Page 77 of You Lied First
She sleeps alone in her studio.
And locks the door.
61
SARA
Ibarely sleep after the fundraiser and, when I do, my dreams are tortured as I flail this way and that, haunted not just by Celine, but by the look on Liv’s face when she realised that what Flynn had said was true – we had covered up Celine’s death and then lied about it. It stings: the holiday was a means for me to spend quality time with Liv; to rebuild our relationship; to regain her trust. The cover-up had been to protect her and Flynn’s innocence.
But Liv’s trust in me had been gossamer thin since the court case, despite the years that have passed. After I’d been found guilty of assaulting her teacher, Liv had refused to believe that it really had been an accident. I can see how it looked: the woman was a bitch. She’d been victimising Liv and I’d been at the end of my tether. And, yes, I’d waited for her to pass me on the stairs, that much was true. I’d realised she was coming, and I’d waited for her. “Loitering”, the judge had said. I’d wanted to have a word with her; to clear the air after the messages I’d put on the class WhatsApp had been reported to the headmaster, but then she’d seen me and she’d given me that demeaning, dismissive look and … I moved, and she fell. Did I push her? It was a moot point. But when it went to court, the school had to side with the teacher. Of course they did. They supplied witnesses to my so-called harassment of the woman. It was only because my lawyer argued mitigating circumstances, due to the unfair way Liv had been treated, that I got off with a suspended sentence and a community service order.
But that was nothing compared to the punishment Liv handed me.
On the day she’d moved out, I’d thought things could never get any worse. It had been a long road to redemption – a road made of broken glass, over which I’d crawled on my hands and knees. My sole goal was to win Liv back. And I’d been winning. I’d turned it around. Liv was proud of my transformation, of my work, of my YouTube channel. She invited me to come on the holiday and I’d laughingly promised that I wouldn’t embarrass her, thinking that the worst thing that could happen would be me looking a bit wobbly in my swimwear. I didn’t know the Forrests. I hadn’t wanted to go to Oman. I’d scoped out other plans for just the two of us. But as soon as Guy had issued the invitation for us to join them in Muscat, that was all that Liv had wanted and, despite my misgivings, I’d gone along with it.
But what makes it worse is knowing deep down that one of the reasons I agreed to the holiday was because I was hungry for the social validation of the Forrests. I squirm as I think about that. After you’ve been publicly shamed, a smear remains over you – maybe imagined, maybe real – but it’s there, like a physical scar, and an invitation to holiday with the Forrests was like a pretty tattoo over the top of that. People would say the Forrests have invited her to holiday with them: she must be okay. Some of their glory would rub off on me.
So much for that.
In the morning, I’m woken by muffled thumps on the staircase. I throw on my joggers and a sweatshirt and find Liv in the hallway, a heap of bags around her.
‘What are you doing?’ I say, although I know the answer. We’ve been here before.
‘Leaving,’ she says curtly. ‘Dad’ll be here any second.’
‘But you’re supposed to stay all weekend. Liv, I …’ But the door rattles in its frame as the familiar thunder of Michael’s car draws up outside. Liv opens the door and picks up her bags, then she stares me down.
‘Any credibility you ever had with me is gone,’ she says. ‘Destroyed. So don’t think I’m ever coming back. We’re done. As far as I’m concerned, I have no mother. Goodbye.’
‘Baby. No! Wait!’ I shout, but I see a flash of Michael’s silhouette in the driving seat and then my words are met by the front door slamming in my face.
After a stunned moment of utter disbelief, I tear at the door, fingers fumbling with the catch.
‘Liv!’ I yell as I run down the path. ‘Wait! Michael! Stop! Come back!’
But, almost at the same time as Liv bundles into the front seat, Michael guns the car off down the street, leaving me standing open-mouthed on the pavement.
My world is broken. I can see no way out. If this is how she reacts to the lies we told to protect her, I can only imagine what’ll happen if she finds out the truth: that it was me who killed Celine Cremorne.
62
MARGOT
Margot keeps out of Guy’s way while she continues her hunt for the camera, her searches becoming more desperate, more oblique, as the damn thing doesn’t appear in any of the places where it should or could be. But she has to be subtle about what she’s doing because she doesn’t want to alert Guy to the fact that she remembers they had it with them – if he doesn’t already know.
Guy goes out for much of Monday, and on Tuesday Margot prepares a chicken casserole for dinner, pointedly making only enough for herself and Flynn. Him admitting out loud that he had an affair with Celine is a blow, but one that pales into insignificance against his other revelation: that Sara thinks Margot killed Celine. It’s never crossed her mind that Sara might think she’s in this mess because she’s protectingher. That Sara might blame her for everything.
But now Guy’s mentioned it, she scrolls mentally back to a couple of months ago, reimagining things the way Sara might see them: the times Margot put chopped celery in the salad because she knows Celine couldn’t stand it; her ‘accidental’ use of full-sugar tonic in Celine’s diet G&Ts; the fact that she bought Sauvignon because Celine only liked Chardonnay –and the dozens of other tiny things Margot had done to amuse herself during that shit show of a holiday.
Yes, she owns it all – but messing with someone’s non-allergic food preferences is hardly akin to killing them. But surely Sara understands that? Does she really see Margot as someone willing and capable of murdering her husband’s lover? Does Sara even know that Guy and Celine were lovers back in the day? Was it as obvious to Sara as it had been to her?
Margot wonders what Guy’s saying to Sara about all this behind her back. He always insists on going to her house alone, claiming Margot’s too busy with work to join him. What’s he telling her those times he’s alone with her? Is he deliberately pointing a finger at Margot to keep the suspicion off himself? Is he setting her up in case the shit hits the fan? Are they now each out to save only their own skin?
Her thoughts are interrupted as Flynn taps on the studio door. His head pops around.
‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Come in.’
