale against the bright red of the new school cardigan, the stark white of the new shirt, everything we bought in a rush yesterday from the uniform shop up Finchley Road I remember from my own childhood. My throat tightens, but I make myself smile.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ I say, an edge of desperation in my voice. ‘You’ll make some lovely new friends.’ I pick up a piece of toast, look at it, put it down. I’m not hungry either.

  ‘Maybe,’ Robin says, her voice full of doubt. She finishes dealing with her hair and pulls her phone out of her pocket, entranced immediately by the screen. I twitch, control myself. Is there a message from Andrew, wishing his daughter good luck at her new school? I don’t know if Robin and her dad have spoken since we left . . . since we had to leave. Robin keeps scrolling down, eyes flickering.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ I say in the end, unable to stop myself, trying to keep my tone light. ‘Has your dad messaged?’ Casually, I pick up my own phone and put it in my bag.

  Robin looks up, her face still a
nd pale, eyes dark as her hair. She shakes her head. ‘Not Dad,’ she says. ‘Haven’t you spoken to him?’

  I smile, neutral. I need to move the conversation on. She has to believe this is all normal. She doesn’t need to know that the last contact between her dad and me was a hissed exchange on the phone before his number went dead. Just go, he’d said. I don’t want you here any more. Either of you. Loathing in his voice I’d never heard before.

  I’ve been silent too long. She’s looking at me, a question starting to form on her face.

  ‘Any gossip? You chatting to someone?’ I say with an effort. Over the last couple of months there’s been a complicated row between Robin’s friends and people in her old class, and I’ve found the updates strangely compelling.

  ‘Everyone’s still asleep, Mum. It’s the middle of the night back home.’

  ‘Sorry, yes. Of course. I wasn’t thinking.’ The words hang in the air, before Robin relents.

  ‘But there’s a load of messages from last night while I was asleep. Tyler sat next to Addison on the bus on Friday instead of Emma and now no one is talking to Addison.’

  ‘Oh lord . . .’

  ‘I know. It’s so stupid.’ She looks at her phone once more before tossing it down.

  ‘Maybe it’ll be easier being at an all-girls school,’ I say, striving for a tone of conviction. Failing.

  Robin shrugs. ‘I guess I’ll find out.’

  The last year of primary school. Memories of it, deep in my bones. Everyone turning eleven, some looking like teenagers, some still child-like. At least Robin sits in the middle of this spectrum, neither very tall nor very short, nothing extreme in her development that stands out. It’ll be hard enough anyway. Suppressing a shudder, I remember the rejections, the spite. Whatever else I’m facing, at least I never have to go through fitting in to a new school again.

  ‘I don’t know how they’re coping without you to mediate.’

  ‘I don’t think they are,’ Robin says, her face serious. ‘They’re falling out way more without me there. I’ll never see the messages in time.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll work it out. And you’ll see them soon. In the Christmas holidays, maybe.’