The Party Read online

  LISA HALL is the bestselling author of Between You and Me and Tell Me No Lies. 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

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

  Copyright © Lisa Hall 2018

  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 © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008215002

  Version: 2018-06-07

  Praise for Lisa Hall

  ‘Breathlessly fast-paced and cleverly unsettling, this thriller about a couple trying to escape their past is the very definition of unputdownable.’

  Heat

  ‘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

  ‘A paranoia-inducing plot that makes you question everyone! Lisa Hall’s new novel is one to get under your skin and has an ending that’ll leave you reeling.’

  Sam Carrington

  ‘Gripping and unforgettable… and will leave you wondering who you should really trust…’

  Inside Soap

  ‘What a page turner! Compelling, chilling and an incredibly impressive debut.’

  Alex Brown

  To the real life Katie and Amy

  In memory of Frank Moylett – some stars burn brighter than others

  Don’t you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t made that particular decision? If you had decided to go right, instead of left? If you had said no, instead of yes? It’s strange how one, tiny, sometimes seemingly insignificant decision can have a knock-on effect on life … like a cleverly constructed domino chain, crashing down into a broken and ruined pile of rubble. Maybe if I had been a little bit stronger, if I hadn’t had that one moment of weakness, where I threw caution to the wind and just did what I wanted to do, as opposed to what I should have done, maybe then, none of this would ever have happened. Life would have gone on as usual, with no tears and recriminations. Nobody would have been hurt. Nobody’s life would have been ruined. There wouldn’t have been any lies, or betrayal, and we all would have carried on living our lives, completely unaware that everybody has two sides to them, completely oblivious to the fact that the people surrounding us carry their own secrets, locked deep inside them. It’s easy to look back and say none of this is my fault, that I am exempt from blame, but deep down, I know that’s not true. All of this – everything that has happened – all of it starts with me. And so now, I have to do what needs to be done. I have to finish it, once and for all.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  1

  NEW YEAR’S DAY – THE MORNING AFTER THE PARTY

  Something happened. Something bad. That’s the first thought that swims vaguely through my mind as I struggle my way into full consciousness. Followed by the realization that, I don’t know what, but I know it’s not good. My head hurts. I try to open my eyes, the feeble wash of winter sunshine that tries to force its way through the lining of the curtains making me squint in pain. My head hurts and I feel really, really sick. I close my eyes again, willing the thud at my temples to die down and let me go back to sleep, before I crack one eye open again, a vague sense of uneasiness making me reluctant to keep them closed.

  Where am I? Peering out from under the duvet cover, the room is unfamiliar to me and I swallow down the nausea that roils in my stomach. In the dim light, I can make out a large chest of drawers pushed against the wall, the top of it free of any clutter, and a mirror hanging above it. A generic picture hangs on the opposite wall, and there is no sign of anything personal – no photos, no make-up, no clutter that tells me that this is someone’s bedroom. A spare room, then, and I seem to be alone, which is good, I think.

  The same thought drifts through my mind as when I woke, that something happened last night, something that makes me feel somehow dirty and indecent. Scratching at my arms, I roll on to my back before pushing the duvet away from my clammy face, sweat making my hair stick to my forehead. The touch of fabric against my skin makes me stop for a moment, pausing in my quest to get comfortable, that and the fact that every muscle in my body seems to hurt. Sliding a hand under the covers I feel around – yes, my top is still on. No bottoms though, the fabric against my bare legs is that of the cotton sheets I’m lying on, not my trousers, or pyjama bottoms.

  Something bad happened. My heart starts to hammer in my chest as I run my hand over my thighs, wincing at the sharp pain that lances me. Frowning, I push the duvet down, exposing my lower half to the warm air emitted from a large radiator under the window, and struggle my way into a sitting position. Slowly, Rachel, go slowly. As I push up on my elbows to shove my way up the pillows behind me, a surge of saliva spurts into my mouth and I swallow hard, desperate not to be sick. The thumping in my head accelerates and black dots dance at the corners of my eyes.

  Closing my eyes again I wait a moment, drawing in a ragged deep breath and letting it out slowly. I’ve never had a hangover like this before. The nausea fades, and I run my hands over my lower half again, the skin on the inside of my thighs feeling bruised and sore. I slide my hands between my legs, and my heart beat doubles as I realize the bruised, raw feeling extends to there too. Oh, God. I lean back against the cool of the pillow, eyes closed again against the watery light, trying my hardest to remember what happened last night. There’s nothin
g, not a single thing that I can hook my memory on, just that uncertain feeling that something happened to me last night. It’s like there’s a gaping hole in my memory, a black bottomless pit that has sucked away any recollection of the previous evening. Gareth. What about Gareth? Where is he? I have to get home. I have to see Gareth; he’ll be worried (angry?) that I didn’t come home last night.

