I Never Lie Read online

  I return to Facebook and take the plunge by accepting Nigel’s friend request. Perhaps it’s time for new beginnings. And at least this way I can get an insight into his world should I need to. Browsing his page, it all looks quite normal. There are still plenty of pictures of Fiona, the ex. I wonder what went wrong with them, because they actually look quite sweet together. After I’m done snooping on his life, I launch the dating app to see what the talent looks like in Manchester. Yet another distraction from the pain I’m in. At least I’ve got a vodka stash to knock back before the bulletin. If it lasts that long.

  The first image appears on my screen: Peter, 36. Blonde, good bone structure. Moody-looking. Long hair and very skinny. Pictured on a fairground ride. I swipe left for no. Darren, 42. Black. Holding a glass of champagne in a sports car, sunglasses perched on head, smiling. I swipe left for no. Samin, 38. Bald, bearded, wearing sunglasses in an alpine setting. Overweight. Looks old enough to be my father. Left. Niku, 41. Stocky, clean-shaven, thick black hair, chubby cheeks. The camera angle is weird. He’s next to a tiger. Left swipe. Carl, 41. Clean-shaven, wearing a black vest, full arm tattoos, sunglasses so I can’t see his eyes. Left. I keep at it for a while and am about to close the app, having decided that the talent pool is much better in London, when a photo appears that sends my nerves into a state of emergency. Greg, 39. Hazel eyes, chiselled jaw, lumberjack shirt, morning stubble, half-grin. It’s a photo I have never seen before. His hair is really short. He looks different; good, actually.

  I can’t actually believe it’s him. On a dating app. Is this what’s become of us? Lonely and looking for love online? His face stares back at me innocently, as if nothing ever happened between us. The scars of our break-up are hidden by his charming good looks. I remember how much I loved him and how happy he made me. Maybe leaving him was the biggest mistake of my life. I feel so confused. Before I know it, the vodka bottle in my bag is empty. That didn’t take long.

  I swipe back and forth. There are three photos. Images taken after me. One on a ferry at sea. One in a café. One at night somewhere. He looks happy, but then he always was the life and soul of the party, and he loved me. He really loved me, like no one ever has. He got me completely. We shared the same dreams. Loved the same bullshit. Life was fun in his arms. My heart fills with hope remembering the love, then quickly fades into pain. There were so many arguments, really bad arguments, but maybe now enough time has passed. Maybe the Milk Tray was him reaching out to say sorry.

  There’s a knock on the wall and Audrey pops her head around the open doorway.

  ‘We’ve cut the clip. Do you want to come and have a listen?’

  My phone clutched in my hand, I get up and brush myself down. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Are you all right? You look a bit pale, like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I tuck my phone in my bag and shove some gum in my mouth.

  ‘I’m fine. I wish everyone would stop asking me if I’m all right, though.’

  I follow Audrey across the newsroom to the edit suite.

  ‘Take a seat, my lady.’ Dutch turns the chair to face me. ‘There were a few clips that worked, but I guess this one is the best. She talks about Sarah being a person who loves life, someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly, which could be interpreted as guilt about something.’

  ‘Okay. Let me hear it.’

  Audrey leans against the wall, looking nervous. The first shot is of Mrs Wilcox and me.

  ‘You can talk into this bit. It’s around thirty seconds.’

  I nod approvingly. Then Mrs Wilcox’s voice comes in.

  ‘Sarah is a loving person. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. She loves life. She went to London to find a new opportunity. She wanted to be a writer. We love her so very much and hope she comes home.’ Then she breaks down in tears.

  Watching the clip makes me shiver, not only because it’s good TV but because there’s something quite surreal about it. Mrs Wilcox looks like she’s giving the performance of a lifetime. It’s real-life drama; perfect TV, in fact. And as Audrey said, it’s an exclusive the nation will be fascinated by, earning us some professional kudos and probably a fair few more Facebook and Twitter followers, which equates to power and success in my game. Editors are obsessed with how many followers we have. It’s as if our entire career is judged on a statistic.

