The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

something of himself back, allowing them to see only a fraction of his true self; the same guardedness that had always made her feel instinctively wary of him. She remembered the scene between Rose and him earlier and shook her head in silent frustration: he was impossible to work out.

“Cash only,” the waitress said when their bill arrived and they’d each got their cards out. “Machine’s broke. There was a sign at the bar,” she added wearily.

The three of them exchanged glances. “Shit, I don’t have any, do you?”

“Nope, was going to card it.”

“There’s a cash machine at the post office down the road,” Tom said, getting up. “I’ll go; it won’t take a minute.”

But Mac stopped him. “No, you stay, pal. I need to return a work call anyway,” he said, waving his mobile at him.

As she watched Mac leave, Clara glanced at Tom. “It was good to see your mum and dad before,” she said coolly, adding pointedly, “I like them very much.”

After a pause he returned her gaze and smiled, saying with no hint of rancor, “Yes. Everybody does.”

At that moment a different waitress arrived and began wiping down their table, and they lapsed back into silence. She noticed after a while that the girl was taking an inordinately long time at her task, and realized she was distracted by Tom, staring at him with open admiration as she wiped the same spot over and over on their table. It was true, she thought without much interest, that he was very good-looking, but there was something supercilious about his face that prevented him from being truly attractive. She looked at him then and froze in surprise to find his eyes fastened on hers. A little flustered, she said quickly, “I was just trying to remember something Luke told me once, about Emily.” Immediately she wanted to kick herself for bringing up his sister so clumsily. She saw Tom’s eyes darken and silently wished she’d found a more gentle way to broach the subject.

“Oh yes?” he said, once the waitress had moved away.

She fiddled with a beer mat. “He was telling me about a game he used to play with your sister when you were all kids, but I can’t remember what it was. Do you have any idea?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid not.”

“Right,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment.

“Oh, except, it wasn’t a game, as such . . . but there was a song they used to sing before Luke went to bed—she used to like reading to him, then tucking him in at night. ‘Five Little Monkeys,’ it was called. You know that rhyme, ‘Five little monkeys jumping on the bed, one fell off and bumped his head . . .’? Luke used to bounce around on the bed while they sang it. It was a kind of ritual between them. . . . Is that what you meant?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “yes, that was it, thank you.” For a moment she pictured Luke as a little boy, and felt a wave of sadness. When she next looked up, it was to see such wretchedness on Tom’s face that she felt a stab of guilt. “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I—”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. It was just, when she went, it was . . . a bloody awful time, you know?”

“I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“Listen, Clara,” Tom said, leaning forward suddenly, the intensity of his gaze returning. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

She looked at him in surprise. “What is it?”

At that moment, the door opened and Mac appeared, brandishing their cards and cash. “Sorry, that machine was broken,” he said. “I had to go to the one at the petrol station.” He looked from one to the other of them. “Everything all right, is it?”

Tom dropped his gaze from Clara’s. “Everything’s fine,” he said, abruptly getting to his feet. “Let’s pay at the bar, shall we?”

—

Amy Lowe lived in a small house down a cul-de-sac of 1930s semis. Clara and Mac paused in the front garden for a moment, taking in the broken swing set and the stack of roof tiles piled high among the weeds. On the chipped front door was a peeling sticker with the words BEWARE OF THE DOG, illustrated by a toothy Doberman. From inside they could hear the sound of a TV at top volume, a girl’s voice wailing, “Mummy, he hit me! Jakey hit me, he did! Mummeeeeee!” They glanced at each other and shrugged, before Mac pressed the bell.

A boy of about six answered. He was dressed in a Superman onesie, and the small round face below his buzz cut was covered in freckles. He glared at them suspiciously. “You selling stuff?” he asked. “Mum says she don’t want any.”

Mac laughed. “No. We just want a word with—”

Suddenly Amy came up behind him. “Yes?” she said, a little sharply. “Can I help you?”

She’d changed little since her teenage years, Clara thought. A fraction heavier, a few lines here and there, but still the same doll-like eyes, the tousled blond curls, the careless, unassuming attractiveness. Suddenly her face cleared. “Oh my God!” she said in a thick Suffolk accent. “Mac!” She smiled then, and for a moment she looked sixteen again, exactly as she had in Luke’s pictures. “Haven’t seen you for years! What the bloody hell are you doing here? I thought you lived in London these days.”

“Hi, Amy. Good to see you,” Mac said. “This is Clara, Luke Lawson’s girlfriend.”

At this, Amy gave a start of recognition. “Yeah.” She nodded. “I saw you on the news. It’s all anyone’s talking about around here.”

“I’m sorry to turn up out of the blue like this,” Clara said. “I . . . we just wondered if we could have a word with you?”

She frowned in surprise. “If you want. Come in.”

They traipsed after her down the narrow hallway, its walls covered in pictures of Amy in a wedding dress next to a chubby, grinning groom, the living room they