The Perfect Couple

Praise for Lisa Hall

‘Compelling, addictive … brilliant!’

B A Paris

‘A classic twisting mystery from the Queen of Suspense, Lisa Hall’

Woman’s Own

‘Brilliantly plotted … a gripping read’

Alice Feeney

‘An uneasy creeping feeling followed me through the book – I was never quite sure who I should be trusting… I read this book in one sitting because I had to know what was going to happen next. An excellent thriller that had me hooked from the start’

Katerina Diamond

‘This is an unrelenting and scarily plausible story weaved expertly around some very real characters. Good luck putting it down…’

Heat

‘Relentlessly pacey and brilliantly written’

Phoebe Morgan

‘An addictive read’

Closer

LISA HALL loves words, reading and everything there is to love about books. She has dreamed of being a writer since she was a little girl and, after years of talking about it, was finally brave enough to put pen to paper (and let people actually read it). Lisa lives in a small village in Kent, surrounded by her towering TBR pile, a rather large brood of children, dogs, chickens and ponies and her long-suffering husband. She is also rather partial to eating cheese and drinking wine.

Readers can follow Lisa on Twitter @LisaHallAuthor.

Also by Lisa Hall

Between You And Me

Tell Me No Lies

The Party

Have You Seen Her

The Perfect Couple

Lisa Hall

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Lisa Hall 2020

Lisa Hall asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008356460

Version 2020-05-07

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008356453

To my lovely Mum

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

How well do you really know the people in your life? The person closest to you – the one you live with, share a bed with, have children with… have made an entire life with? The one person you think you know every little detail about, the one you choose to let in – your significant other. It’s a question we rarely have cause to ask. You think you know it all – you know that he can’t play football anymore because he’s ruined his knees, that he has high blood pressure, that sometimes he laughs in his sleep, that he’s a good dad and a hard worker. You know that she tells everyone she is allergic to mushrooms but really she just hates them, that she can’t tolerate liars, that sometimes when she’s tired stupid things make her laugh so hard, she cries. You notice gestures, gait, intonations that are exciting at first, until they become part of everyday life, things that are as familiar to you as your own movements. But do you know what lies underneath? The secrets that hide beneath the skin, burning and branding their way into that person until they’re indelible. Until they are a part of them, hidden from view, but still there, waiting to be exposed.

And then, how well do they know you? You let slip little details as you sit over dinner, sipping wine on the perfect first date, and then as time goes on, more is uncovered. Accidentally, you reveal little bits of yourself on romantic weekends away, holidays, and then snatched moments on the sofa in the evening after a long day at work.

You think you know them inside out and you let them think the same about you, but do they really? Have you told them every little detail of what makes you, you? Do they know what really drives you? The things you keep hidden, tucked inside yourself, too ashamed to ever let them see the light of day?

Secrets. We all have them. They are the things that turn the ordinary everyday into an enigma, sometimes exciting, sometimes explosive. But some secrets are so shocking, so devastating, that you’ll do anything to keep others from finding out. So, I’ll ask you again. How well do you know the other person in your life?

Chapter One

It’s time you got yourself sorted out. Sadie’s words echo in Rupert’s ears as he drains the last of the red wine from the bottle into his glass, grubby with greasy fingerprints. He greedily swigs at the purple liquid, shuddering slightly at the furry film it leaves on his teeth. Can he really be blamed for letting things slide? He’s been on his own for months since Caro died; surely everyone is allowed some sort of mourning period, in which they don’t have to wash the dishes every night, and red wine is allowed for dessert?

He pushes himself upright from the depths of the sofa, a struggle in his mildly inebriated state, and glances around the living room, in the house he used to share with Caro. The cushions – ridiculously expensive electric blue Wolf & Badger cushions, which he’d had to bite his tongue over when Caro brought them home – are saggy and squashed without anyone to plump them. Two empty pizza boxes sit on the marble coffee table, although he hasn’t had pizza since he worked late into the evening last week. An empty white wine bottle sits alongside the now empty red wine bottle on the floor by the sofa and Rupert knows for a fact that his recycling bin is crammed full of more. He gets to his feet, stumbling slightly, almost sloshing red wine all over the cream rug in front of the open fireplace.

