The Last Lie: The must-read new thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author

It was not to be. It was a birthday party and no more.

She’d learned her lesson, though. Don’t get carried away with the hope. It only led to disappointment, which was a new and unwelcome shock to her. She had never really had to face not having something she wanted. Her parents had come from humble backgrounds in the North East, but had managed to build up a chain of estate agents together. They had both worked long hours to do it and, in her mum’s case, developed unhealthy ways of coping with the stress. After her mum died, her dad threw himself into the business even more, assuaging his guilt at his absence from the home with extravagant gifts.

And as the years had gone by the gifts had grown more and more extravagant, from the house in Fulham where she and Alfie lived, to the holiday they’d recently had in Cannes, to the Range Rover they drove. In truth, she found his generosity a bit uncomfortable. A few times she and Alfie had discussed telling him they didn’t need any help, but Alfie had persuaded her there was no harm in it. He also pointed out how happy it made her dad, so they kept accepting his gifts.

Apart from in her career. That was the one area Claire refused to let him help her. She was a partner in a design firm, a world her dad knew nothing about, and she had worked her way up from the ground floor.

But now, all pride aside, she would have accepted any help her dad could have given her, but there was nothing he could do. She had everything going for her: a loving dad, a wonderful husband, her career. She was smart, athletic, healthy.

And she would have given it all to be a mother.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that being a mother was the one thing the universe was going to deny her. She felt almost as though she was in a fairy story, the lucky princess given everything, except the thing she wanted most.

She knew she was getting sick with worry – she’d been losing weight – and it made her want to hide away from the world, but she’d have to put on a brave face for the party, would have to smile and say Oh, no, we’re so busy we haven’t even thought about it yet when people asked her whether she and Alfie were planning to start a family.

She took off her jeans and sweater and opened a large cardboard box. It came from an internet company that sent new clothes; depending on what you kept and what you returned someone – although, according to Jodie, it was most likely not a person at all but an algorithm of some type, whatever the hell an algorithm was – figured out what you liked. Whoever or whatever was doing it, was uncannily accurate.

She pulled out a sleeveless navy-blue dress. It had a one-shoulder neckline, and an asymmetric hem. She pulled it on and looked over her shoulder at the back.

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

‘Hello,’ Alfie said, the door opening a crack. ‘Are you decent?’

‘Come in,’ Claire replied. ‘I’m trying on a dress.’

Alfie whistled softly. ‘Wow. You look amazing.’

‘You like it?’

He nodded, and moved behind her, running his hands from her hips to her buttocks, then around to her stomach. He pressed his lips to her neck.

‘Very much,’ he said. He reached down and pulled the dress up, stroking the backs of her thighs as he did so.

‘Alfie,’ she said, her voice low and breathless. ‘We can’t. I have my period.’

He turned her round and kissed her.

‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I want you too much.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to, but no. It’ll only be a few days.’

‘Ok,’ he said. ‘I can wait. Let’s get ready for the party. I have a surprise for you.’

‘Really?’ She was not in the mood for surprises. ‘What kind of surprise?’

‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’

Alfie

Standing in front of the fireplace, Alfie tapped his glass – crystal, full of vintage champagne, he loved this stuff, he really did – with the handle of his fork – silver, antique – and watched as conversations died down and heads turned to face him. When the room was silent, he smiled and started to speak.

‘Thank you all,’ he said, ‘for coming to celebrate this very special day. My wife’ – he turned to Claire and smiled – ‘it’s still a thrill to call her that, even after three years, is celebrating her thirtieth birthday. I told her before the party that I had something special for her, and I do.’

He gestured to Jodie, who moved to the front of the guests and handed him a guitar. It was a Martin D50 which Claire had bought him, after some not-too-subtle hints, for his last birthday. It was an instrument he had dreamed of owning all through his childhood, but which, until he met Claire, had been woefully out of his reach. Woefully out of most people’s reach.

‘Alfie,’ Claire said, ‘what are you doing?’ She looked at Jodie, eyebrows raised.