  Steeling myself, I swing my legs round and out from underneath the duvet, pressing my feet to the floor as dizziness washes over me. My mouth is dry, so dry it hurts to swallow. Spying a plastic water bottle on the floor, half-hidden under the bed, I lean over, another wave of nausea making my mouth water, and take a sip. It tastes stale and dusty, as though it has been there for a long time, but it relieves the scratchiness of my throat, squashing down the bile that sits at the back of it. Placing the bottle back down on the floor, the sleeve of my top rides up to reveal a thick, purple bruise on the underside of my bicep. I poke at it, hissing as the tender skin shrieks out at my touch, the muscle sore and delicate. I wrap my fingers around my arm and see that the bruise is a perfect thumbprint, as though someone has grabbed me roughly. Remember, Rachel.

  I slide my body slowly down the bed frame until I have sunk onto the immaculate carpet, the thick pile tickling the undersides of my bare thighs, my head pounding in time to a rhythm that no one else can hear. Scrubbing my hands over my eyes, I take a deep breath and look up – I am naked from the waist down, and that needs to be rectified before I can go anywhere. I need to get out of here. Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of the door opening and someone walking in, finding me like this, half naked and vulnerable. Getting to my knees, and squashing down the horrid, shameful thoughts that lurk at the outskirts of my mind at the soreness in my thighs, I crawl towards a tangled mass of black, bunched into the corner of the room, against the mahogany of the chest of drawers. Reaching out a hand, I pull the bundle towards me, unravelling it to reveal my black wet-look leggings. Thank God. Relief floods my veins as I recognize the snarl of black fabric as my own clothing, but that fades as I shake them out, searching for my underwear. It’s not there. I turn the leggings inside out and back again, hoping that I’ve pulled everything off in a drunken state last night, but my underwear is definitely missing.

  And are you sure that YOU took them off, Rachel? A stern voice whispers at the back of my mind, the bruising on your thighs … the fact that you can’t remember anything … what does that tell you? I hunch forward over the bundle of cloth in my arms, fighting back tears and the ever-present urge to throw up. What the hell happened to me last night? What did I do? And who else was involved?

  On shaking legs, now clad in yesterday’s leggings, the plasticky fabric clinging uncomfortably to my clammy skin, I gently push open the bedroom door and venture out into the hallway. The murmur of low voices wafts up the stairs towards me, uncertainty making me waver on the landing, not wanting to go and face whoever is down there. At least now though, I have some idea of who it will be – a family portrait hangs at the top of the stairs, and I recognize the tiled hallway and stained-glass windows of the front door below. It’s a house that I’ve only ever visited occasionally, and I’ve never ventured upstairs, which goes a long way towards explaining why I was confused when I woke up this morning. White Christmas lights glitter around the front door, and the scent of pine from the Christmas garland that circles the banister catches at the back of my throat. A tacky silver banner hangs drunkenly across the wall of the entrance hall, loudly proclaiming for all to have a ‘Happy New Year’. The glitter of the lights makes me dizzy and I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, gripped by vertigo, certain I am about to lose my footing and tumble down the stairs. The dizziness passes, and slowly I make my descent, one hand brushing the wall to keep my balance, as I still feel ridiculously hungover – more than I would ever have expected, the insistent throbbing in my temples making me long for my own bed, and the safe comfort of my own home. My silver sandals dangle from the other hand, found in the opposite corner of the bedroom much to my relief, although I think I would have walked barefoot if necessary.

  As I reach the hallway, the tiles almost painfully cold beneath my bare feet, the chatter of voices gets louder, as though a door has been opened. I scoot across the cold tiles into the front room, where all the evidence of a party lies, scattered and ground into the carpet. A Christmas tree, looking worse for wear now, its needles dropping and littering the carpet, shines gaudily in the corner of the room, almost seeming out of place in the grim aftermath of what must have been a raucous party. Several empty wine bottles line the mantelpiece, and glasses litter the coffee table, some empty, some with the dregs of boozy Christmas drinks in the bottom. The table is usually polished to a shine, but now it is marred with glass rings on the wood, crumpled napkins, and several paper plates with the remains of buffet food smeared over them. I fight back the nausea that rises at the sight of left-over canapés, the faint smell of warm seafood hitting the back of my throat. A hefty splash of red wine scars the cream rug in front of the still smouldering open fire, and there are tiny shards of glass glinting on the hearth, where someone has made a drunken attempt to sweep away a broken wine glass. I breathe lightly through my mouth, as the scent of red wine and a hint of stale smoke rises up from the damaged rug. The curtains that line the wide front bay window have been left open, and wintry sunlight glints on a frost-covered garden, watery rays streaming in and highlighting the dust motes that dance in the air.