As he walks into the kitchen, past the pile of unopened post that sits on the worktop, the dishes that are stacked in the sink even though the dishwasher sits empty beneath the counter, cornflakes welded to the rim of the crockery, he catches sight of himself in the reflection of the kitchen window. Outside is pitch black, and his face in the glass is a stark, white oval. His hair falls over one eye, and dark circles ring his eyes. He peers into the glass, squinting at the purple stain on his lips from the wine, and bares his teeth, the purple carrying over to the enamel. It’s been a long day. Moving to the sink, Rupert tips the wine down the drain, watching as it swirls away before running the cold tap and refilling the wine glass. Sadie’s voice nips at the back of his mind, and he has to concede that maybe she does have a point, but did she have to choose today to voice her opinion?

Rupert slides into a kitchen chair, weariness infusing his bones. Today was not the best day for Sadie to tell him to get his act together. Today was Caro’s memorial. He closes his eyes and takes a sip of water, the liquid cold on his tongue and leaving his mouth full of a sharp, metallic taste.

The death knock, he believes that’s what they call it. That hard, fast knock that signals the beginning of the end of something for a family. When that knock came at Rupert’s door, on a miserable, wet January evening, the bare branches of the trees bending and swaying in the wind as rain began to lash at the windows, Rupert knew he would open the door to the police. He’d been waiting for the knock for three days. He knew what they would tell him, and his stomach had rolled as he pulled the door open, slowly, as if to delay the moment.

‘Mr Osbourne-Milligan?’ They’d stood there, grim-faced, before he’d nodded and let them into the house, and they’d told him that they’d found her car, that it was found not far from the Severn Bridge, with her purse and a card with a single word scrawled across it – ‘Sorry’ – on the passenger seat inside. That given her state of mind and previous history, they were in no doubt about what she had done.

Nothing has been the same since those two police officers stood on Rupert’s doorstep, with their serious faces and grave voices, and told him that his life was about to change forever. Everything is washed out, faded, blurred by a persistent tug of guilt every time he lets himself think of her. More so today, the day they held a memorial service in Caro’s name. Everything is over for Caro, she is at peace. He has to keep on going, guilt balanced on each shoulder.

The church had been freezing cold earlier this morning despite the weak sunshine outside, as they all shuffled in and sat, straight-backed, waiting for the vicar to start his speech. All except Michael, Caro’s father. His shoulders were rounded, hunched, grief scored into his face as he finally took his seat next to Esme, Caro’s mother. The tip of Rupert’s nose was cold, meaning he had to keep sniffing, inhaling the cat piss scent of the lilies that adorned the aisles. Thinking he was crying, Esme turned to pat his hand, a tissue pressed against her own nose, and he was grateful when numbness overtook him as the vicar stood to give Caro’s eulogy. A man who barely knew her – Caro hadn’t attended church for years despite Esme’s requests – standing talking about Rupert’s wife, telling the church how loved she was, how generous, how kind, how caring. Rupert felt disconnected, removed from the moment as the voice of the vicar boomed around the echoey chambers of the church, as though they weren’t talking about Caro. As though the vicar was talking about someone Rupert couldn’t recognize, someone he’d never met before. Then he’d had to endure drinks and a buffet at Caro’s parents’ house, as strangers – Caro’s people, not his – told him that they were sorry, but at least he could move on now. He expects this kind of thing from them, but not from Sadie.

‘Rupert? Are you OK? Well, I know you’re not OK, of course you’re not. It’s just, you don’t seem to have spoken to many people. I’m just a little worried that you’re… oh, you know what I mean.’ Sadie appears beside him in the dining room of Michael and Esme’s home, thinner than ever in her black dress, her collarbones jutting out white and bony above her neckline. She holds a glass of white wine in one hand and Rupert wonders if it would be crass to ask her to get him one.

‘I know what you mean. I can’t speak to them, Sadie. They’re Caro’s friends, not mine. I didn’t want a memorial, you know that. I did it for her mother more than anything.’ Rupert resisted the idea of a memorial for almost a year, but when Caro’s mother had cried on his last visit to her, telling him she needed a memorial before she could let Caro go, he didn’t have the heart to deny her any longer. Now, he tries to temper his tone; Sadie is – was – Caro’s best friend after all. She is feeling the loss of Caro today just as much as she did a year ago. Sod it, he needs a drink. ‘Where did you get the wine?’