Jodie held up her hands, palms facing Claire. ‘Merely doing what I was told,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Jodie,’ Alfie said, and then turned to Claire. ‘I wrote you a song,’ he said. He slipped the strap over his neck and held up his right hand. ‘I know, it’s soppy and over the top but I don’t care. I’m the luckiest man alive, and I want everyone to know it. So, here we go. It’s called “Since the Start”.’

He strummed an E chord and started to sing.

‘Since the start

Since the day I met you

Since the start

I have known I loved you.’

He sang the rest of the song. It was pretty good, in a way. Highly derivative, basic chords, minimal musicianship required, but writing and playing and singing it would be far beyond most people, which was what mattered. When he finished, he could tell that the guests’ reactions were mixed: the women were touched at his display of naked emotion, the men looked faintly embarrassed for him.

Which was good. That was exactly what he wanted them to feel. He wanted everyone to see how much in love with his wife and how different to all the other guys he was.

Claire, predictably, had tears in her eyes. As the applause died down she hugged him, kissing his cheek and ear and mouth.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘That was beautiful. I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’

After the song, Mick, Claire’s dad spoke. He gave a tearful tribute to her and talked about how proud Penny, his wife and Claire’s mum, would have been of her daughter. He didn’t mention Alfie – or his song – which was par for the course. When he had finished and the guests had returned to their increasingly drunk and loud conversation about politics or sport or something else they knew nothing about, Alfie slipped out to the kitchen.

He put on his jacket. He had a packet of Chesterfields and a book of matches and he was planning to sneak off and find a secluded spot – there was a bench in a corner of Mick’s vast back garden that would do – where he could light up and have a quiet smoke. He had a packet of mints, too; on one occasion before they got married he’d said he’d do anything for her and Claire had asked him to give up – for his sake, she said, because she loved him so much and couldn’t bear the thought of him poisoning himself, the soppy bitch – and he didn’t want her finding out he’d lied.

He walked through the kitchen and opened the back door to the terrace. There was a footstep behind him.

He turned around. It was Mick. He was holding a large tumbler of whisky, his face red with a combination of high blood pressure and too many drinks.

‘Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘Thanks for hosting. It’s a great party.’

‘No problem. Anything for my little girl.’ Mick nodded at the terrace. ‘Going out?’

‘Could do with a bit of fresh air.’

‘Too warm in here?’ Mick glanced at the window. The moon was visible, still low in the sky. ‘It’s dark out.’

‘It’s fine in here.’ Alfie smiled. ‘I was just thinking of taking a walk. But I don’t have to.’

Mick held up a hand. ‘No. You do whatever you want. I was only asking. I did want to talk to you, though.’

‘Oh?’ Alfie said. Mick and he had never been close. They had probably had no more than two or three one-on-one conversations since he and Claire had met. Mick was not the kind of father who warmed to the men who were sleeping with his daughter. No doubt he had fantasies of taking Alfie shooting and accidentally unloading both barrels on him. Alfie didn’t mind. He’d had the same thoughts himself. He couldn’t stand the old bastard.

He liked his money, though.

And the money he’d given to Claire. There was at least a couple of million in various investments, moved into some kind of trust in her name to avoid inheritance tax. Claire didn’t like to talk about it, but Alfie knew it was there, because Mick had tried to make him sign a pre-nup.

Well, he’d tried to make Claire make Alfie sign one. When she mentioned that her dad thought it might be a good idea, Alfie had agreed.

If you think it’s necessary, darling. I wouldn’t want it to come between us. I trust you totally.

She was visibly uncomfortable. I trust you too. But Dad’s insisting.

Then you should do it. Your dad obviously doesn’t think we’re going to last, and maybe you share his opinion.

She didn’t do it. She told Alfie a few weeks later there wouldn’t be a pre-nup, and she never mentioned it again. It was at least two months before Mick spoke to him again, and when he did Alfie loved it. Mick didn’t like losing; Alfie liked winning.

