C.L. Taylor - The Lie

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I really can’t discuss individual cases.”

“What bloody case?” the man roars, but his hands hang loosely at his sides. The fight’s gone out of him. He knows he hasn’t got a leg to stand on and the shouting’s just for show. The worst thing is he probably does love the dog. He was no doubt proud of Jack when he won his first few fights. He probably gave him a big handful of dried dog biscuits and sat next to him on the sofa with his arm around him. But then Jack started to lose and Gary didn’t like that; it knocked his pride, so he kept entering him into competitions, kept waiting for his fighting spirit to return, kept hoping his luck would change.

“Everything okay, Jane?” Sheila, my manager, strolls into reception from the corridor to my right and puts a hand on my shoulder. She smiles at Gary and his wife but there’s a tightness around her lips that suggests she’s heard every word.

“We’re going.” Gary slaps the counter with the palm of his right hand. “But you haven’t heard the last from us.”

He turns and stalks towards the exit. His wife remains where she is, fingers knotting in front of her, silently pleading with me.

“Come on, Carole,” Gary snaps.

She hesitates, just for a second, her eyes still fixed on mine.

“Carole!” he says again, and she’s off, trotting obediently at his side.

The bell rings as they leave reception, and they cross the car park in single file, Gary leading, Carole following behind. If she glances back, I’ll go after her. I’ll make up an excuse to talk to her on her own. That look she just gave me … it wasn’t just about the dog.

Look back, look back, Carole.

Lights flash as Gary points his key fob at the Range Rover, and he opens the door. Carole clambers into the passenger seat. Gary says something as she settles herself, and she takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.

“Jane.” Sheila gently squeezes my shoulder. “I think we should have a nice cup of tea, don’t you?”

I get the subtext: Jack’s your business, Carole’s not.

She heads for the staffroom then stops suddenly. “Oh! I forgot to give you this.” She hands me an envelope. My full name is handwritten on the front: Jane Hughes, Green Fields Animal Sanctuary. “A thank you letter, I imagine.”

I run my thumb under the seal and open the envelope as Sheila waits expectantly in the doorway. There’s a single piece of paper inside, A4, folded into four. I read it quickly then fold it back up.

“Well?” Sheila asks.

“It’s from Maisie’s new owners. She’s settled in well and they’re head over heels in love with her.”

“Great.” She gives an approving nod before continuing into the staffroom.

I wait for the sound of her footsteps to fade away then glance through the glass double doors to the car park beyond. There’s an empty space where Carole and Gary’s 4×4 was parked.

I unfold the piece of paper in my hands and read it again. There’s a single sentence, written in the centre of the page in blue biro:

I know your name’s not really Jane Hughes.

Whoever sent it to me knows the truth. My real name is Emma Woolfe and for the last five years I’ve been pretending to be someone else.

Daisy doesn’t say a word as I sit down opposite her at the table. Instead she pushes a shot towards me then glances away, distracted by a group of men squeezing their way through the pub to an empty table near the loos. One of the men at the back of the pack, a short, dark-haired guy with a paunch, does a double take. He nudges the man next to him, who pauses, glances back and gives Daisy a nod of approval. She dismisses him with the arch of one eyebrow then looks back at me.

“Drink!” she shouts, and gestures towards the glass. “Talk afterwards.”

“Nice to see you, too.”

I don’t ask what it’s a shot of. I don’t even sniff it. Instead I knock it back then reach for the glass of white wine that Daisy pushes towards me. I can barely taste it for the strong aftertaste of aniseed from the shot.

“You okay, darling?”

I shake my head and take another sip of wine.

“Geoff the Arsehole giving you shit again?”

“Yeah.”

“So quit.”

“If only it were that easy.”

“Of course it’s that bloody easy, Emma.” Daisy runs both hands through her blonde hair then flicks it over her shoulders so it cascades down her back. “You print out a resignation letter, you give it to him and then you leave, middle-finger salute optional.”

A man holding two pints knocks the side of my chair with his hip. Lager slops out of the glasses and soaks my left shoulder.

“Sorry,” I say automatically. The man ignores me and continues onwards, his mates in his sights.

Daisy rolls her eyes.

“Don’t.”

“What?” She gives me an innocent look.

“Don’t give me shit for apologising, and don’t go after him.”

“As if I would.”

“You would.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to stand up for you. Want me to have a word with your boss for you, too? Because I would, you know.”

Her mobile phone, on the table in front of her, bleeps and she jabs it with a bitten-down fingernail. Daisy’s eyeliner is deftly applied, her blonde hair straightened and shiny, but her cuticles are ragged, her red nail varnish chipped and flaking. Her nails are the one chink in her perfectly polished armour. She catches me looking and clenches her fingers into fists, burying them in her lap.

“He’s a bully, Emma, pure and simple. He’s been criticising you and making you feel shit since the day you started.”

“I know, but there’s a rumour he’s going to take over the Manchester office.”

“You’ve been saying that for three years.”

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why? Because of your mum? Jesus Christ, Emma, you need to grow a pair. You’re twenty-five years old. You only get one life; do what you want. Fuck your mum.”

“Daisy!”

“What?” She tops up her glass and knocks it back. From the glazed look in her eyes, I suspect that this bottle of wine isn’t her first of the night. “Someone’s got to say it and it might as well be me. You need to stop caring about her opinion and do what you want. It’s getting boring, your obsession with what your bloody family thinks. You’ve been on about it since uni and—”

“Sorry I’ve bored you. I thought we were supposed to be friends.” I reach for my bag and stand up, but Daisy reaches across the table and grabs my wrist.

“Don’t be like that. And stop bloody apologising. Sit down, Emma.”

I perch on the edge of my seat. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry, and I hate crying in public.

Daisy keeps hold of my hand. “I’m not being a bitch. I just want you to be happy, that’s all. You’ve already told me you’ve saved up enough money to stop work for three months.”

“That’s emergency money.”

“And this is an emergency. You’re miserable. Come and work with me in the pub until you get something else. Ian would take you on in a heartbeat; he loves redheads.”

“It’s dyed.”

“For God’s sake, Emma—”

Her phone vibrates on the table and the tinny sound of Rihanna and Eminem’s “Love the Way You Lie” cuts through the chatter and hum in the pub.

Daisy holds up a hand to me then snatches up her phone. “Leanne? You okay?” She puts a finger in one ear and frowns in concentration. “Okay. Yeah, we’ll be there. Give us fifteen minutes to grab a cab. All right? Okay. See you in a bit.”

She tucks her phone into the tiny clutch bag on the table then looks across at me. There’s concern in her blue eyes, but a sliver of excitement, too.