‘Someone handed it to me in the kitchen. Here.’ Sadie thrusts the glass towards him, and he takes it. The wine is warm, sour on his tongue, but he swallows it down anyway.

‘I don’t even know who half these people are. I don’t even know if Caro would know who half these people are,’ Rupert says. There is a heavy lump in his stomach, weighing him down. Sadie is right, he hasn’t spoken to many people here at all, just accepted their condolences, letting Sadie and Miles brush them away. People mill about in the spacious living room, keeping their conversation to a respectable low level, as Caroline stares out from the huge framed wedding photo on the mantelpiece, her face alive, eyes sparkling, a glass of champagne in her hand as bride and groom beam into the camera.

‘I bet she could tell you the name of every person in here. She was very popular,’ Sadie says, her eyes roaming over the crowd that fills the room. ‘Everyone loved her, you know that. She was… God, Rupert, I’m so sorry.’ Her eyes fill with tears and Rupert has to look away. ‘Shit.’ She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. ‘I thought it was getting easier – it’s been a year.’

‘Old chap.’ Miles appears beside Sadie, giving her a peck on the cheek, his hand sliding around her waist as he aims a thin smile in Rupert’s direction. ‘People are starting to leave. Do you want to say goodbye?’

‘Do I have to?’ The wine has gone to his head, after he necked it on an empty stomach. Caroline would never have approved.

‘Well, not if you don’t want to…’ Sadie starts to say, before Miles interrupts.

‘Best if you did,’ he says. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes, and then they’ll all be gone. Just show your face.’ Subtly reminding Rupert that that’s what you do, when you’re upper-middle class like Miles. Show your face, keep up appearances. It’s what Caro would have wanted. Rupert hauls himself to his feet, ready to shake hands, hug, kiss cheeks until the last of the stragglers depart, and at last he’s able to think about leaving.

Finally, Sadie and Miles drive Rupert home, and they stand in the chilly living room of the house Rupert once shared with Caro. The house that still holds hints of her scent, catching him unawares, as though she is still here, a ghost that roams the rooms. He is hoping that Sadie and Miles will be leaving straight away, but Sadie shrugs off her jacket and heads through to the kitchen, and Miles starts to lay a fire in the hearth.

‘I poured you some more wine.’ Sadie comes back in carrying three glasses and a bottle on a tray, and Rupert thanks her even though he doesn’t want any more wine, the first sip feeling like acid as it burns its way down his throat. ‘You did so well today. Caro would have been proud.’

‘You did bloody well, mate.’ Miles slaps Rupert a little too firmly on the back in his attempts to sound like a regular bloke, instead of a trust-fund-supported, slightly-too-posh corporate lawyer. Which he is. ‘Cigar?’ He offers one out, a fat, juicy Cuban, and Rupert shakes his head. Where he comes from, a cigar is only for celebrations, not an everyday occurrence. ‘Mind if I…?’ Miles nods towards the door, still respecting Caro’s wishes about not smoking in the house, even though she isn’t here anymore.

‘Go ahead.’ Rupert watches him leave and when he turns back Sadie is stood beside him, so close he can feel the warmth of her breath on his face.

‘Rupert. Are you sure you’ll be OK on your own? It’s been a rough day.’ She cocks her head on one side, a sour tang of alcohol like a cloud around her. Her eyes are rimmed with red, her face pale. There is a faint smudge of mascara at the corner of her left eye, but her lipstick looks freshly applied.

‘Of course.’ He’s had a year without Caro beside him already. ‘I’ll be fine. You two should probably go. It’s been a long day, shouldn’t you be getting back to the twins?’ Blanche and Barclay – a fraternal nightmare, and Rupert and Caro’s godchildren. Rupert’s godchildren, now.

‘They’re fine. They’re with the nanny.’ She looks away, running a finger around the rim of her wine glass. ‘Rupert, if you need to talk, you can call me any time, you know that? You’ve shut us out since Caro’s been gone. You can talk to me about her – I won’t fall apart. She was my best friend, part of my life since I was eleven years old. We did everything together. I know what you’re going through. I know how it feels.’ Her words slur slightly, and Rupert realizes she’s a little drunk. She leans towards him, laying a hand on his arm, and he focuses on the gap between her two front teeth, the tiny mole that sits just above her top lip and prepares to push her away. ‘It’s been a rough year for all of us.’

