It’s his smile. Nobody else would spot it. The very, very edges of his lips are just slightly lifted. He is smiling. And only I know it. That special smile. The one only I could tease out of him, like that night we met and sat on the stairs and I taught him to chat. Anyone else would think him dour, grumpy, stoic. But I know that smile. It is for me. He has seen me.
And it’s as simple as this, really. I prefer my life with him. No doubt he will keep me good. On the straight and narrow. But, more than that: I understand him. He let the Council know he thought the Council Tax was in too low a band. He does twenty-nine miles per hour in a thirty zone. My Reuben. Of course he would tell a barrister the truth. The problem wasn’t his truthfulness: it was my lies.
Perhaps another man, another husband, might’ve lied for me. But the truth is this. I forgive him. I want to forgive him. And so I do.
45
Conceal and Reveal
It’s time. I push open the door and go inside, where Reuben is waiting for me. Whatever happens.
‘Number three thousand. As good a place to start as any,’ he says with a smile as I approach. ‘How late you always are.’
‘Three thousand and one. How you’re so early you think others are late,’ I say back.
Epilogue
The Beginning
The street lights are too bright, refracted a hundred times in each drop of misty rain. I can see moisture on the concrete steps like thousands of beads of sweat. The only things I can focus on in the drizzle are the bright blue bridges of deserted Little Venice.
And him.
I look down at the man, twisted strangely at the bottom of the steps. He hasn’t moved at all.
I could go to help him. Call an ambulance. Confess. Reveal myself.
Or I could run away. Hide. Protect and conceal myself.
I am paralysed with indecision. What will happen if I leave? What will happen if I stay? I cannot picture where either path would take me.
A strange calm descends upon me as I stand and assess him.
The rain gets heavier, wetting my forehead and slicking my hair to the side of my face.
Stay or go. Fight or flight. Truth or dare.
Which is it to be?
Acknowledgements
My hair started to go grey while writing this novel. So first thanks are for anyone on the receiving end of a text message sent last summer, during which time I was (could it be true?) under contract with Penguin and had chosen to write two books in one for my second novel with them. Ambition might be good for you, but it also turns your hair grey.
Firstly, as always, thanks go to my agent, Clare, who has made all of this happen. She read this novel while on maternity leave, in two days, and gave me notes at 11.30 p.m. one night. She is one of the hardest-working women I know. Thanks, too, to Darley Anderson himself, who sent me a very special email one spring morning, and to the whole rights team who continue to sprinkle my inbox with amazing foreign rights news.
Secondly, to my brilliant editor, Max: you have done so very much for me. Thank you for adopting me and Everything but the Truth, and for making it a bestseller. Your notes on this novel made it so much clearer and much shinier, but you never once asked me to change the essence of it, its scale or its message.
To Jenny Platt, my publicist, and Katie Bowden, my marketer. You are tireless and fearless, and I’m astonished by all that you have done for me.
To the enthusiastic, absolutely lovely team at Michael Joseph: Sophie Elletson, and my brilliant copy editor, Shan Morley Jones. I can’t thank you enough.
This book was very research-heavy, and could not have been completed without the kind help of various people I knew and got to know during the course of writing it.
To my sister, Suzanne, who fielded multiple queries about hypoxic brain injuries over many takeaways. And to my father, without whom none of my books could be written: your imagination, characterization and natural flair for realistic plots are of huge value to me, but that you choose to spend your free time helping me is priceless.
To my mum, for helping me with your always perfect grammar, not to mention buying me a Penguin Classics mug with my own book on it.
To Alison Hardy, one of my favourite colleagues, who got me a tour of the Old Bailey for research, and to Charles Henty, who conducted that.
To Liz and Mark Powell, who fielded my queries from the moment I met them at a party and discovered they are police officers, culminating in a tour of police custody by Mark, which, as you’ll have read, was fundamental to this novel.
To Ameera from a mosque I visited: thank you for giving me a tour, explaining about Islamic graveyards, and answering my clumsy questions sensitively and accurately.
To Phil and Marie Evison, for reading an early draft and pointing out my many policing errors (‘They no longer wear huge boots, Gillian …’). To Sami Davies, again, for your medical input, for reading an early version and for introducing me to the mammalian diving reflex. Your answers are always immediate, and they never question my sanity.
To Darin Millar, who read this book alongside my agent and fed back such helpful advice on criminal defence. And to Neil White, who answered many bonkers queries over Twitter DM. I couldn’t have written a novel like this without both of you. And Roxie Cooper, who helped me on the law of self-defence and mistake. Thank goodness for lawyers!
To Tom Davis, my English tutor at university, who, one day in 2004, emailed me and said: I read your blog. Hey, you can do dialogue. There began a thirteen-year mentoring relationship. I still send him early chapters, about which he is brutal and kind.
And finally, as always, to David. Life coach, therapist, cook, cleaner, muse, sounding board, best friend and lover. I couldn’t do anything without you, least of all write novels.