Beautiful Liars. Isabel Ashdown

showing up in my eyebrows too. I wonder about down below. I wonder if later, when I’m undressed, I’ll be able to bend far enough forward to check there for any changes. It’s quite possible that my fat belly will prevent me from getting a good view—that or my bad back, which seems to creak and shriek more and more often these days.

      I pick up my bristle hairbrush and run it through my hair, one long stroke from forehead to tip, its length reaching as low as my thigh. “One . . . two . . . three . . .” I count, automatically falling into the hundred-strokes habit Mum taught me in my early years, and as I gaze at my reflection my mind is once again on Martha and Liv, and the e-mail I started writing this afternoon.

      Of course, it was easy enough to set up a fake e-mail address for Olivia Heathcote, but knowing what to say in my reply to Martha was a much harder task. I had spent a good couple of hours Googling Olivia—or Liv, as Martha calls her—but there was surprisingly little to be found, only the briefest of mentions about her work as a bereavement counselor for a local clinic. What I already knew about her was gleaned from the two encounters we’d had during the sale of the house more than a year ago, the first when I visited for an initial viewing with the estate agent and the second a follow-up visit I had requested on the pretext of planning my furniture requirements. In reality, it was not the house but Olivia I wanted to see. It wasn’t a crush by any means; but Liv had something about her, such a striking aura. Liv was the type of person who at school would have been popular with the other girls, would have been part of a tight group. She would have belonged. I had just wanted another look before I took over the house and Liv and everything in her life disappeared from mine.

      Liv had two children, four-year-old twins called Arno and Jack. They were beautiful too, olive-skinned creatures playing quietly on the faded living room floor, building a world of block towers and animals. Their tawny hair was in stark contrast to Liv’s ebony bob and darker skin, but they shared her vivid blue eyes, and I thought how astonishing it was that a person such as Liv could produce such fair children. She must have noticed me staring, because she laughed and said, “You never know how the genes will come out in the wash!” And that’s how I learned she was adopted as a baby, taken into this very home at just two months of age by Mr. and Mrs. Heathcote and their large, boisterous family. Liv was the middle of five, the only adopted child, and the only one “of color,” as she put it. At one point, she told me, their grandmother was living here too, along with an ever-increasing menagerie of animals and birds. “It was chaos most of the time,” Liv had told me, laughing at the memory. “But happy chaos. We didn’t have a lot, but my mum and dad were the best kind of people, if a bit gullible. They couldn’t say no to anyone, so if someone in the street was threatening to get rid of some old pet or other, we’d take it in here. Hackney Zoo, that’s what my friends used to call this place! Bonkers.”

      The house is only a three-up, two-down, and I couldn’t imagine for a moment how they had managed with so many children to care for in such a small space. But what colorful history! So unlike the details of my own small family, whose genealogy, my mother would proudly claim, went right back to the Domesday Book on both sides: English through and through. I loved that Liv’s world was so different from mine, and if I could have stayed there all day long, drinking coffee and asking her questions about her childhood, I would have. Now, in light of my new role as her substitute, I wish I had!

      When Liv introduced me to Arno and Jack, they smiled so happily, as though greeting an old friend. How my heart had lifted in that moment! I couldn’t remember the last time a child had smiled at me with such guileless ease. I’m not the sort of person people smile at easily; I don’t have that special thing. On that final visit, I also managed to gather that Liv hadn’t been living in the house for more than a couple of years, having moved back in after her mother had died. There didn’t seem to be a husband or partner anywhere, but I supposed he was out at work or away on business—until Liv mentioned she was moving out of London altogether, “for a fresh start.” I took this to mean alone, just the three of them, and this pleased me no end, though now I struggle to understand why it should. That was the last time I ever saw Liv, and a month later I was moving my belongings in, clutching tightly my very own set of newly cut keys. My solicitor had told me I was paying well over the market price for the place when I offered more to see off another buyer’s bid, but I knew I had to have it. And for heaven’s sake, I’d thought when he advised me not to rush, what else was I to spend my money on? This was the house I wanted.

      Today, after hours of staring into my laptop screen (and guiltily ignoring the bleeps of work e-mails dropping into my in-box!), I finally drafted a reply to Martha.

      Dear Martha

      How nice to hear from you. What a surprise. Of course I have seen you on the television and I have enjoyed watching your success. You must be so pleased. With regard to Juliet, I would be happy to help you in any way I can, but I am out of the country on business and will not return for another week. I am a bereavement counselor and sometimes I have to travel. But if you would like to email me any questions you have, I can very easily email you back. I hope you are well, and that we can meet again some time in the future.

      With best wishes, Liv x

      I dithered over the kiss at the bottom for an age. Was it too much? I wondered if I should say where exactly it was I’d gone abroad, for authenticity—Italy, perhaps? Maybe Germany? No, better to be vague. Brevity is the key, I concluded, after deleting much of my earlier version—the details about my children, my happy place of work and devoted partner—and now I have this final draft, ready to go. I gave the message a final read through, aloud, in a clear, confident voice, and suddenly I was anxious that it might seem too eager if I sent it straight away. Martha might not believe it’s really Liv! Imagine if it was all to come to an end now, simply because I got carried away with myself. So I will send it early tomorrow morning, and for now I must be content with the anticipation.

      As I sit facing myself in the dressing table mirror now, the very thought of this adventure sends a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. This is the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long time, and I’m suddenly terrified it might be taken away. What if the real Liv were to turn up again, confronting my deception? I imagine inviting her in and offering her a cup of tea before bashing her over the head with my crystal ashtray and burying her under the floorboards, just like old John Christie in 10 Rillington Place. I blink at my reflection, and then I laugh, high and loud, clamping my hand to my mouth to hold in the madness of it all.

      4

      Martha

      She’s been here before, recognizes the still-water tang of the moonlit path, the creaking murmur of houseboats and wooden decking moored along the frozen bank. It’s a shortcut home, one they’ve always taken in warmer months, but to be avoided alone after dark for fear of unseen dangers lurking in the shadows. To her right the frosted path meanders alongside the black water, disappearing into nothing as it stretches beyond the bridge. Her shallow breaths billow out in hot, white clouds, misting her vision. To her left a homeless pair sit huddled beneath sleeping bags on the wooden bench, not looking in her direction, more interested in the sandwich packet and steaming tea they’ve just been handed. You’re an angel, one of them says to no one in particular, his hand raised like that of a stained-glass saint. You’re an angel. The swishing burr of bicycle wheels; the ticker-tacker rush of air as they pass—six, eight, ten, twelve—it’s hard to know how many there are, but the riders are all young—teenagers, sixth-formers—hair and knitted scarves streaming, ivory teeth gleaming through the darkness, handlebars festooned with wicker baskets bearing fruit.

      Juliet! a voice calls out from the followers, a voice chasing after the beautiful girl at the front. Jules! Wait! And Martha realizes it’s her own voice she’s hearing, she who is calling out, the urgency knotting her stomach like rope burn.

      Incapable of movement, she watches the cyclists turn sharply where the path grows dim, and they nose-dive, bikes and all, one after the other, disappearing like fish from a bucket through the glittering surface of the Regent’s Canal. A fracture skitters across the frozen crust, breaking the waterway in two, causing the houseboats to tip and sway. She can’t bear it, the motion of the water undulating beneath