A Few Little Lies Read online

  Steam rose from a stack of sad-looking profiteroles. Gena blushed.

  ‘The defrost on the machine down there doesn’t seem to work, so I’ve given them a couple of minutes on full,’ she explained, hovering nervously.

  Dora took a side plate from the tray and prised a dripping cake from the heap with a teaspoon – the chocolate bubbled ominously.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be just fine,’ she said, ignoring the hiss as the cake landed on the plate.

  Parking in Norwich was a complete bitch. Dora arrived late, feeling ruffled after the drive, and slid into a seat at the end of the aisle beside a large woman wearing a duffel coat. The lights in the television studio were already dimming. On the stage below the tiered seating, a small oily-looking man in a checked suit was running through a selection of extremely old jokes. He waved his arms towards the studio audience with gusto, as if he might be able to incite laughter by friction.

  The woman in the duffel coat sniffed disapprovingly and began to rummage through her handbag. Further along the row a group of students sniggered, while on the studio floor, the camera crew stalked backwards and forwards around the set, hooked up to their cables and moving like bored fish. The warm-up man faded rather than finished and a polite flurry of sympathetic applause broke out amongst the audience.

  A man with a clipboard, finger in his ear, stepped into a spotlight, his face fixed in a rictal grin.

  ‘Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he smirked with genuine plastic warmth. ‘It’s a real pleasure to welcome you to …’ he glanced fleetingly at his clipboard ‘… tonight’s recording of “Steve Morley Moments”. Now, when Mr Morley comes on I’d like you to give him a really rousing welcome. The cameras will pan around the audience as the music comes on, so we want lots of smiles.’ He pulled his face into an even more exaggerated grimace. ‘Let the people at home know you’re really happy to be here.’

  The woman next to Dora sniffed again and then unexpectedly offered her a mint humbug. Dora sucked her way through Steve Morley interviewing a poet with a lisp, a drum majorette troop, a mime artist …

  She stifled a yawn. It was the first time she had been to see a television recording and she decided it would probably be the last. The mime artist left to a crackle of applause and a few bars of ‘The Entertainer’ played over the PA.

  ‘And finally, ladies and gentlemen …’ the unctuous tones of Steve Morley oozed through the loudspeakers from his mock, mock Tudor living room. He stepped forwards, lifting his arms as if he were bestowing a benediction on the audience.

  ‘… I’d like you to give a really warm Steve Morley welcome to Catiana Moran, the babe of the bed chamber, the first lady of lust …’ Over the PA came the antiquated bumps and grinds of ‘The Stripper’.

  Dora leant forwards and let out a little hiss of admiration as Catiana Moran chasséd gracefully across the small stage. There was a flurry of applause that grew into a roar of approval as Catiana stepped into the spotlight.

  The woman oozed sexual possibilities. Calvin had been spot-on with his description: she was statuesque with a great mane of tussled strawberry-blonde hair. Her little black dress, barely reaching mid-thigh, glistened over every curve, as if it had been sprayed on. Dora held her breath, while below her Catiana Moran curled herself provocatively onto Steve Morley’s leather sofa and crossed her impossibly long legs.

  ‘Good evening, Steve,’ she purred, in a voice that seemed to trickle, rich as pure caramel, from somewhere just below her navel.

  Steve Morley flushed crimson and began to stutter.

  ‘Cut, cut,’ snapped the little man with the clipboard. ‘If we can take it from you saying, “Good evening, Steve”?’

  Around Dora, the audience seemed to have woken up – all eyes firmly fixed on the reclining form of Catiana Moran.

  ‘Why not?’ the blonde whispered and repeated her opening line with – if anything – more sexual emphasis.

  Steve Morley adjusted his tie and leant forwards, extending his hand. ‘Very nice to have you with us, Catiana. My first question is, can you tell us how you got started writing the books you’re so famous for?’

  Catiana shifted position, rolling over on the sofa so that her chin was resting on her hands – the effect was devastating.

  ‘Oh, Steve, darling, everyone always wants to know that. Haven’t you got anything more interesting written down on your little clipboard?’