‘I know. Thank you, Sadie. I promise I’ll call you if I need to talk. But you really should go now, it’s getting late.’ He places his hand on her shoulder, just firmly enough to make her start and pull away.

‘At least now we’ve had the memorial service you can start to move on, Rupert.’ Any inhibitions Sadie may have about speaking her mind have disappeared with the alcohol as she looks around the room. ‘It’s time you sorted yourself out. You know, get this place tidied up, start taking care of yourself – it can’t be good for your mental health, living like this. Caro’s gone, Rupert, but you aren’t. You’re still here.’

‘Like I said, it’s getting late. You should go.’ Rupert doesn’t want to talk about it, he never wants to talk about it.

‘Of course.’ She puts her empty glass on the low coffee table, jumping slightly as the front door slams closed and Miles appears, rubbing his hands together against the cold and stinking of cigar smoke, thick and heavy in the air. ‘Miles, we should leave Rupert in peace. It’s been a long day.’ Parroting Rupert’s words back to him as she reaches behind her for her coat, her leopard print scarf, then reaching for Rupert himself, pulling him towards her as she kisses his cheek leaving a dark red stain from her lipstick. And then they go, and he is completely alone.

Any buzz that Rupert might have got from the wine is long gone now, as he shifts in the chair, a chill settling over him despite the warmth blasting from the radiators. He feels clear-headed suddenly as he looks around the kitchen, taking in the dust that thinly coats the kitchen table, the window sill and even parts of the worktop. He let the cleaner go after Caro died. Tea stains litter the floor around the waste bin and Rupert feels a sudden surge of nausea. Sadie is right. This is not who he is. He needs to sort himself out. Caro would be appalled to see the way he’s been living since she’s been gone. He shakes his head at the thought of Caro and reaches for the bottle of whisky on the kitchen counter. He pours a healthy measure and opens up his laptop, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waits for the browser to open. He’s going to do what Sadie said – he’s going to sort himself out and get things back on track. He can’t change what happened, but he can start to move on. She’s right, it’s been long enough.

An hour later, he rereads what he has written and presses the submit button, a fluttering in his stomach making the nausea rise again, as he waits for the confirmation email. It’s done.

Chapter Two

I heave a sigh of relief as I let myself into the flat, dragging Tiny behind me. I dread walking her most of the time, my heart sinking as she dances in circles whenever Mags gets the lead out. Tiny has no idea how to behave in public, having taken to peeing on things she shouldn’t and barking at every single person who crosses our path, but the alternative is to sit in the flat all day while Mags smokes joint after joint, and sometimes I just can’t bear the thought of it; I have to get out, get some fresh air.

The strong smell of weed in the hallway tells me that Mags is awake, and she hasn’t left the flat yet. I unclip Tiny’s leash, wincing as the little dog rushes into the kitchen, barking her high-pitched, ear-splitting yaps.

‘Your dog is a psychopath,’ I say to Mags as I walk into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. I pull out a carton of orange juice, drinking deeply and ignoring my flatmate making a fuss of her socially inept chihuahua.

‘Well, there’s a reason why I ask you to take her for a walk, and it’s not just because you’re not paying me any rent at the moment.’ Mags resumes her position, sitting on the table top, and peers through the smoke curling from the end of her joint to where Tiny has tucked herself into a ball and promptly gone to sleep.

‘I am looking for a job, there just doesn’t seem to be much out there,’ I say quietly, a fizz of irritation burning low in my belly. No ‘thank you’ for taking the dog out, just a dig about my finances. I turn to the sink and start washing the glass out, letting the cold water run over my wrists.

‘Oh, you know I don’t mean it,’ Mags snorts, stubbing her joint out. ‘Take as long as you need, I can make the rent. I know you’ve had a tough time. It was just a joke.’

Secretly, I think that perhaps Mags needs to take a second look at her ‘jokes’ because they’re really not very funny, but I don’t say anything, instead just keep drying my glass until it squeaks under the pressure of my hand.

‘I like having you here, you know that.’ Mags jumps down off the table and pulls me into a musty, patchouli-scented embrace. ‘I don’t mind looking after you.’

‘I don’t need looking after,’ I pull away, resisting the urge to wrinkle my nose. I’ll never get used to the incense that Mags burns day and night. Mags has been kind to me after what happened with Harry, but honestly this was only ever meant to be a temporary thing. I didn’t envisage myself still living here six months on.