  Turning away from the window, I catch sight of myself in the mirror that hangs above the fireplace, and double take; sure at first that someone else is in the room with me, my reflection looks so unfamiliar in that fleeting glimpse. Stepping closer, avoiding the still damp wine stain, I peer into the glass. I was obviously one of those partaking in the red wine last night – a faint purple stain marks my lips. I run my tongue over my teeth, cringing at the furry feel of them. My face is pale, my long, dark hair framing it in a tangled mess. I run my fingers through in an attempt to smooth it. My eyes look too big for my face, ringed as they are by dark circles. In short, if I thought I felt like shit, I look worse. My belly rolls over as the scent of frying bacon hits my nostrils, and I bend to slide my sandals on to my feet, intent on leaving and getting home before anyone realizes I’m still here.

  ‘Rachel!’ A deep, hearty voice behind me almost makes me overbalance, one sandal on, as I wobble precariously on the other foot.

  ‘Neil.’ I place my foot back down on the floor, the bruises twinging at the strain in my thigh, and inwardly sigh at not getting out before I was seen, unwilling to engage in conversation when I am so unsure of the events of the previous evening. ‘Sorry, I was just …’

  ‘I didn’t know you were still here!’ Jovial, and with no hint of a hangover, Neil grins at me, and gestures towards the kitchen. ‘We wondered where you got to last night … end up in the spare room, did you? Come on through, Liz is in the kitchen, and I’ve got coffee and bacon on the go.’

  My stomach gives another undulating roll at the thought of the greasy, salty meat. I give a small shake of my head and open my mouth to say, ‘I’m sorry, I should go,’ but Neil holds out an arm and gestures for me to go first, and despite the ache in my head, the rolling nausea in my stomach, and the underlying fear that streaks through my nerve endings thanks to my black hole memory, I have no option other than to walk across the cold, tiled floor into the kitchen. I have obviously stayed here without my hosts knowing – so who undressed me? I remove the one silver sandal that I’m wearing and pad through into the open plan kitchen dining area, the bright sunshine that pours in through the patio doors at the back of the room making me feel even more nauseous, if that’s at all possible. My neighbour, Liz, sits at the kitchen table, sipping intermittently from a travel mug that sits on a coaster in front of her. She turns as I enter the room.

  ‘Look who I found.’ Neil pulls out a kitchen chair and motions to me to sit down, before walking over to the hob a
nd flicking the gas on. He dumps more bacon in the pan and I have to swallow back the saliva that fills my mouth.

  ‘Rachel!’ Liz smiles and waggles her fingers in my direction. I slide into the chair next to her – she smells of bacon fat and stale coffee, and I have to hold my breath as she gets close to me. ‘How are you feeling this morning? A little worse for wear?’ She chuckles, but her face is pale and devoid of make-up, unusually for her. ‘I think we all are. Some party, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Some party.’ I shift uncomfortably on the kitchen chair, the hard wood of the seat pressing against my bruises.

  ‘Bacon sandwich?’ Neil holds out a plate to me, and I try and fail to stop myself from recoiling. ‘No New Year’s diet actually starts on New Year’s Day, does it?’

  ‘No, thank you. Could I just have a glass of water, please?’ I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not sure I could keep the sandwich down if I ate it. My throat is still painfully dry, and I feel as though my entire body is craving a cold glass of icy water.

  ‘Here.’ Liz fills a glass from the water dispenser built into the fridge, her fingers leaving a trail in the condensation on the surface as she hands it to me, and as I reach out to take it from her, I get a flashback. Last night, Liz opening the door to me, a glass in her hand, the smile on her face much the same as it is now – slightly smug, a mildly boozy air about her. I feel the frosty air on my bare arms, as she opens the door and pulls me inside; warm, sweaty air enveloping me, the beat of the music – something Christmassy? An old song, perhaps – thumping through the house. The smell of cloves and woodsmoke in the air – Liz has the open fire lit, even though the house is sweltering. I shake my head to clear the image, setting the bells clanging inside again, and sip at the water.

  ‘Thank you … for letting me stay, I mean.’ I sip again at the water, as Liz pulls a chair out across the table from me and sits back down. I try not to wince at the harsh scraping noise the chair makes as she drags it across the tiles. Neil hums under his breath as he slaps bacon between two slices of bread and drops the plate in front of Liz. ‘I didn’t mean to impose.’