  Dora mouthed the answers she had written, while the stunning strawberry blonde on the stage recited them. Catiana added extra emphasis to the word ‘clipboard’, imbuing it with a heady erotic frisson.

  Steve Morley shuddered nervously and loosened his tie. ‘What about this latest book? Am I right in thinking that you’ve finally decided to go public and promote what the papers are calling “the hottest hot novel since time began”?’

  Catiana ran her tongue around her scarlet lips. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Oh, yes …’

  The audience, to a man, craned forwards to see how Steve Morley would cope with this siren.

  Dora smiled and picked up her handbag before slipping silently into the aisle. She had to ring Calvin to tell him – for once – he’d got everything just about right. As she got to the exit she glanced back at the stage. Catiana Moran had slipped off her high heels and was stroking one foot over her long, long leg. Every eye in the house was on her. Steve Morley was practically drooling.

  ‘You said you didn’t even read her books.’ Sheila bustled along the shopping precinct in Fairbeach, clutching her brolly like a quarterstaff.

  Close behind, head bowed against the scathing wind, Dora pulled her raincoat tighter.

  ‘Just call it curiosity,’ she said between gritted teeth, wondering what on earth had possessed her to ask Sheila to go with her to Smith’s.

  Sheila snorted. ‘You’re not going to buy anything, are you?’

  Dora pushed open the shop door and was struck by the heady aroma of new paper and warm damp bodies.

  ‘I might do. It depends,’ she said, over her shoulder.

  She looked around, expecting to see Calvin Roberts lurking somewhere. Instead Catiana Moran was sitting alone at a trestle table near the book section, cradling a gold pen. Her nail varnish and the swathes of silk ribbon pinned around the table matched exactly.

  In daylight, Catiana Moran was paler, slimmer – if anything more stunning – dressed in an impossibly tight copper dress that emphasised every electric curve. Against the backdrop of browsers and shoppers, wrapped up in their macs and sensible shoes, she looked like an exotic refugee from a night club, caught travelling home in her party clothes.

  Several shoppers stopped to take surreptitious glances in her direction, a few ventured closer to be rewarded by her huge carnivorous smile. She worked through the little scrum around her with aplomb, flirting, teasing, tipping her head provocatively to listen to their messages and their dedications. She was a sequinned shark amongst a shoal of minnows. It was very difficult not to be impressed.

  Sheila stepped closer to Dora, who was hovering, undercover, near the video section.

  ‘She looks a right tart,’ Sheila hissed. ‘She won’t sell a lot of that kind of thing in Fairbeach, you know. It was packed in here last week when that cookery woman came. She gave everyone bits of broccoli quiche.’

  But Dora had already stepped towards the table. Catiana Moran looked up as Dora made her way to the front of the queue, and beamed, eyes glittering like bright shards of broken glass. Dora pointed towards the pile of novels stacked beside her.

  ‘Hello, are they going well?’ she asked unsteadily.

  Her alter ego nodded. ‘Oh, yes. My books are ever so popular,’ she said in the same toffee-brown voice Dora had heard during the TV recording. ‘Have you read any of them?’ Catiana’s eyes were blue-green with tiny flecks of gold which glittered in the shop lights – she was truly beautiful.

  Dora reddened as she felt Sheila approaching. ‘Yes,’ she said quie
tly, ‘every one of them.’

  Catiana’s smile widened. ‘Oh, wonderful. Then you’re going to love the latest one. It’s really good.’

  Dora took a book from the pile and slid it across the table. Behind them. Sheila sniffed as Catiana Moran opened the pages with carmine fingertips.

  ‘Would you like me to sign it for you?’ she purred.

  Dora nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  She rolled the gold pen between her fingers. ‘Who would you like me to dedicate it to?’

  ‘Dora,’ Dora whispered in an undertone, ‘Dora Hall.’

  Catiana whipped the pen across the fly leaf and pressed the book into Dora’s hand. ‘Enjoy,’ she murmured.

  Reddening, Dora nodded and scuttled towards the cash desk. At her shoulder she could feel Sheila’s embarrassment throbbing like toothache. When Dora glanced back towards Catiana, the beautiful, predatory blonde was surrounded by a group of young men; she threw back her head and laughed as she pulled another book off the stack.

