Amanda Brittany - Her Last Lie

‘Isla?’ Someone had sat down next to her, his aftershave too strong.

She turned, her chest tightening, squeezing as though it might crush her heart. ‘Trevor,’ she stuttered, suddenly desperate to get up and rush through the door before it hissed shut. But it did just that – sucking closed in front of her eyes, suffocating her, preventing any escape from her past.

‘I thought it was you,’ he said, as the train pulled away. He was still handsome and athletic. Gone were his blond curls, replaced by cropped hair that suited him. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit, a tie loose in the neck, his tanned face glowing in the heat.

Her heartbeat quickened. It always did when anything out of the ordinary happened, and seeing Trevor for the first time in years made her feel off-kilter. The man she’d hurt at university was sitting right next to her, his face creased into a pleasant smile, as though he’d forgotten how things had ended between them.

‘You haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘Still as beautiful as ever.’ He threw her a playful wink, before his blue eyes latched on to hers. ‘I can’t believe it’s been eight years. How are you?’ She’d forgotten how soft his voice was, the slight hint of Scotland in his accent. He’d always been good to talk to. Always had time for everyone at university. But the chemistry had never been there – for her anyway – and they’d wanted different things from their lives.

‘I’m good – you?’ she said, as her heart slowed to an even beat.

He nodded, and a difficult silence fell between them. This was more like it. This was how things had been left – awkward and embarrassing. An urge to apologise took over. But it was far too late to say sorry for how she’d treated him. Wasn’t it?

‘I’ve often thought about you,’ he said, and she tugged her eyes away from his. ‘You know, wondering what you’re up to. I heard what happened in Australia.’

‘I prefer not to talk about it.’ It came out sharp and defensive.

‘Well, no, I can see why you wouldn’t want to. Must have been awful for you. I’m so sorry.’

Quickly, Isla changed the subject, and they found themselves bouncing back and forth memories of university days, avoiding how it had ended.

‘You’re truly remarkable,’ Trevor said eventually. ‘You know, coming back from what you went through.’

After another silence, where she stared at her hands, she said, ‘It was hard for a time … a really long time, in fact.’ She hadn’t spoken about it for so long, and could hear her voice cracking.

‘But you’re OK now?’ He sounded so genuine, his eyes searching her face.

She shrugged. ‘His sister …’

Would it be OK to talk to Trevor about the appeal? Tell him about Darleen Jeffery? Ask him what kind of woman fights their brother’s innocence, when it’s so obvious he’s a monster? There was a huge part of Isla that desperately needed to talk. Say the words she couldn’t say to Jack or her family for fear they would think she was taking a step back. Vocalise the fears that hovered under the surface. The desire to tell someone about the Facebook message she’d received from Darleen Jeffery several months ago was overwhelming. ‘ I need to discuss the truth, Isla ,’ it had said.

‘His sister fought for an appeal and won,’ she went on, wishing immediately that she’d said nothing.

‘Jesus.’ He looked so concerned, his eyes wide and fully on her. ‘When is it?’

‘The end of September.’ The words caught in her throat.

‘Are you going?’

She shook her head. She’d contacted the Director of Public Prosecutions. Told them she wouldn’t be attending, that she didn’t want to know the outcome. Being in a courtroom with him again would be like resting her head on a block, Carl Jeffery controlling the blade.

‘I can’t face it,’ she said, her voice a whisper.

‘I don’t blame you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s sickening that he killed three women. Unbelievable.’

She thought of lovely Jack, knowing how hurt he would be if he knew she was keeping the appeal – and the way it was affecting her – from him. He would be hurt if he knew that within a few minutes of meeting her ex, she was confiding in him – letting it all out. But there was something oddly comforting in the detached feeling of talking to an almost-stranger on a train – because that’s what he was now. Someone she probably wouldn’t see again for another eight years.

‘I’ll be in Canada when it takes place. I can forget it’s even happening. And I’ve told them I don’t want to know the outcome.’ She pinged the band on her wrist, before turning and fixing her eyes hard on the window, a surge of tears waiting to fall. She needed to change the subject. ‘So what are you up to now?’

‘I’m a chemist,’ he said, his tone upbeat.

‘Not a forensic scientist, then?’ That had been his dream.

‘Never happened, sadly,’ he said. ‘I’m working on a trial drug at the moment.’

‘Sounds interesting.’ Her eyes were back on him.

He shrugged. ‘Not really. Not as interesting as travel writing.’

She stared, narrowing her eyes. ‘You know I’m a travel writer?’

He smiled. ‘I guessed.’ He nodded at her camera. ‘You wanted to be the next Martha Gellhorn.’

‘You remember that?’

He nodded, entwining his fingers on his lap, eyes darting over her face. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said again.

She knew she had. Her blonde hair came out of a bottle these days, and there was no doubting she was different on the inside. She looked away again, through the window where fields were blurs of green.

As seconds became minutes he said, ‘Maybe we could catch up some time. Now we’ve found each other again.’

Words bounced around her head, as a prickle of sweat settled on her forehead. She didn’t want to be unkind, but she was with Jack, and even if she wasn’t, there was nothing there – not even a spark.

She turned to see his cheeks glowing red, and an urge to say sorry for hurting him all those years ago rose once more. ‘I’m with someone,’ she said instead.

‘That’s cool. Me too,’ he said, with what seemed like a genuine smile. ‘I meant as friends, that’s all.’ He pulled out his phone, the yellow Nokia he’d had at university. ‘We could exchange numbers.’ His shoulders rose in a shrug, making him look helpless. ‘It would be good to meet up some time.’

***

Triple-glazed windows sealed against the noise of heavy traffic rattling along the road outside, and a whirring fan that was having little effect, meant the apartment felt even hotter than outside. Isla hated that she couldn’t fling open the windows to let the fresh air in. Sometimes she would grab her camera, jump into her car, and head to the nearby fields to snap photographs of the countryside: birds and butterflies, wild flowers, sheep, horses, whatever she could find – pictures she would often put on Facebook or Instagram.

‘Can you open that, please?’ She plonked the chilled bottle of wine she’d picked up from the off-licence in front of Jack on the worktop. ‘I desperately need a shower.’

He looked up from chopping vegetables. ‘Well hello there, Jack, how was your day?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, tickling their cat, Luna, under the chin before stroking her sleek, grey body. ‘I’m so, so hot. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ She disappeared into the bedroom, stripping off her clothes, and dropping them as she went.

Fifteen minutes later she was back, in shorts and a T-shirt, damp hair scooped into a messy bun. She picked up the glass of wine that Jack had poured. ‘God, that’s better,’ she said, taking a swig. She smiled and touched Jack’s clean-shaven cheek. ‘Well, hello there, Jack, how was your day?’