Mick coughed. ‘I wanted to say that I was touched by your song. It’s not the kind of thing I would ever have done – or anyone I know, for that matter – and I have to say I found it a bit bloody much, but Claire liked it. And that’s all that counts.’

It was clear the words were hard for him to say. He would have preferred to have been congratulating Alfie for scoring a hat-trick of tries or his first test century or landing a particularly hard left hook, but a romantic – soppy – song would have to do.

‘Thank you, Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘That means a lot.’

‘You probably guessed this,’ Mick said. ‘But I didn’t think much of you when I first met you. I thought you were a bit of a chancer, if I’m honest. I thought you lacked drive, and ambition, which is why I wanted the pre-nup. And maybe I should have insisted, but you make Claire happy. I’ve realized it doesn’t matter whether you’re the kind of man that I think is right for her. All that matters is whether she thinks you are. I’m glad she’s found somebody she can have the life she wants with.’

He was, Alfie realized, quite drunk. Perhaps it was deliberate. After all, it was the only way he would ever be able to force the words he’d just said out of his mouth.

‘She makes me very happy too,’ Alfie said.

‘Good.’ Mick was clearly not interested in how Alfie felt. ‘And now you need to give her what she really wants.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘I never thought I’d say this to any man about my little girl, but it’s time to get busy! She wants a baby, and there’s no point in wasting time.’

His little girl, Alfie thought, who liked, on occasion, to be handcuffed to their bed and blindfolded. She was an annoying bitch, but in the right mood, she was good in bed. He wondered what Mick would think if he knew. Perhaps some photos could find their way into his possession so he could see what his little girl got up to.

‘We’re working on it,’ Alfie said. ‘Hope to have news soon.’

Mick’s eyes narrowed. Alfie realized he had said too much. Claire, evidently, had not mentioned they were trying.

‘Is everything OK?’ Mick said. ‘Are you having problems?’

‘No,’ Alfie said. ‘No problems. It’s early. That’s all.’

‘OK. Good luck.’ He reached forward and patted Alfie on the shoulder. ‘And take care of my girl.’

‘I will,’ Alfie said. ‘You can count on it.’

Claire

Claire finished her glass of champagne. She looked around the room for Alfie; after his song and her dad’s speech he’d disappeared. It had been a while – maybe twenty minutes – and she wondered where he’d gone.

She was glad he’d gone, as it happened. She’d kissed him and whispered a Thank you, that was beautiful in his ear when he had finished singing, but in truth she wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about it. She veered between thinking it was a beautiful and touching gesture, and thinking it was a bit – well, a bit embarrassing. She knew he was soft and romantic and she loved that about him, but the song had been a little too soft and romantic – not to mention too public – for her.

She sometimes wondered whether Alfie misunderstood her. She loved his kindness and generosity but she got the impression he thought she was fragile and needed to be handled with kid gloves. She wasn’t; she might have lived a life of material privilege, but she’d lost her mum as a teenager and no amount of holidays and clothes and cars could take away the hard edge that had left her with. It rarely came out in her private life, and almost never in her marriage, but Claire was known at work as a tough-minded and serious professional. Alfie never really talked to her about work. She got the impression he thought it was just something she did for fun, but it was far from it. She would explain it to him one day.

She walked towards one of the waiters for a refill. She’d already had three – or maybe four – glasses, but more champagne was the only way she would get through the party. As she reached him, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

She turned around. A guy called Hugh was smiling at her. He was wearing red trousers and a designer cardigan. His thinning hair was cut short and his eyes were glassy. She’d known him for as long as she could remember; his parents were friends with her mum and dad, and he had been invited to family events – birthday parties, weddings – over the years. He was a few years older and for a while their parents had harboured ideas that they might get together when the right time came, ideas that Hugh had clearly shared; on her fifteenth birthday he had tried to kiss her and, when she twisted away, had grabbed her breasts with both hands. She froze, and he took advantage of her shock by thrusting his hand up her skirt and into her underwear.