  Dora laid her copy on the cash desk. The shop assistant slid it into a bag.

  ‘Do yer like her then?’ the woman asked, nodding towards the back of the store, as she handed Dora the change.

  Dora smiled broadly. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I think I do.’

  2

  Lawrence Rawlings looked out of the window in his study. He could hear the bells of All Saints ringing in The Close. The panelled room was sparsely furnished with elegant pieces of antique furniture, so familiar that Lawrence barely noticed them. Nothing was out of place, which was how he preferred it. The spring sunlight picked out his distinctive features and then moved on to the family photographs and paintings on the wall, echoes of his past and present. Arms folded behind his back, he stretched up onto his toes. He didn’t turn round as the door opened, nor when the man he had invited settled himself into the chair on the far side of the ornate mahogany desk.

  ‘My family have lived in this house for seven generations,’ Lawrence said, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper – he could almost have been talking to himself. ‘We have been merchants, mayors, councillors, pillars of the establishment – centre stage in Fairbeach’s long and illustrious history.’

  Behind him the man shuffled the chair closer to the desk. Lawrence paused.

  ‘I want you to find out everything you can about this young woman who calls herself Catiana Moran. Her real name is Lillian Bliss. I don’t need to explain the need for discretion. I want everything you can get your hands on. Is that perfectly clear?’

  His guest made a noise, a low guttural sound that may or may not have been an answer.

  ‘There is an envelope on the desk with what details I already have, and your first cheque,’ continued Lawrence.

  There were two magpies cavorting on the lawn near the orchard. One hopped up onto a low branch amongst the blossoms. Two for joy. Lawrence allowed himself a thin smile.

  ‘You know, my father planted that apple tree on the day I was born.’

  His silent companion coughed. Lawrence Rawlings slipped his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket and fingered the business card the man had sent with his brochure. ‘I think that will be all for the time being. I expect to hear from you soon. I’d like to make it clear that I am not used to this kind of thing; you are the first private detective I have ever felt the need to engage. Your card says Safeguard Associates. What should I call you?’

  ‘Milo,’ said his visitor. ‘Just call me Milo.’

  When the door closed behind his visitor, Lawrence carefully opened the window and took his garden gun from the umbrella stand.

  ‘One for sorrow,’ he said wryly, closing one eye and taking aim. The 4.10 cracked out across the still morning. There was a flurry of feathers, black and white on the dewy grass. In The Close the five-minute bell rang. Lawrence checked his watch – he would just have time to get to Communion with his daughter Sarah, Calvin and the girls, if he hurried.

  In her flat in Gunners Terrace, Dora was spooning tuna chunks onto a saucer, while something vaguely musical rattled around inside the radio. Oscar insisted she work faster, his thoughts so loud that she glared at him furiously.

  ‘Pack it in, I hear you, I hear you. Talk to the guys who decided tuna should be sold in secondhand submarines, it’s knackered my tin opener.’

  The cat narrowed his eyes and his thoughts became unrepeatable.

  Sunday mornings were quiet. Once a month Dora put flowers on an unmarked grave and then went for a girls-only lunch at Sheila’s, while her brother-in-law and their two children went fishing. On the draining board, in a milk bottle, stood a single cream rose: a fitting floral tribute.

  From the office she heard the sound of the phone and hurried to get to it before the answering machine cut in.

  At the far end of the line Calvin Roberts chuckled.

  ‘Morning, Dora. Got your message. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’m glad you liked Catiana. I got the page proofs for One Hundred and One Hot Nights yesterday. Would you mind if I popped round for a few minutes and dropped them off?’

  Dora sighed. ‘Six days shalt thou labour, Calvin. Surely a good High Church boy like you has got that tattooed somewhere significant. Haven’t you got a regular Sunday morning assignation with the Almighty?’

  Calvin snorted. ‘It’s the wife who’s the God-botherer, Dora, not me. I’m firmly aligned with Mammon, and trust me she’s not tattooed, I would have noticed. So, what shall we say? Ten minutes?’

