Lisa Hall - The Party - The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestseller Lisa Hall

Steeling myself, I swing my legs round and out from underneath the duvet, pressing my feet to the floor as dizziness washes over me. My mouth is dry, so dry it hurts to swallow. Spying a plastic water bottle on the floor, half-hidden under the bed, I lean over, another wave of nausea making my mouth water, and take a sip. It tastes stale and dusty, as though it has been there for a long time, but it relieves the scratchiness of my throat, squashing down the bile that sits at the back of it. Placing the bottle back down on the floor, the sleeve of my top rides up to reveal a thick, purple bruise on the underside of my bicep. I poke at it, hissing as the tender skin shrieks out at my touch, the muscle sore and delicate. I wrap my fingers around my arm and see that the bruise is a perfect thumbprint, as though someone has grabbed me roughly. Remember, Rachel.

I slide my body slowly down the bed frame until I have sunk onto the immaculate carpet, the thick pile tickling the undersides of my bare thighs, my head pounding in time to a rhythm that no one else can hear. Scrubbing my hands over my eyes, I take a deep breath and look up – I am naked from the waist down, and that needs to be rectified before I can go anywhere. I need to get out of here . Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of the door opening and someone walking in, finding me like this, half naked and vulnerable. Getting to my knees, and squashing down the horrid, shameful thoughts that lurk at the outskirts of my mind at the soreness in my thighs, I crawl towards a tangled mass of black, bunched into the corner of the room, against the mahogany of the chest of drawers. Reaching out a hand, I pull the bundle towards me, unravelling it to reveal my black wet-look leggings. Thank God . Relief floods my veins as I recognize the snarl of black fabric as my own clothing, but that fades as I shake them out, searching for my underwear. It’s not there. I turn the leggings inside out and back again, hoping that I’ve pulled everything off in a drunken state last night, but my underwear is definitely missing.

And are you sure that YOU took them off, Rachel? A stern voice whispers at the back of my mind, the bruising on your thighs … the fact that you can’t remember anything … what does that tell you? I hunch forward over the bundle of cloth in my arms, fighting back tears and the ever-present urge to throw up. What the hell happened to me last night? What did I do? And who else was involved?

On shaking legs, now clad in yesterday’s leggings, the plasticky fabric clinging uncomfortably to my clammy skin, I gently push open the bedroom door and venture out into the hallway. The murmur of low voices wafts up the stairs towards me, uncertainty making me waver on the landing, not wanting to go and face whoever is down there. At least now though, I have some idea of who it will be – a family portrait hangs at the top of the stairs, and I recognize the tiled hallway and stained-glass windows of the front door below. It’s a house that I’ve only ever visited occasionally, and I’ve never ventured upstairs, which goes a long way towards explaining why I was confused when I woke up this morning. White Christmas lights glitter around the front door, and the scent of pine from the Christmas garland that circles the banister catches at the back of my throat. A tacky silver banner hangs drunkenly across the wall of the entrance hall, loudly proclaiming for all to have a ‘Happy New Year’. The glitter of the lights makes me dizzy and I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, gripped by vertigo, certain I am about to lose my footing and tumble down the stairs. The dizziness passes, and slowly I make my descent, one hand brushing the wall to keep my balance, as I still feel ridiculously hungover – more than I would ever have expected, the insistent throbbing in my temples making me long for my own bed, and the safe comfort of my own home. My silver sandals dangle from the other hand, found in the opposite corner of the bedroom much to my relief, although I think I would have walked barefoot if necessary.

As I reach the hallway, the tiles almost painfully cold beneath my bare feet, the chatter of voices gets louder, as though a door has been opened. I scoot across the cold tiles into the front room, where all the evidence of a party lies, scattered and ground into the carpet. A Christmas tree, looking worse for wear now, its needles dropping and littering the carpet, shines gaudily in the corner of the room, almost seeming out of place in the grim aftermath of what must have been a raucous party. Several empty wine bottles line the mantelpiece, and glasses litter the coffee table, some empty, some with the dregs of boozy Christmas drinks in the bottom. The table is usually polished to a shine, but now it is marred with glass rings on the wood, crumpled napkins, and several paper plates with the remains of buffet food smeared over them. I fight back the nausea that rises at the sight of left-over canapés, the faint smell of warm seafood hitting the back of my throat. A hefty splash of red wine scars the cream rug in front of the still smouldering open fire, and there are tiny shards of glass glinting on the hearth, where someone has made a drunken attempt to sweep away a broken wine glass. I breathe lightly through my mouth, as the scent of red wine and a hint of stale smoke rises up from the damaged rug. The curtains that line the wide front bay window have been left open, and wintry sunlight glints on a frost-covered garden, watery rays streaming in and highlighting the dust motes that dance in the air.

Turning away from the window, I catch sight of myself in the mirror that hangs above the fireplace, and double take; sure at first that someone else is in the room with me, my reflection looks so unfamiliar in that fleeting glimpse. Stepping closer, avoiding the still damp wine stain, I peer into the glass. I was obviously one of those partaking in the red wine last night – a faint purple stain marks my lips. I run my tongue over my teeth, cringing at the furry feel of them. My face is pale, my long, dark hair framing it in a tangled mess. I run my fingers through in an attempt to smooth it. My eyes look too big for my face, ringed as they are by dark circles. In short, if I thought I felt like shit, I look worse. My belly rolls over as the scent of frying bacon hits my nostrils, and I bend to slide my sandals on to my feet, intent on leaving and getting home before anyone realizes I’m still here.

‘Rachel!’ A deep, hearty voice behind me almost makes me overbalance, one sandal on, as I wobble precariously on the other foot.

‘Neil.’ I place my foot back down on the floor, the bruises twinging at the strain in my thigh, and inwardly sigh at not getting out before I was seen, unwilling to engage in conversation when I am so unsure of the events of the previous evening. ‘Sorry, I was just …’

‘I didn’t know you were still here!’ Jovial, and with no hint of a hangover, Neil grins at me, and gestures towards the kitchen. ‘We wondered where you got to last night … end up in the spare room, did you? Come on through, Liz is in the kitchen, and I’ve got coffee and bacon on the go.’

My stomach gives another undulating roll at the thought of the greasy, salty meat. I give a small shake of my head and open my mouth to say, ‘ I’m sorry, I should go ,’ but Neil holds out an arm and gestures for me to go first, and despite the ache in my head, the rolling nausea in my stomach, and the underlying fear that streaks through my nerve endings thanks to my black hole memory, I have no option other than to walk across the cold, tiled floor into the kitchen. I have obviously stayed here without my hosts knowing – so who undressed me? I remove the one silver sandal that I’m wearing and pad through into the open plan kitchen dining area, the bright sunshine that pours in through the patio doors at the back of the room making me feel even more nauseous, if that’s at all possible. My neighbour, Liz, sits at the kitchen table, sipping intermittently from a travel mug that sits on a coaster in front of her. She turns as I enter the room.