MY LYING HUSBAND an unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by E.V. SEYMOUR

Author:E.V. SEYMOUR [SEYMOUR, E.V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books psychological thriller and crime
Published: 2024-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Coco woke up at Art Mather’s house. Sadly, she was not in Art’s bed, but on a sofa in a spare room.

The afternoon and evening had spiralled out of control when, first, Miles showed (yuk) and then Art (yum). They’d moved on from the Lansdown to a student squat near St Paul’s where a party was in play. After that things got a bit blurry. She remembered receiving a message from her father in the early hours, to which she hadn’t yet replied because she’d lost the ability to either walk in a straight line or formulate words. Better have a squint at it now, she thought, slipping out her phone, attempting to focus.

Would love to talk. Are you free to meet? How about the Norwood Arms at 12.30 pm?

No way could she deduce whether this was good news, indifferent news, or bad news. She considered phoning Suze to get the lowdown then changed her mind. Frankie, currently snoring softly on the floor, having for a period of the night slept in a bath, would winkle out a more honest response.

She replied: OK and staggered out of her makeshift bed to the loo.

Having got utterly and totally hammered, the consequences were plain to see in the mirror. Her skin was blotchy. She didn’t have circles under her eyes; she had rectangles. Her lips were cracked and dry and her tongue looked dark and furry. She felt like hell.

In the space of time she’d taken to answer the call of nature and study the wreckage that was her face, Frankie was up and on the phone to his mother. Maddeningly, his glossy hair shone. His eyes were dark and clear and gave the impression he was wearing eyeliner and mascara, which he most definitely wasn’t. Even the fashionable stubble on his jaw looked groomed, upstanding, alert and ready for the day.

‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Yup . . . yup . . . Fuckity fuck . . . Good . . . What? . . . Jesus. Right . . . Laters.’

Coco stared, mystified. ‘Did you know that there are other words in the vocabulary apart from the F word?’

‘Sometimes only the F word will do. She’s thrown him out.’

‘Fuck,’ Coco said, sliding down onto the sofa. ‘So come on, dish the dirt?’ She drew up her knees to her chin.

‘Apparently, it all got a bit shouty.’

‘Suze doesn’t do shouty.’

‘I know. A tad worrying, actually.’

‘Go on.’

‘The other woman showed.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘I am not. Mum invited her.’

‘No way.’

Amid interruptions and questions, Frankie gave Coco a précis of the evening’s events.

‘So that’s why Daddy wants to meet me today.’

Frankie frowned. ‘He didn’t invite me.’

‘That’s because I’m his favourite.’

‘Ha-ha.’ Frankie looked anything but ha-ha about it. ‘Are you going?’

‘Too right, I am. We’re going to have some proper daddy and daughter time.’ Principally, to secure her future; her father had made promises and, holy crap, she intended him to keep them.

Frankie glowered. ‘Give him hell.’

‘Oh, I will. Shall I send your love?’ she teased.

* * *

I finished my call to Frankie.

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