Summer Reads Sneaky Peeks : Caroline England's My Husband's Lies

                                            

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Blurb:
Do you really know your friends?

On the afternoon of Nick and Lisa’s wedding, their close friend is found poised on a hotel window ledge, ready to jump.

As the shock hits their friendship group, they soon realise that none of them are being as honest with themselves – or with each other – as they think.

And there are secrets lurking that could destroy everything.
Tense, disturbing and clever, My Husband’s Lies is a breath-taking read, perfect for fans of Lucy Clarke and Erin Kelly.

Author Biography:

Born Yorkshire lass, Caroline studied Law at the University of Manchester and stayed over

the border. Caroline was a divorce and professional indemnity lawyer and instigated her jottings when she deserted the law to bring up her three lovely daughters. In addition to the publication of her short story collection, Watching Horsepats Feed the Roses by ACHUKAbooks, Caroline has had short stories and poems published in a variety of literary publications and anthologies. 

Her debut novel, Beneath the Skin, was published by Avon HarperCollins on 5 October 2017. Her second novel My Husband's Lies followed on 17 May 2018.

Sneaky Peek

The champagne cork cracks like a firework. Covering her ears, she shrinks away from the hotel bar, trying to remember why she’s there. A reception, yes a wedding reception; she went to the ladies’. 

‘There you are! You disappeared. They’re taking the photo­graphs now. Are you coming outside?’ 

She puts down the glass and turns. It’s him, it’s the husband she loves far too much. His jacket is missing, his aftershave’s strong. 

Holding her breath, she listens. Pitter patter, pitter patter. ‘But it’s raining.’ 

Staring as though he knows, his eyebrows knit. ‘It stopped ages ago. Everyone else is outside. Are you coming?’ 

His tone is too loud, his waistcoat too bright.
He’s lying, he’s lying, she knows when he’s lying.
And the voice is still there; she can hear it quite clearly. 

Pitter patter, pitter patter, listen to the rain!
Pitter patter, pitter patter, on the windowpane.

God, she hasn’t heard that rhyme for years. Not her mum, surely? Yes her mum, before she grew bad: holding her close, singing softly and stroking her hair. ‘My perfect little poppet. Such a very good girl!’ 

‘Hey dreamer, are you—’ 

She jerks at the sound. It’s her husband, still gazing, his eyes telling lies. She just needs a few moments to make herself perfect. ‘You go ahead. I need the loo. I’ll be out in a minute.’ 

She watches his strides, then straightens her dress. Oh God, what the hell? Marks on her skirt, splatters on the silk. Holding her breath, she crouches down to inspect them. They dilate, creep and grow as she stares. Surely not blood? It wasn’t her fault; she didn’t mean to hurt anybody. 

After a moment she blinks. No, silly! Just water from the ladies’ tap. Or the spray of champagne! More likely the down­ fall. Pitter patter, pitter patter. She told him it was raining. 

Her mind focusing, she breathes. Everything’s fine, it really is. The room key is in her handbag, she can go up and change. Not a problem, absolutely! If she hurries, she’ll be back before anyone notices. Like rabbit running! Run rabbit, run! 

Removing her shoes, she darts up the stairs, counting each riser until she’s on the third floor. With a loud clatter and clang, she leaves the fire door behind, her feet smacking the carpet as she sprints to the room. 

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run! 

With the swipe of a card she’s in, almost giddy with purpose. 

She sits on the bed and time slows. Sees her heels in her hand and tries to focus, to think. That’s right; she came inside for the toilet. Washed her hands at the sink, watched the water drip from her fingers to avoid looking at her face. The dress, yes the dress; she needs to change it. 

Her breathing shallow and fast, she brushes her hair, lines her shoes neatly, takes off her jacket, then slips off her dress. 

‘So I feel the benefit,’ she remembers. Her mum’s words. Like the rhyme, the lovely rhyme, before she went bad. Pitter patter, pitter patter. Listen to the rain. She looks to the window. There it is, the windowpane! And she can hear it, it’s raining. 

Striding to the window, she feels the heat rising. She knew he was lying; she always knows when he lies. She has to tell him, she has to tell him. He has to know that she knows! 

The sash window protests, but she pushes and tugs and eventually it relents, yawning wide enough for her to see him and shout. 

‘Stop pretending! I know the truth! I know when you’re lying!’ 

He doesn’t turn, he doesn’t hear, so she climbs on the ledge, swaying for a moment as she straightens her legs. Closing her eyes, she stands tall. Feels the breeze, a lovely breeze. And the refreshing splatter of rain on her bare arms and belly. 

Ah, there’s the voice again, soft and reassuring. 

Pitter patter, pitter patter. 

She leans forward to listen. 

Listen to the . . . 

But a shriek spoils the moment, too loud in her ears. She looks down and teeters. 

‘Oh my God, look! There’s someone at that window. Oh my God, quick, someone help! I think she’s going to jump!’