Beautiful Liars. Isabel Ashdown

that Martha dismisses as wholly unearned, awarded too freely. Does she feel like this just because of who he is, or would she resent him if they met under different circumstances? He’s almost a decade younger than her; he can only be in his midtwenties. But it’s not just that—after all, she’s only too grateful that older colleagues were willing to take a punt on her when she was younger and in need of a chance. Well, there you have your difference, she thinks: She needed a chance, and really, he doesn’t.

      “Morning, all!” Toby says, too breezily for a newcomer, eliciting polite murmurs and tight smiles from around the room. Martha takes in the neutral faces at the boardroom table. Many of these people are senior to Toby, and yet there’s curious caution in their open expressions.

      In the far corner of the room are a cameraman and a sound technician, there to record early footage for the piece. They will film the entire meeting, yet only seconds will be used in the final edit: well-chosen slices that add color and depth to the documentary, to the mystery. An earnest frown here, a studious turning of papers there. It’s not just a documentary they’re making. It’s entertainment. Martha has a sense of being somewhere outside of herself, looking in on this surreal scene. How is it that she should find herself here, star of a show that may unravel her own past, opening her up to the scrutiny of others? The world knows the Martha Benn she has become, the polished, glossy-haired, media-savvy Martha—queen of the prime-time talk show, go-to woman for serious reportage and debate. To her viewers she’s clean-cut, a poor East End girl come good. Respectable. Nothing more murky in her past than an early divorce and a couple of tenuous romantic links to minor celebrities. This morning at home, as she prepared herself for the day, she had gazed out across London, sipping strong black coffee—her one caffeinated drink of the day—and again she had been struck by the feeling that she was living someone else’s life. There she was in her twelfth-floor apartment, a glass-walled luxury abode overlooking the river, and she wondered how long it would be before she was ruined.

      Sending that letter to Olivia Heathcote had only been the start of it, but reaching back in time like that has unsettled her more than she could ever have anticipated. If the letter has reached her, will Liv even respond? Perhaps, like her, Liv has moved on, reinvented herself; perhaps Liv would rather keep that particular box tightly sealed too. They’ve all got secrets to hide, of that much Martha is certain. Her new TV show, this investigation, could well be the catalyst to her unmasking. Not that she’s ever pretended to be anyone else, or gone out of her way to deceive. Martha Benn is the name she was given at birth; she kept it even during her brief marriage to Denny, much to his family’s distaste. And she’s never exactly lied about her past. But she also has not been open about her earlier life, having long ago become accustomed to skirting over her Stanley House years, skipping straight to the good bits, the bits she can talk about with ease. The life she has constructed is about to change; she knows this without a shadow of a doubt. And there’s nothing she can do about it, not if she’s determined to unravel the mystery of Juliet. And she is determined. Whatever it takes, whether Juliet is found dead or alive, Martha has to find out.

      Now, at the top end of the table, executive producer Glen Gavin nods at Toby pleasantly, offering a help-yourself gesture toward the trolley bearing drinks and pastries, and rises to close the door and open the meeting. Glen is a lean man, his small frame nipped in by expensive suits, yet his presence is nonetheless large in the room, magnified further by the deep timber of his Scottish accent. Beyond him and the glass wall of their top-floor office, the London skyline fans out, bathed in the bright white sheen of a winter morning.

      “Good morning, everyone.” Glen pauses, his eyes following Toby as he sets down his coffee in front of the one remaining seat and unbuttons his jacket, then slips it from his shoulders and places it on the back of his chair. It’s all done in such a leisurely fashion, Martha could scream—and a flash of flint in Glen’s eyes momentarily betrays his mixed feelings about the appointment of Toby Parr.

      “So,” Glen says, “it’s hugely exciting to be gathered at the first planning meeting for Out of the Cold, and I for one am thrilled that we have managed to assemble some of our very best to turn this vision into a reality.”

      He falls silent, and it’s only when one of the junior researchers releases an awkward “Woo!” that the rest of the team realize what’s expected. They fall into a wave of polite British handclapping.

      “Now,” Glen continues, “let me summarize our overall plan. The pilot for Out of the Cold is provisionally scheduled to air six months from now, so the timings will be tight. It goes without saying that we’re relying on the success of this to help us secure the proposed series with the network. Our pilot needs to be a showstopper, and that, my friends, is why you’re all sitting around the table.” He rises from his chair and ambles toward the trolley, then picks out an apricot Danish, takes a bite, and chews slowly as he eyes each of the team in turn. When his mouthful is swallowed, he continues to speak, and he places the pastry on a napkin on the table before him, sliding his chair out to take a seat. He won’t eat the rest of it; it’s merely a prop. Martha’s gaze travels up from the pastry and finds Glen’s eyes locked on hers as he says her name.

      “We’re very happy to confirm that the show will be fronted by Martha Benn, who you’ll all be familiar with from her work on ITV—well, across a number of the channels, in fact—with Toby Parr playing a key role as her associate program researcher.” Martha nods. Toby raises a hand, like a schoolboy receiving an award from the head teacher. She wonders, momentarily, what they all made of her sacking from morning TV last year, when she had been replaced by a younger, pregnant up-and-coming star. More relatable, was the way her female boss at the time had put it. Younger, was what she really meant.

      Glen continues. “Our pilot episode will investigate the eighteen-year-old case of missing teenager Juliet Sherman, seventeen—who was last seen on a London towpath in January 2000, beside the Regent’s Canal, where her abandoned bike was later discovered. Juliet came from what you’d call a nice middle-class family. Dad was a bank manager, Mum worked part-time for a local firm of solicitors. Juliet had one sibling, older brother Tom who was back from university on his Christmas break at the time of her disappearance. All of them were interviewed at the time, but none of the family was ever considered a suspect. Within a matter of weeks, the police made the decision to scale back the investigation, ultimately concluding that she had run away with an older man—” Glen riffles through his papers, glancing toward Martha for help.

      ‘David Crown,” she offers. “Local landscape gardener and charity worker.”

      ‘Yes.” Glen nods slowly. “David Crown. All-around good guy.”

      There’s a ripple of amusement around the table, and Martha bites down an urge to pound her fists on the table, to tell them all to show a bit of bloody respect.

      “This is an interesting case, and one that will resonate with the public—not only in the light of recent high-profile abuse cases but also because our own Martha here was interviewed as part of the original police investigation.”

      A murmur rises, a gasp; querulous frowns turn into pleased expressions of surprise.

      “Martha, perhaps you’d like to take over from here?” Glen says, and he offers up his palms, gesturing for her to speak as he relaxes back into his chair.

      She hadn’t expected the surge of nerves that courses through her body, the heart-thumping weight of responsibility she feels in this moment. “Thank you, Glen,” she says warmly, ever the professional, and she picks up a pen, tapping it lightly on the wrist of her other hand, a movement that apes her own private mindfulness exercises for calm. “Yes, I was involved in the original case.” Her mind is working fast, and she is careful to keep the emotion from her voice, to state only the facts and none of the profound sadness she still feels. “Back in 2000, I attended Bridge Academy in Hackney along with Juliet Sherman and another school friend, Olivia Heathcote—the three of us had been best friends for over seven years.”

      The silence in the room is palpable.

      “I think it’s important to say that the reason I suggested the new show, and Juliet’s case in particular, is because I recently read a local