As soon as she realized what was happening, she ran downstairs, intent on telling her dad what Hugh had done, but when she got there he was standing with Bill, Hugh’s dad, laughing about something. She hadn’t seen him laugh much since her mum died, and she stopped, suddenly unwilling to do anything to upset him.

So she said nothing. And she’d said nothing ever since. But every time she saw Hugh she felt sick.

‘Hi,’ he said, his hand running down her arm to her elbow. ‘Nice party.’

She shrugged his hand away. ‘Thanks for coming.’ Her voice was cold.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he said. ‘We’ve not seen each other for ages. Since the wedding, I think?’

‘Could be,’ Claire said.

‘What have you been up to?’ Hugh asked.

‘This and that.’

‘Have I caught you in a bad mood? You can tell me. We go back forever.’

‘No,’ Claire said. ‘I’m looking for Alfie. He’s gone missing.’

‘Alfie,’ Hugh said. ‘The lovely Alfie. I must say, it was quite a song. Quite a … scene.’

Claire looked at him for a while before she answered. She realized she was no longer embarrassed by Alfie’s song. It represented everything that was good about him, everything that was genuine and decent and honest. Everything that made him different to Hugh.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was. It was wonderful.’ She smiled. ‘Very few men could do something like that, Hugh, don’t you think?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I have to go. And hopefully it’ll be another three years before we meet again.’ She sipped her drink, then added, ‘Or maybe longer. A lot longer.’

She walked across the room, not sure where she was heading but simply glad to be away from Hugh. She saw her dad walking into the living room. He caught her eye and gestured to her to come over.

‘You got a second?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘I was just chatting to Alfie,’ he said. ‘Telling him I’m glad you two are happy …’

Claire raised an eyebrow. That kind of conversation was not the norm for him and his son-in-law.

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m getting soft in my old age. Anyway, he mentioned something about trying for a baby.’ He looked at her, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Is everything OK?’

Claire nodded, then, after a second, shook her head. ‘It’s been a while,’ she said.

Her dad pointed to a man standing by the fireplace. He was tall, with neat grey hair. ‘That’s Tony Scott. He’s a friend of mine, and a doctor. I asked him for the name of a good fertility specialist—’

‘Dad!’ Claire said. ‘I don’t want everyone to know.’

‘They won’t. He’s a doctor. He’ll keep it to himself. And he gave me a name. Dr Singh, in Harley Street. Call him and say that Tony Scott gave you his name. He’ll see you.’

Claire shook her head. ‘We’ll be OK. It’s not time for a doctor yet.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ her dad said. ‘See him, get checked out. If there’s nothing wrong, it’ll put your mind at ease.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘OK? You going to do it?’ He smiled a sad smile. ‘Your mum would want me to do whatever I can to help. She loved you, Claire. I know she had her problems, but she was a good mum. All she wanted was for you to be happy. That’s all I want.’

‘I am happy, Dad,’ Claire said. ‘And I’ll do it. Thank you.’

Her dad nodded and headed off towards the waiter. Claire watched him go. He was as good and loving a father as anyone could wish for. Between him and Alfie, she had the best two men possible in her life.

Alfie

Alfie sat on the stone bench and sucked on his cigarette. The house was at least fifty yards away and he was hidden from view by a pergola. He looked back at the house, watching for anyone coming towards him. He could easily put out his cigarette and vanish into the bushes, if he needed to.

It was ridiculous, hiding out to smoke a cigarette. He was a grown man. But it was typical of his wife: she had gone on and on at him about quitting since what felt like the day they’d married.

I know I’m nagging, Alfie, but it’s only because I love you. I can’t bear to see you harming yourself. And what about our kids? I don’t want them to be deprived of their father.

Over and over and over again, until in the end he’d given in and promised to stop, a promise he had no intention of keeping, so now he had to do it in secret.

It was the perfect symbol of how trapped he was by his stupid bitch of a wife.

They had met at a house like this, at the ostentatious wedding of some school friend of Claire’s. It was quite a party – magicians working the crowd, a mini-fairground, all the booze you could drink. The champagne fountain alone probably cost more than Alfie earned a month. Three months.

