Her Perfect Lies. Lana Newton

she could see a sprawling lawn and a white staircase curving up to a set of French doors. It was not a house; it was a mansion. As she gaped at it, wide-eyed, Paul opened her car door. She emerged, slipping on wet gravel. He caught her mid-fall but almost immediately let go.

      Bright lights snapped on suddenly along the front of the house, startling her. ‘Motion sensors,’ explained Paul. He carried her suitcase up the stairs and there was nothing left for her to do but follow into the life she knew nothing about. The rain lashed the side of her face as she walked, and the droplets ran down her body, filling her shoes with water.

      When they reached the front door, she heard whimpering. Surprised, she glanced at Paul, but he was busy fumbling for the keys. Finally, he unlocked the door, letting her in. As soon as she stepped over the threshold, she was under attack. Something enormous crashed into her, making her cry out in terror. She lost her footing and fell, at the last moment grasping a wall. A large beast wrestled her to the ground, its heavy breathing in her ear. Barking excitedly, it slathered her with a long, wet tongue. Catching her breath, she ran her fingers through the fur. When Paul turned on the lights, she saw the beast was only a dog. It was a large Labrador, with a long tail and droopy ears.

      ‘Down, Molokai,’ said Paul. Instantly the dog leapt off but continued jumping on the spot, its yellow tail dancing.

      ‘Molokai?’ The word stirred something in her, a distant memory that wouldn’t rise to the surface. It wasn’t a word she recognised, and yet it sounded familiar, as if a dozen threads of her life were intertwined in those three syllables. In frustration she looked at the dog and the dog looked back, its mouth open in a smile.

      ‘Molokai is an island in Hawaii,’ explained Paul. ‘That’s where we honeymooned.’

      ‘Oh. How old is she?’

      ‘He is five.’

      Carefully she rubbed Molokai behind his ear. Something told her dogs loved that. This one certainly did – as soon as Paul’s back was turned, he jumped all over her again. ‘That’s a nice welcome,’ she muttered, not sure what to do next.

      ‘Yes, he’s very friendly. Sometimes too friendly. If ever there are burglars in the house, he’ll probably lick them to death. He loves you the most.’

      Looking into the dog’s dark eyes, Claire suspected the feeling was mutual. For a moment she felt a little less lonely.

      ‘Come in,’ said Paul. ‘No point standing in the doorway like an unwanted guest.’

      But that’s how I feel, she wanted to tell him as she walked into the living room. Like an unwanted guest who had confused date and time, ending up in the wrong place when she was least expected. Luckily, Molokai was by her side. Her hand on his neck, she stared at the high ceiling and the marble floors. In the far corner of the room she spotted a white cat. It glanced at Claire for a few seconds and ran off as fast as it could, hiding behind a curtain. Looking up, she noticed an enormous crystal chandelier, all baubles and fake candles. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

      ‘Your pride and joy,’ said Paul. ‘You bought it in Italy.’

      Choosing to ignore this information, Claire perched on the edge of a sofa. Paul watched her for a few seconds. ‘No need to look so overwhelmed. This is your home. Make yourself comfortable. Hungry? There are sandwiches in the fridge.’

      ‘You made me sandwiches?’ She was touched.

      ‘Our housekeeper did.’

      ‘We have a housekeeper?’ Why did she find that so surprising? The housekeeper seemed to go hand in hand with the marble floors and the sprawling staircase. ‘How can we afford such a big house?’

      ‘Your mother bought it for us.’

      ‘My mother is rich?’

      ‘Old family money,’ he explained.

      Although food was the last thing on her mind, Claire sat down at the dining table with Molokai at her feet. She could feel his cold nose on the bare skin of her leg. Paul didn’t eat, nor did he look at her, staring at the newspaper instead. She could tell he wasn’t reading. His eyes remained steady, far away. Like jigsaw puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit they sat in awkward silence on opposite sides of the table.

      Soon there was nothing left of the sandwiches but a few pickles. She didn’t like the salty taste on her tongue.

      ‘You don’t want those? They’re your favourite,’ said Paul. ‘You always ask for extra pickles on everything.’

      Uncertainly she poked a pickle with her fork. ‘They taste like seawater.’

      ‘That explains why you like them. You love the sea.’ There was a fleeting smile on Paul’s face and this time Claire could swear it was genuine. ‘You look exhausted,’ he added. ‘Why don’t I show you to your room?’

      Gratefully, she followed him up the stairs to a spacious room decorated in beige. It was tidy but for a worn-out silk robe on an armchair. The king-size bed looked so enticing, Claire was tempted to fall in and lose herself under the covers, wet clothes and all.

      The room was quiet – no traffic, no voices and only a muffled whisper of leaves reached her through the open terrace doors. She peeked through the curtains but couldn’t see beyond the darkness.

      ‘My room is across the corridor. If you need anything, anything at all, just knock.’ He kissed her good night. His lips on her cheek were arctic. He might as well have been kissing a distant aunt.

      ‘Wait,’ she said. He paused in the doorway. She cleared her throat. ‘My mother. What’s her name?’

      ‘Angela. Angela Wright.’

      ‘And my father?’

      ‘Your father’s name is Tony.’

      And with that he was gone, shutting the door and taking Molokai with him. Claire barely had the energy to change into her nightdress, but despite her exhaustion, sleep wouldn’t come. She closed her eyes under her beige covers and concentrated on the sound of rain hitting the windowsill, repeating her parents’ names quietly to herself and hoping to remember something, anything, about them. The events of the day played over and over in her mind until she heard the phone ring, and then Paul’s voice. A minute later there was a knock on her bedroom door.

      ‘Someone just called from the hospital,’ Paul said. ‘Your father is awake.’

       Chapter 2

      The human mind … what a fragile thing it was. One minute your life had meaning. You had a past, a present and a future that was anticipated and planned for. You went to work, saved money, paid into your pension. You got married, travelled the world, fell in love, had babies, pizza every Saturday and takeaway Chinese every Friday night. And then, just like that, without any warning or indication, your mind could turn its back on you, leaving you in a void. Knowing who you are, where you are in life, all gone like an early morning fog. Without that knowledge, what was left?

      One day at the hospital, Claire had overheard the nurses chatting over their cups of coffee. If you could be anyone else for one day, who would you be, they mused as they took careful sips of their flat whites. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, to live someone else’s life for a day, to be them, to feel like them? A movie star, perhaps, or a famous singer. A cattle drover in Australia. To live a life as far removed from yours as possible, wouldn’t that be something? That was how Claire felt – like she was living someone else’s life. But it wasn’t wonderful. She felt like she was drowning and no one was there to save her.

      With a start she woke up and for a moment didn’t know where or who she was. The strange room, the luxurious bed, the expensive furniture – none of it looked familiar. And then she remembered – she was home.

      Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes. Spotting a silk robe draped