  Dora sighed. ‘Calvin. It’s Sunday. I’m just about to go out for lunch.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – roast chicken with Sheila?’ said Calvin flatly. ‘I bet you can hardly wait.’

  Dora rolled her eyes heavenwards. Calvin definitely knew too much about her private life.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ she said, and hung up.

  Dora heard the doorbell ring just after she’d convinced herself Calvin wasn’t coming after all. She pressed the security button and was about to call him up when she heard another voice over the speaker – a low, throaty chuckle alongside Calvin’s cheerful greeting.

  ‘Have you got someone with you?’ Dora demanded, as the downstairs door opened: She waited apprehensively in the hall. Calvin, cigar in hand, pushed open the landing door. Just ahead of him, nestled in the crook of his arm, was Catiana Moran. She was wearing a pair of navy pedal pushers, cream high-heeled mules and a matching angora sweater, all wrapped around in a fake-fur jacket.

  There was a peculiar time-defying moment when Dora stared at Catiana and Catiana stared back.

  Catiana nibbled her beautifully painted lips. ‘Hello, Mrs Hall,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Calvin steered the girl into the hall before Dora had chance to reply or protest.

  ‘Dora, may I present Miss Lillian Bliss or, should I say. Miss Catiana Moran.’

  Dora shook the girl’s hand, knowing full well she had her mouth open but feeling completely powerless to close it. Finally, she forced a smile and in a tight, uneven voice suggested they might be more comfortable in the sitting room.

  As Lillian shimmied through the door, Dora beaded Calvin and with a curled finger invited him to follow her into the kitchen. Still smiling he did as he was told.

  ‘I’ve got your page proofs. One Hundred and One Hot Nights, straight off the press,’ he said, clutching a padded envelope in front of his rotund little belly like a shield. Dora pushed the door to behind him.

  ‘Page proofs?’ she hissed.

  Calvin took a healthy chug on his cigar and shrugged. ‘Lillian said she’d like to see where you worked, give her a sense of her life, her background.’

  Dora stared at him. ‘Her background? What background? She doesn’t have a background, Calvin. She’s a model. You wind her up, pay her her money and send her home. We hired her so that I could keep my background to myself –’ Dora knew she was fast running out of words, they were all jammed up behind by a little scarlet flare of in
dignation.

  Behind them Lillian pushed the kitchen door open.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Hall,’ she said tentatively, peering into the room. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything, I just wondered if I could use your loo?’

  Before Dora could answer, Calvin smiled. ‘Sure thing, sweetheart. It’s the second door on the right. Dora was just saying how nice it was to meet you. She was about to put the kettle on.’

  Dora groaned and Lillian slipped away, tip-tapping in her mules across the lino.

  ‘Sweetheart?’ Dora hissed.

  Calvin shrugged. ‘She’s a nice girl. She just wanted to come up and see where you worked. It’ll make her more real, more convincing – like method acting.’

  Dora slammed the kettle under the taps. ‘We’re talking about a model signing a few books here, Calvin, not Brando.’

  Calvin pouted. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss.’

  Dora had a sense of foreboding. ‘Sorry?’

  Calvin dropped the envelope onto the kitchen table. ‘My phone’s been ringing off the hook since Lillian did the Steve Morley show. Regional TV want her to do a late-night slot on the Tuesday arts programme.’ He paused. ‘We just need another script. I’ve put the questions in there, they faxed them through first thing this morning.’

  Dora threw two bags into the teapot.

  ‘Another script,’ she repeated. ‘When are they going to record the programme?’

  Calvin puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s going out live on Tuesday night.’

  Dora was about to speak but Calvin hurried on.

  ‘Lillian’s a natural, Dora, she learns really quickly, all she needs to swing it is your script.’

  Dora licked her lips. ‘I see. So when do you need this work of literary genius?’

  Calvin smiled. ‘By tomorrow afternoon. Won’t be a problem, will it?’

  It was not the easiest social event Dora had ever hosted. Lillian Bliss perched on the edge of the settee, looking around, taking in everything with her bottle-blue eyes, unsure quite what to say. Calvin hid behind a cloud of cigar smoke and Dora played mother.