Not that he was drinking from it. Claire was there as a guest. Alfie was the help.

Specifically, he was in the band, playing bass. Alfie was a recent, part-time member. The band had been mildly successful – a few top twenty hits – in the early 2000s, but had been playing smaller and smaller venues as their popularity dwindled, until they ended up doing cover versions of bigger hits than theirs at expensive weddings. Over time the line-up had changed until only the singer and drummer remained. To fill the gaps they brought in jobbing musicians and Alfie was merely the latest.

He noticed Claire early on. At first he wasn’t sure why, but something set her apart. It wasn’t the way she looked – she didn’t particularly stand out from the other expensively dressed, tanned, yoga-bodied mid-twenties women. It was amazing what expensive clothes, professional make-up and a flattering haircut could do. All of them, whether naturally pretty or not, looked like models. The kind of models you’d see in a Land Rover advert at any rate.

Alfie found them both fascinating and repellent. He hated the way they took all this for granted, as though this kind of party, this kind of wealth, was simply how the world was. They had no idea how other people – people like him – lived, and they didn’t want to know. They kept to their own set, gave their kids names that marked them out as belonging, as being ‘one of us’.

Yet at the same time he couldn’t keep his eyes off them. He was jealous, and hated that too.

But more than anything he hated the fact these people would never accept him.

Strangely, though, it was that which drew him to Claire. She seemed vulnerable, a little apart from her friends. Watchful. Later he’d find out it was because her mum had died when she was young and she had lost the ability to trust – other people, her future, the world in general, or so her therapist had told her – but looking at her from the stage at that moment he didn’t care why it was.

He cared that she turned away from the braying City boys who grabbed at her hand in an attempt to get her to dance, and then watched them, almost wistfully, as they turned their attention to someone else. He could see she was glad they had left her alone, but also disappointed. All she needed was the right one, one who understood her insecurity, who knew how fragile she was.

He could see she needed someone who wasn’t threatening. Well, he could be that. He could be whatever she wanted, if it meant he got to come to these weddings as a guest.

Not to mention all the other benefits that went with life as someone like Claire’s boyfriend. Smart address, smarter holidays, no money worries ever again. So, yes, whatever she wanted, he would be.

Midway through their set, the band took a break. He declined their offer of a joint behind the stage, and walked to the bar, where Claire was getting a drink.

Water please, he said, then nodded at Claire. Hi.

Hi, she said. Are you in the band?

Yep. Hope you’re enjoying it.

Up close she was very pretty. Unlike most of the other guests she didn’t need the expensive grooming.

You guys are great! I loved your song. You know – the one – she blushed as she realized she didn’t remember the name of the band’s hit. Alfie smiled.

Don’t worry. I wasn’t in the band then. At the moment I’m helping them out.

Is that what you do? Help out bands?

I’m a musician, yes. If that’s what you’re asking. I do all kinds of stuff.

Wow, Claire said. I wish I could play an instrument.

You could, if you tried.

You’re very kind, but I don’t think so. I’m tone deaf. She laughed. You should hear me singing.

I’d like to. And anyone can learn.

Not me!

The barman handed Alfie his water.

Not drinking? Claire said. I thought you musicians were wild?

I have to drive home. I have work tomorrow.

Another wedding?

Alfie shook his head. Tutoring. It’s hard to make a living from royalties alone.

Royalties? Claire’s eyes lit up. Have you released records?

Quite a few. At least, I’ve been on quite a few.

Anything I’d have heard of?

I doubt it.

Her smiled faded. Are they alternative indie things that only the arty kids listen to?

They’re certainly things kids listen to, but I’m not sure about the alternative indie part.

Come on, then. Tell me one of them.

Well, Alfie said, the most recent one was a ballad. It tells the story of a worm who lives at the bottom of a garden, and whose name is Wiggly-Woo. The one before you might remember from your infant school – I played piano on ‘The Dingle-Dangle Scarecrow’.