  ‘Good. Very good.’

  Audrey is glowing with excitement. The time is 12.15 pm.

  ‘I’ve spoken to London. They’re happy to run with it seeing as Mrs Wilcox has agreed and now that Sarah’s identity has been confirmed with the image published by the police, but they also really want us live from outside the family home.’ She is fiddling with her pen as she says it, scribbling in her notebook.

  ‘Seriously? We need to go back out there?’

  I feel like I could cry. Every inch of me is about to collapse. The voice in my head is desperate for another drink.

  ‘Yep, afraid so.’

  ‘What do you think, Dutch? This is your area. Can we make it?’

  ‘The weather is good. I think it’s better to be on location.’

  I was hoping he’d advise against it as he’s the driver, but no.

  ‘What time are we in the line-up?’

  ‘It’s not the lead because of the vote in Parliament. So third story, probably like ten past one?’

  ‘Third story? This should be leading. Oh well, it’ll buy us some time. Have you sent the clip already?’

  ‘Doing it now.’ Dutch is busy on the computer. ‘Done.’

  ‘So we have fifty minutes to get back and set up?’ I nod towards the clock.

  ‘Yep.’ Audrey looks really nervous now.

  ‘Better get a move on then.’

  There is traffic on the way. I’m watching the clock, as is Audrey. This is quite a scoop. We are silenced by the urgency of the task we have set ourselves. My phone is in my bag. I haven’t looked at it since I discovered my ex-fiancé searching for love online. These thoughts fill my mind for the rest of the journey. Maybe he’s been unsuccessful, which is why he’s contacted me. Maybe he’s realised his mistake letting me go.

  When we get there, Dutch and Audrey begin a mad rush to set up, leaving me to think about what I am going to say. The editor has called and talked me through the report. He likes the clip, so that’s a relief. My deployment has already been justified in their eyes, which takes the pressure off.

  Dutch cables me up and Audrey dials into the news centre. We do a sound check with the gallery, and within three minutes we are live on air. Jane, the presenter, cues me in. I can feel my hands starting to shake. It’s the booze blues. I just need to hold it together for a bit longer.

  ‘Now to Manchester, where our crime reporter Alex South is live for us with an exclusive from outside the family home of Sarah Wilcox, the woman wanted in connection with the investigation involving three women murdered in east London parks. Alex?’

  Without warning, I have a flashback to Sarah sitting on a park bench in Manchester, looking at me, and the gravitas of the moment hits me so hard that for the first time in my broadcasting career I find myself unable to utter a word.

  ‘Alex? Can you hear me?’

  I am paralysed. My big moment is here, and what do I do? Freeze, that’s what I do. My fucking brain needs to get sober.

  ‘Alex? I believe you are outside the home of Sarah Wilcox?’

  Jane pauses again to allow me to speak, but I can’t, I can’t speak because I’m having what I think is a panic attack and the only thing I want to do is not let it show on air to millions of people. So I stand as still as I can and act as if I can’t hear her.

  Jane’s voice travels down the wire from London explaining to our viewers that we are experiencing technical problems with the line. She follows that up by ad-libbing about Sarah Wilcox, and while Mrs Wilcox’s interview is being played out, a voice from the gallery, the news editor or his assistant, starts swearing at me asking what the fuck is going on. I stay still, silent, as if I
can’t hear them either. Jane gave me my get-out-of-jail card. Dutch stares at me from behind his lens. He knows there’s no technical failure.

  18

  June 2017

  Dear Diary,

  Today has been hard. I went to a birthday party with Amy, thinking that getting out of the house would be helpful. Keep me busy. I promised myself I wasn’t going to touch a drop, because I’ve been doing so well lately, but what do you know, I broke my promise. Amy’s friend kept bugging me to have one, wouldn’t leave me alone, and I didn’t want to explain that I’m an alcoholic. I didn’t drink a lot, though, just one glass of wine.

