Her Last Lie: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist!. Amanda Brittany
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but this, when she was tired and hungry, was too much. She rubbed her cheeks and neck. She wanted to be at home in her shower, letting water flow over her, and then to fall into bed next to Jack and enjoy a long uninterrupted sleep.
At first she’d missed having Jack by her side, like a child deprived of her security blanket. Taking off on the trip alone hadn’t been anywhere near as easy as it had been eight years before, when she’d raced into the unknown after university for what was meant to be a gap year, but had drifted into two. Back then, she’d travelled alone, clueless about where her next bed would be, or what job she might pick up along the way, all without fear. She longed to be that person again: the girl with her life ahead of her, before Carl Jeffery took a metaphorical sledgehammer and wrecked the mechanics of her mind.
She pinged the rubber band on her wrist and, taking a long, deep breath, tucked her hair behind her ears, and moved away from the crowd, clinging to how perfect Canada had been.
She pulled her phone from her carry-on bag and turned it on. She’d avoided the Internet and social media while away, worried she might find out something about the appeal. But now a month had passed. Whatever the outcome, it would be old news. And being off the Internet meant she’d immersed herself in her Canadian adventure, and also worked on her book.
Her phone adjusted to the London time zone, and picked up her network, bleeping, pinging, buzzing, as she was sucked once more into the frenzy of social media. Within moments she was blocking newsfeeds on Facebook and Twitter, muting notifications – hiding friends who continually shared news articles – she didn’t expect there to be any news about the appeal; it had been a month, after all – but she was taking no chances.
On WhatsApp, Millie had added her to a chat about a six-part murder mystery on Netflix. Isla hadn’t seen it, but her sister had given away so many spoilers, adding emoticons, that it probably wasn’t worth watching it now. Julian had added a comment: You’re totally useless, Millie.
Isla sighed. Why did her sister stay with him?
On Instagram, Roxanne had put on a stream of photographs of struggling refugees – another cause for her best friend’s overcrowded, want-to-help-everyone head.
Millie had put on twenty-or-so photographs of her new puppy, Larry, who looked good enough to eat. And Isla’s mum, who didn’t understand Instagram, and was pretty rubbish with anything to do with social media, had added a photograph of a chicken casserole for no apparent reason.
Twitter was dominated by Roxanne’s pleas to save foxes and badgers, and there was a string of Tweets by a magazine Isla regularly wrote for, and several updates from UK Butterflies.
Facebook was crowded by engagements and late holidays to the Mediterranean all jostling for attention. There was a wedding of an online friend Isla had forgotten she had, and another friend’s mother had passed away – Expected, she was 91, but still gutted – feeling sad.
There was a rare update by Trevor Cooper – Really must get on here more, and stop being an Internet dinosaur. Nobody had liked it, but then he didn’t have many friends. When he’d failed to get in contact again three months ago, after their chance meeting on the train, Isla hadn’t thought any more about him, pushing him far from her thoughts. Maybe she could unfriend him now.
As she scrolled, she realised she could whittle her eight hundred-or-so friends, mainly picked up from university and her travels, down to a hundred, and still not recognise some of them in the street. She wasn’t sure she even liked Facebook. In fact, sometimes she’d go on there and feel exposed.
‘Isla, nobody’s looking at you, lovely lady,’ Roxanne had said, when Isla had tried to explain her feelings. ‘And I mean that in the nicest way. They’re just having fun sharing what they’ve been up to.’
There was a thump behind her, and she turned to see a black case rumble down the conveyor. Heavy-man barged forward, grabbed it, and once it was on the floor in front of him he yanked out the handle as though gutting a fish. He pushed past the teenage girls and the elderly man, veins in his forehead pulsing as he marched towards Isla.
‘Facebook,’ he said, nodding towards Isla’s open screen as he walked by. ‘Dangerous place the Internet. You heard it here first.’
She watched him rush through Nothing to Declare.
Not if you use it right, surely.
Sidling up behind the elderly man, she waited for her case to appear, her eyes back on her phone world. She began typing:
WhatsApp: Hi, Jack, I’m back. Hope you’re OK. I’m SO tired, and probably won’t be home until gone midnight. Don’t wait up, as you need your beauty sleep. Not that you’re not beautiful, of course. Love you, Isla XX
Text: Hi, Mum, back safe. I hope you and Dad are OK. I’ll call you soon. Love you, Isla XX
Facebook: Landed in the UK – Canada was a-ma-zing. I’ll upload some photos here on the train home. Feeling exhausted, but still have to tackle the underground. AHHHHH!
She was about to close the Facebook app, when she noticed Trevor had liked her status, and that Julian had left a comment.
Does this mean you’ve FINALLY finished your book?
Before either could properly sink in, her phone pinged.
WhatsApp: Welcome back, gorgeous lady. I’m not at home, won’t be back until tomorrow. My mum was taken ill so had to go down to Dorset. Will fill you in more in the morning. Should be home around ten. Luna’s with your mum. I’ll pick her up on my way home. Hope you had a great time. Love you, Jack x
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Tuesday, 25 October 11.30 p.m.
CANADA
So here I am, travelling home on the train after my wonderful trip, and uploading the photographs I promised to post here before I left. Hope you like them. Canada was a-ma-zing.
I’ve so enjoyed posting photos and news about my travels over the last few months, but, the truth is, I need somewhere to free my mind or I’ll explode into teeny tiny pieces. Nobody in my real world knows about my blog, and they certainly wouldn’t understand what I’m about to say.
God, I’m having doubts whether I should write it here. But then I don’t get many hits. Those who do visit are one-off visitors, searching images to look at my photos, rather than read my incessant travel ramblings. So I guess then it’s OK. It could be therapeutic for me to offload into the abyss.
So here goes. I met someone in Canada. His name’s Andy, and quite simply I’m in love with him. There, I’ve said it. It’s out there now. I know I’m with Jack, and I feel bad about that. But Andy’s different. He’s from Toronto, and has the most amazing accent, but, of course, that’s not all I love about him.
I’m smiling now, and the woman sitting opposite me, about sixty, attractive, dressed trendy, is giving me a funny look. She can’t see inside my head. That I’m thinking of the quirky way Andy flicks his gorgeous auburn hair from his brown eyes. How giddy I felt when he was close to me. The way my skin tingled when he touched me – kissed me.
I sound ridiculous. Like a pathetic heroine in a novel, all loved up and besotted. But it’s true. I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone. Not after what happened in Australia.
And I suppose I’ve always thought women who said that the urge to cheat is uncontrollable were foolish. That nothing would make me do anything to hurt sweet, kind Jack. But when something like this happens the draw is too strong. It’s painful. There are no choices.
It’s