The Liar's Room - Softcover

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Simon Lelic is a former journalist and the author of the award-winning A Thousand Cuts, the critically acclaimed The Facility and The Child Who, and The New Neighbors, his first psychological thriller, inspired by the love of Alfred Hitchcock and Stephen King. Simon lives with his wife and three children.

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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2018 Simon Lelic

3 p.m.–4 p.m.

1

Right away when she sees the boy she has a feeling she knows him. Or, somehow, that he knows her. The woman she’s hiding, as much as this person she’s become.

He’s dressed as though for a special occasion. Most people probably wouldn’t notice but Susanna is familiar with teenage boys and although this boy is slightly older—nineteen, perhaps? Twenty?—it’s clear he’s selected what he’s wearing with a sense of purpose. His jeans are dark, clean, not ripped. His shirt is untucked but neatly buttoned, and there’s a designer logo above the left breast. His shoes are dress shoes really, not meant to be worn with jeans, but like the rest of the boy’s outfit they’ve been chosen, Susanna suspects, because they’re the best he has. It is the same attire he would pick for a first date. Which is sort of sweet, actually. Touching, that he should have made such an effort just for her.

The sense she knows him fades like déjà vu. What she puts it down to after the initial jolt is the boy’s—the young man’s—unquestionable good looks. His is a face borrowed from a magazine, the kind Susanna can no longer bring herself to read but has fanned on the coffee table in the waiting room outside. Less a waiting room, more a co-opted landing, one she shares with a dentist, Ruth, who practices in the room at the other end of the converted mews house. Between them, in an opened-out bedroom at the top of the stairs, is the desk used mainly by Alina—the Ukrainian woman who doubles as Ruth’s dental assistant and their receptionist—and downstairs, with a separate entrance, is an antiques shop. It’s fully stocked but never open, and neither Susanna nor Ruth has ever met the owner. They joke that the antiques business is just a front. For money launderers, the Devon mafia, ISIS. The truth, Susanna thinks, is that the owner runs his business mainly online and only ever meets clients by appointment. The truth is boring and Susanna prefers it. But Ruth has a predilection for the dramatic. Sometimes Susanna wonders how Ruth would react if she were to discover the truth about her.

The young man, though. His face. He could be a model. He has the bone structure and the blemish-free skin, as well as the eyes—brown and brooding—if not the haircut or the swagger. When he enters the room he does so as though untrusting of the floorboards. His fringe falls across one eye and he gives the impression of peeking out from behind a curtain.

Across his torso is a messenger bag. He unwinds it from his shoulder as he steps a little farther into the room.

“Er . . . hi,” he says, a greeting that sounds as much a question.

“Adam?” Susanna is standing and she offers out a hand. The young man meets it with his own, which Susanna takes as confirmation he’s the person she’s been expecting. Adam Geraghty. The first of two new clients scheduled for that afternoon. Unusual to have two in one day, though given her finances of late, not entirely unwelcome. “I’m Susanna. Come in, please.”

“Susanna?”

“Or Susie, if you prefer. Anything but Mrs. Fenton, or I’ll constantly be checking behind me for my mother.” It’s a joke and a lie rolled into one, which in Susanna’s mind makes it mostly OK.

Adam smiles. “Susanna,” he repeats.

“Have a seat.” Susanna gestures, and Adam follows the path laid out by her outstretched arm. There are two upholstered chairs—upright but comfortable—angled across from each other in front of the disused fireplace, a small table bearing glasses and a jug of water positioned between them. The chairs are purposefully identical and Adam selects the one farthest from the door. Which makes Susanna wonder whether Adam hasn’t received therapy of some kind before, because in her experience first-timers tend to try to preserve an easy escape route.

He sets his bag down on the floor close beside him and perches on the edge of the chair. He takes a moment to survey his new surroundings. The room is small but relatively bare. There’s Susanna’s desk, haloed by the Georgian windows and as tidy as she can ever seem to get it. There’s the coat stand in the corner by the door, which but for the hat Susanna bought specifically to adorn it would look as spindly and forlorn as a winter tree. There are the bookshelves, loaded and disheveled, and her framed certificates beside a Matisse print on the party wall (Susanna wouldn’t have bothered with the certificates if Ruth hadn’t insisted they would lend her gravitas) but nothing otherwise except the plants and the crisp white paintwork.

“Susanna,” the young man says again. “It sounds wrong.” A pause. “What I mean is, shouldn’t I call you, like, Doctor or something?”

“Sure, if you want to,” Susanna says, “although I’m not one.” She flags the joke this time with a smile. “I’m a counselor,” she clarifies. The joke has fallen flat and she attempts to reestablish a tone of professionalism. “A counselor isn’t the same as a clinical psychologist and it’s a completely different field to psychiatry. Which isn’t to say I’m not qualified.” She shifts. “All I’m really trying to explain is that you don’t need a doctorate to practice in my field. In fact, in some circles it’s actively discouraged.”

She tends to do this: use humor as a defense mechanism, then lurch too far the other way. Whether or not she recognizes the young man, there’s definitely something about him that has set her on edge. Those good looks again, probably. Good God, Susanna. Are you flirting? Shame on you! You must be thirty years older than him at least.

Susanna feels herself glowing and drops her gaze toward her lap. She picks some fluff from the black of her trousers.

“So,” she announces and rehoists her smile. “Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about why you’re here?”

The boy seems startled. “You mean just launch into it?”

“Let’s start with the basics. Shall we? Your name, age, a bit about your background. That sort of thing. And after that we can move on to what specifically you’re hoping to get out of this conversation.”

Adam adjusts the way he’s sitting. “OK,” he says. “Sure. My name’s Adam. Adam Geraghty. I was born here. In England, I mean. In London, actually, not here here. And I suppose . . .” He stops, shuffles again, winces. “Look, do you mind if I just come out with it? The way you said. Can I just tell you why I’m here and then you can tell me whether you think you can help or not?”

“Well . . .”

“I don’t want to sound rude or anything. It’s just, I don’t want to waste your time and if I’m honest I don’t really have that much money. And actually, I’m also feeling slightly nervous. More than slightly.” He grins bashfully. It’s a schoolboy grin and Susanna feels a tiny fracturing in her heart.

“Sorry,” Adam is saying. “Sorry. That’s not how this is done, is it? Sorry,” he says again, running his hands through his hair. “You’d never guess this was my first time, would you?” He reddens, then adds somewhat hastily,...