  There’s so much pressure when I go out socially to have a drink that it’s actually really hard not to. People don’t want to hear it when I say no. I didn’t really enjoy the wine, to be honest, because I was nervous about drinking too much, but I sipped it and made it last all night. There would have been a time when I downed it and went back for another. So even though I broke my promise, I feel like I am in control. Although that is a slippery slope. As an alcoholic, I must remember I’m powerless against alcohol.

  I will go to a meeting tomorrow to talk about that pressure. It’s been difficult this week because I’m still really hurt by Alex’s disappearance from my life. I can’t really believe she’s gone. I keep playing it over and over in my mind, but I can’t understand what happened. I went to church yesterday morning. I don’t really know why. I’m not religious or anything, but I wanted to go. I found it comforting. At the meetings they talk about handing yourself over to a higher power, and it makes sense to me because I can’t handle my addiction on my own. I need something bigger than me to believe in. I’ve learned a prayer that really helps when I feel low, which goes like this… ‘God, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.’ It is life-changing to say this when I’m feeling low.

  I prayed that Alex would get in touch. I’m afraid something bad has happened to her. I hope that writing these thoughts down in my diary will help me process them. That’s why I write. I love her and hope she is somewhere safe. Amen.

  19

  Dutch and I didn’t make it back to the office. Audrey called from the bureau to say she was ready to return to the hotel. I told her to go on without me. That was hours ago. We’re now in some dive rock bar surrounded by scallies, knocking back our fifth… or is it our sixth round? It could even be our seventh, I don’t really know. I lost count when we started. It’s been a while since I went drinking like this, socially, because the alcohol levels in my blood don’t really permit it. You see, I get outwardly wasted really quickly compared to the person I’m drinking with because I’m already way ahead of them. That’s what happened when I had my incident on camera. Since then, I’ve become painfully aware of this and have learned how to manage it.

  I tried to close the gap by buying Dutch two shots of tequila when we first arrived, under the guise of thanking him for covering up my on-air freeze. I’m hoping it might make him less likely to notice my much more inebriated state. We haven’t discussed what happened on air yet, but it’s bound to come up.

  The bar is a real blast from the past. It reminds me of the kind of place Greg and I used to hang out in when we first met, when I was a radio DJ. There’s a jukebox and a snooker table. It’s shabby and smells of spilt beer and stale cigarettes.

  ‘Let’s have some music.’ Dutch has just put the drinks on the table. I’ve switched to whisky. The beer was making me run to the loo every ten minutes, which was becoming embarrassing, plus I’m better on spirits. Vodka is my favoured choice, but drinking straight vodka isn’t quite as acceptable as drinking straight whisky. Straight vodka is my secret.

  Together we teeter over to the jukebox. He has his arm around my waist to prop me up. I can’t remember how much I told him about why I left Manchester, but I don’t really care. The time on the wall clock reads 9.45 pm. We started drinking around five. I feel a pang of guilt that I’m not diligently watching the ten o’clock news from my hotel bed to see if they rerun the clip with Mrs Wilcox, but that feeling passes quickly. Alcohol really does help.

  At the jukebox, Dutch flicks through the choices. There is a definite theme. Eighties rock. I feel a bit sentimental about my Manchester days and half expect to see Greg sauntering in through the door. It feels reassuring to be with someone who knows where I’m from for a change. Someone I can just be next to. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret moving to London, but there is something comforting about being here in the north with Dutch. It’s a good end to what has been a very rough two days.

  ‘Whitesnake?’ Dutch’s grin is as wide as his shoulders. ‘Jon Bon Jovi? I can see the lady is not impressed. Okay, Fleetwood Mac it is.’

