Emily curled up on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through the photos from their recent holiday on the tablet. Look, James, how ridiculous Oliver looks with that sunburned nose! she giggled, pointing at the picture of her twelveyearold son perched on the promenade in Brighton, the turquoise sea glinting behind a white paddlesteamer.
James, her husband, snapped his ledgerstyle spreadsheet of the family budget away from the kitchen table and leaned over her shoulder. Not bad, he said, but his eyes were more preoccupied than delighted. The expenses this month the sea was lovely, but weve carved a proper hole in the budget.
Emily pursed her lips. James, we havent gone anywhere all year! We saved for this. You kept saying we needed a break, that Oliver deserved a splash of salt water.
He sighed. Saying it is one thing, looking at the numbers is another. Fine, well tighten the belts next month. Olivers summer camp will have to go we simply cant afford it.
What? Cancel it? Hes been looking forward to it for months! The hikes, the kayaking Emilys voice trembled.
Itll be fine. He can spend time at Grans cottage, breathing fresh air. Itll do him good. Lets not argue, Ive made the call.
Emily fell silent. Arguing with James about money was pointless. He was a diligent husband and father, caring and reliable, but when it came to finances his mind turned to stone. Every penny was accounted for; he was proud of the safety cushion theyd built, the separate account for unexpected costs. Though Emily sometimes muttered that the cushion was too hard, deep down she admired his prudence.
She chose the perfect picture: the three of them Emily, James and Oliver standing on the Brighton boardwalk, sunkissed, with the azure sea behind them and the white paddlesteamer cutting through the waves. A postcardperfect snapshot of a happy family. She hit post on her social profile and added the simple caption: Our little slice of southern bliss.
Within minutes the likes and comments poured in: Stunning!, Looking radiant!, Where did you go? Emily replied with a grin, feeling the warm glow of virtual approval.
An hour later she was preparing dinner, when the phone rang. The screen read Sophie. Emilys sisterinlaw, Jamess sister, usually a cheerful voice, now sounded choked with sobs.
Emily is it is it real? Sophie sniffed, her words breaking.
What do you mean? Whats happened? Emily asked, concern flaring.
The photo the one online is it a fake? Sophies voice cracked.
Fake? Its just a holiday picture. Explain, Sophie, youre scaring me! Emily pleaded.
There in the background, near the steamer a man in a white shirt is that him? Is that David? Sophie whispered, breathless.
Emilys heart lurched. David Jamess best mate, the husband of their close friend Rachel, who had died three years earlier in a horrendous crash on the M1. His car had gone up in flames, his body buried in a sealed coffin. The loss had devastated everyone; James had turned gray, and Rachel, left with a toddler, had scraped by from one paycheck to the next.
David is dead, Sophie. You must be seeing things, Emily tried to steady her voice.
No! I recognise his mole on his neck, his watch! Look, Emily, please, look closely! Sophies panic was palpable.
Emily dropped the kitchen knife, wiped her hands, and rushed to the tablet. She opened the photo, zoomed in. Past their smiling faces, toward the steamer, a small group stood. Among them, a man in a crisp white shirt and light trousers turned slightly, speaking to a woman who held a little girls hand.
She enlarged the image further; the resolution was poor, but the shoulders, the tilt of his head, the watch glinting on his wrist the very watch theyd all given James and David for their thirtieth birthdays were unmistakable. The dark spot on his neck, barely visible beneath his collar, matched Davids mole.
It was him. Alive. Welldressed. With another woman and another child.
The world tilted. Emily sank onto a chair, tears stinging her eyes. It felt like some cruel, twisted prank.
Do you see? Sophie sobbed. Hes alive and Rachel shes been scraping by for three years, working three jobs, raising her daughter alone! And he just vanished! How could he?
I I dont know, Sophie Ill call you back. Emily hung up, staring at the photo of her own smiling face. She felt foolish, blind, naïve.
Then her mind, still stunned, began piecing together the jigsaw of deceit.
Jamess monthly transfers he claimed they were for his elderly aunt in York, her pension isnt enough, we have to help. He never mentioned a second aunt. Latenight hushed phone calls, stepping into another room, whispering Yes, Ive received it. No, she doesnt know. Dont worry. Hed always brushed it off as work.
His sudden stinginess over money, three years ago, his constant mantra we must save, we must cut back, his refusal to fund Olivers camp. It all clicked. He wasnt sending money to an aunt; he was funneling it to his deceased friends family, perhaps to keep the lie alive, or to fund Davids new life abroad.
The front door opened. James stepped in, humming a jaunty tune. Whats that wonderful smell? he asked, cheerfully, as he entered the kitchen.
He saw Emilys pallid face, the tablet on the table, and froze. He followed her gaze to the screen.
Did something happen? he asked, his tone suddenly flat.
It did, James, Emily said, her eyes cold, void of tears. Your sister called. She asked after Aunt Lucy from York. She must be missing her. But shes not Lucy any more. Shes David now. You know what I mean.
She swung the tablet toward him. For a split second his expression turned ashen. He understood.
Emily, I can explain he began.
No, she cut him off. I dont want to hear your lies. How much have you sent him in the past three years? One hundred thousand? Two hundred? A million? How much of our money have you stolen? From me? From our son?
I didnt steal! I was helping a friend! He was in debt, they would have killed him! The only way out was to disappear and start over! Jamess voice cracked.
And Rachel? Her daughter? Theyre not in trouble? She thought she was a widow at twentyeight! Her child growing up without a father! Did you think of them when you fed this scoundrel? Emily shouted, the room echoing with her fury. He had choices, James! Everyone does.
Choice is always there, James muttered. Rachel will manage, David had no other way.
Choice always exists, James! Emily sprang to her feet, her fist slamming the table like a gunshot. You chose him over us! You lied to me every day! Every time you said we couldnt afford Olivers camp, you lied! Every time I patched his jeans because we couldnt buy new ones, you lied! You made me an accomplice to your deceit!
James hung his head, silent.
I want to know one thing, Emily whispered, voice hoarse. Our trip to the coast we didnt end up here by accident, did we? You wanted to see him?
He gave a slow nod.
That was the final drop. Their sunny seaside getaway, their little slice of happiness, had been a cover for his secret rendezvous. Emily and Oliver had been nothing more than props in his twisted play.
She reached for her phone, her fingers trembling. Youre speaking to the only person who still knows the truth, she said, dialing.
Who are you calling? James asked, panic edging his voice.
Where theres still truth left, Emily replied.
On the other end, Sophies cracked voice steadied. Emily, give the line to Rachel.
Maybe we shouldnt, James muttered. She
Its necessary, James. She has to know. Weve lived a lie for too long.
James stared at her, horror dawning. He knew the world was about to crumble his secret, his life. He moved toward her, hands outstretched for the phone.
Dont touch it, Emily hissed, her eyes a furnace of cold anger. The line crackled, and a weary voice drifted through.
Yes, Im listening, Rachel said, her tone exhausted.
Emily inhaled deeply. Rachel, we need to talk. Its about David.
She sat down, back turned to James, who stood frozen in the doorway. The future was a dark road divorce, splitting up, Olivers tears but at that moment she was doing the only thing she could: returning the stolen truth to the woman whose life had been ripped away. The first step of her own liberation had begun.
