Lisa Hall - Tell Me No Lies

‘Darling. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’ Belinda’s voice is husky from far too many cigarettes, late nights and bottles of fine whisky.

‘Sorry. I felt a bit … yeuch. You know how it is.’ I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, inhaling the familiar waft of Chanel No. 5 and cigarette smoke, the signature scent that is Belinda.

‘You know damn well I don’t, and I never want to either. No offence, darling, but babies are not for me.’ She takes another deep drag on her fake cigarette, squinting at me again in the half-light.

‘None taken. I do think it’s time for you to dig out the specs again, though, Bel. You’re squinting at me like mad, and I don’t know why you choose this restaurant every time – the lighting in here is awful.’

‘That’s precisely why I choose it, darling.’ Belinda lets out a cackle, drawing the attention of two older gentlemen dining at the table next to us. ‘Soft lighting makes me look twenty years younger, plus no one can see the bags you’re carrying under your eyes. Speaking of which, is everything OK, Steph?’ Speaking her mind as ever, she eyes me with concern. Belinda may be a tough old bag, but she has been a huge support to me since I first met her. She was, and still is, the editor of a very successful magazine – not as posh as Tatler , but a few steps above the trashy weekly gossip mags. I did work experience with her, way back when I was doing my journalism degree, and never expected to even cross her radar, but it seemed I was the only one in the office who could make her coffee exactly as she liked it, and she took a shine to me. She took me under her wing, showed me the ropes, and eventually, once I got my degree, gave me a job as a features writer. Fifteen years older and infinitely wiser than me, Belinda taught me everything I know, and now, since having Henry and not wanting to work full-time, she still passes me interviews and features to write in a freelance capacity.

‘Yes, Bel. Honestly, everything is fine. Just a bit exhausting at the moment, what with sorting the house out and being pregnant. I’ll be fine.’ I take a sip of the sparkling water on the table as Belinda takes a hearty gulp of cold, crisp Chardonnay. Lunchtime is drinking time to Belinda, and no doubt she’ll carry on until late in the evening. Apparently, she writes all of her best features half cut.

‘And Mark? What about him?’ Belinda’s nose turns up a little as she mentions Mark’s name. She doesn’t know what happened between us earlier in the year, and I want to keep it that way, but she doesn’t like him and never has, and she’s never told me why. I don’t like to ask.

‘He’s fine. He’s back to work and starting on a new project. Some wildlife, adventuring programme thing. Think Bear Grylls crossed with David Attenborough. Apparently he and the crew are travelling to some far-flung place next week to start shooting some footage.’

‘Bear Grylls slash David Attenborough, eh? Impressive.’ Belinda raises an eyebrow as she takes another gulp of her wine.

‘Oh, come on, Bel. Don’t be like that.’

‘Well, I just don’t like it, Steph. He leaves you and the baby on your own for weeks at a time. Anything could happen. He’s lucky you don’t find someone else to take care of you while he’s not around.’ She raises an eyebrow at me as I shake my head, a smile on my lips. Despite a tough exterior and a reputation for being a hard-nosed bitch, on the inside Belinda is as soft as spun sugar.

‘It’s fine, Bel, honestly. I knew what I was getting into when I married him.’ To some extent, yes … his behaviour six months ago, not so much. Belinda pulls a face and I think it’s best to change the subject. I don’t want to talk about Mark, about how he’s up and leaving me and Henry again just a few weeks after moving into a new home, a few weeks after promising me a fresh start. I don’t want to think about who will be travelling with him, or what he’ll be doing while I’m not there – that way madness lies. I’ll end up driving myself crazy wondering what’s going on, which is the reason why I took Belinda up on her offer of lunch today. I’m hoping she’s got some work for me, something a little more upmarket than ‘What He Thinks About During Sex’ and other such exciting features.

‘So? Why am I here, Bel? What have you got for me?’ Our starters arrive, steaming-hot, tiny bowls of creamy pasta with a Parmesan crisp sticking out of each one. I don’t know why Belinda bothers to order anything; it’ll just get pushed around her plate, while I will eat everything and then feel like a heifer afterwards.

‘I’ve got a great interview for you.’ As expected, Belinda swirls a forkful of pasta around her plate, before taking another sip of wine and letting the pasta fall from the fork before she’s even lifted it. ‘A TV star turned entrepreneur. Trashy-mag fodder turned rival to Alan Sugar. Darling of the reality-TV phenomenon turned bona fide business tycoon. It’ll be fabulous.’

‘Sounds intriguing.’ I shovel a forkful of pasta into my mouth, the morning sickness having left me famished. I have to eat while my stomach allows it; who knows how long it will be before the queasiness returns? ‘So, who is it?’

‘Melissa Davenport. You know, the girl that won that desert-island reality-TV thing? You must do; I’m sure you said Mark worked on that. She’s started her own lingerie business; it seems to have really taken off. Everyone’s going crazy for it, so I’m thinking we strike while the iron is hot. While she is hot. She’s kept a low profile lately – obviously she’s been working on this business idea of hers – but if we can get an interview with her now, before it all takes off, then we’ve got the scoop on all of the others. What do you say? Steph?’

The pasta has turned to ash in my mouth and I feel the blood draining from my cheeks. Melissa Davenport. Just the name alone is enough to start my stomach roiling in a manner far, far worse than morning sickness ever could. Saliva squirts into my mouth, heralding the fact that my stomach is about to revolt. Making my excuses, I jump up from the table and race towards the restaurant bathrooms.

Heart hammering, I make it to the ladies’ room just in time to watch the small amount of my starter, that I did manage to eat, come back to haunt me. Splashing cold water on my face, I raise my eyes to the mirror, not at all shocked at the fright staring back at me. My face is pale, dark circles surrounding my eyes. My fringe lies flat on my forehead, no sign of the sheen and bounce I carefully styled into it before I left the house. Sighing, I pat my face dry with a paper towel and make some effort to look normal by patting some powder onto my cheeks and adding a dab of mascara to my eyelashes. Satisfied I can pass Belinda’s inspection, I make my way back to the table. Belinda is on the phone and abruptly ends the call as I reach my seat.

‘Darling. Are you OK? Is the morning sickness really that terrible? Thank goodness I never found myself in the family way. I’d die if I had to get sick in a public place.’ Belinda wrinkles her nose in distaste and roots in her handbag for her Vape, dragging it out and puffing furiously. She’s not good with illness, or sympathy for that matter. I sit down, leaning back in my chair as the waiter fusses around our table, removing the plates. Belinda waves him away impatiently.

‘I’m fine. I’m sorry to spoil lunch. I don’t know what came over me.’ I sip at the glass of water next to me, avoiding Belinda’s stern gaze.

‘Don’t apologise – you can’t help it. If anyone is to blame, it’s Mark.’ Belinda puffs and gives a short bark of a laugh. If only she knew how true that was. ‘So, what do you think about the Davenport girl? Is she worth an interview? We could make her the cover – she sells magazines by the bucket load.’