  Before I know it, we’re dancing, singing along to ‘Go Your Own Way’ like a couple of teenagers. I lose myself in the music and let go for the first time in a very long time. Dutch is playing the greatest air-guitar solo performance ever seen. As the record comes to an end, we stumble back to the table and land on the sofa next to each other, utterly elated and out of breath.

  ‘You always did have to push the boat out.’ He’s teasing me.

  Our legs lean against each other. It feels nice.

  ‘Like that was all me!’

  He sips his whisky and we sit there for a moment enjoying the buzz. Then his expression changes to one of concern.

  ‘So what happened today, Alex?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The freeze on air. That wasn’t a technical issue.’

  It had to come up before the night was out. He’s good at his job.

  ‘I don’t know. Stress?’

  ‘Was it nerves? The pressure? I know the lunchtime bulletin is a big deal for your career, make-or-break territory, but you were on it yesterday, so what happened?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know what happened, Dutch. Maybe it’s coming back here.’

  He changes his posture so his shoulders are turned towards me and his arm slides across the back of the sofa. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I used to live in Didsbury, so maybe it brought up some emotions, you know.’

  ‘I see. What happened to you and Greg?’

  The expression on my face must have changed, as he quickly corrects his question.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, I just thought you guys were set.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  And that’s when he leans towards me and whispers, ‘Do you want to get out of here?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  His large hand brushes my face and he leans forward to kiss me. I don’t resist. I need this. He’s saying something sweet about how much he always fancied me and that he’s going to take advantage of me now that I’m single. It doesn’t really matter what he’s saying, because I’d rather be listening to anything other than thinking about what happened on air today. This is my second chance to prove myself and I just hope I haven’t fucked it up for good with this stunt. My colleagues all tell me I’m good at my job; I guess I just need to believe it a bit more. I take his hand and follow him out of the bar.

  Before I know it, we are knocking back a bottle of wine from the restocked minibar in my hotel room and making out on the queen-size bed. He is a really good kisser. His hands fumble with my bra strap, but they eventually find the clip. It doesn’t take long before we are having sex, drunken sex, which is fine by me. In the heat of the moment I whisper in his ear that I’m on the pill and he can relax on that score. Moments later, his body shudders before he lets out a soft groan. Bingo. He rolls off me and wraps his strong arms around me before we descend into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  When I wake, my alarm is beeping. Dutch has gone, leaving the imprint of his head behind on the pillow. It’s eight o’clock. He must have only just left. There are three empty wine bottles by the minibar. Ouch. My head really hurts this morning. My mouth is parched. I need
water. I pull myself out of bed and stumble towards the bathroom. I don’t normally do this, sleep with people I work with, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Unusually for me, I kind of wish I’d seen him this morning, if only to make sure we’re on the same page.

  I wonder how much I told him about anything last night, as I can’t recall much of it. It’s going to be one of those nights that comes back to me in dribs and drabs and I only hope I didn’t embarrass myself. Then I remember yesterday’s on-air freeze. Shit. God, I feel awful. I look for the Alka-Seltzer but it’s not there in my bag and I guess I must have run out. I search my case frantically for some other form of painkiller, and fortunately I find one ibuprofen in a small pocket. It’ll have to do.

  Audrey is already eating breakfast when I surface. I don’t really know how I’m going to hold a conversation with her. I wonder if I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast altogether, but I need to eat. I wish I had my shades on, though. This room is way too bright. Make-up is a godsend at times like this. I don’t know how men live without it.

  ‘Morning, Alex.’

  ‘Morning.’ I take the seat opposite and order a coffee from the waitress.

  ‘Did you have a good night?’

  ‘Wasn’t too bad. Feeling it this morning, though.’ At least I can justify my hangover with a white lie. ‘Saw some old school friends, drank too much. You know the story.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I guess they all wanted to buy you a drink now that you’re on telly.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She leaves me alone and puts her head down to check the headlines on her phone. My coffee arrives and I order the vegetable omelette again out of sheer lack of imagination.