Free The Book of Lies by Mary Horlock

it’s better if I talk about Therese. Nic said Therese only cared about what men thought of her, but as far as I could tell Nic was just the same. I thought Therese Prevost was The Perfect Mother as per the Fairy Liquid commercials. Nic called her pathetic and sad, but I’m guessing she was mostly lonely. Mr Prevost is the manager of Lloyds Bank so he was always working/entertaining clients with or at his golf clubs, leaving Therese to comfort shop at Little Red in Smith Street – Guernsey’s most-expensive-ever shop. But half the clothes Therese bought she never even wore. They were hidden away in the spare room, which is where Nic always found them. I remember one Sunday afternoon I was gluing together my toenails with Nic dancing about in a slinky blue jersey dress.
    â€˜How old do you reckon I look?’
    She pulled up her hair like she was modelling for a magazine. I pretended to take her picture and told her she looked old enough for anything, which was worrying but also true.
    She leaned back against the window ledge, stuck out her little boobs and stretched her swan-like neck. I thought this new pose was for my benefit until I turned to see Therese behind me, wincing microscopically.
    â€˜Don’t you look glamorous! But take it off now. You’ll stretch it out of shape.’
    Nic didn’t budge. ‘I thought I’d wear it today. It’ll look wicked with my denim jacket.’
    â€˜No, darling, it’s too old for you.’
    Nic had various ways of tormenting her mother. This time she pulled herself upright and stared hard at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Then she started fiddling with her hair. Therese repeated her request and Nic continued fiddling. (She could stare at herself for hours.) I sat in between them and tried not to breathe. Nic muttered something about someone else not dressing their age. I watched Rimmel-Peachy-Cream-Ninety-Second-Nail-Varnish drip onto the arctic-white shag-pile.
    â€˜I said take it off.’
    â€˜Why should I? I need some new clothes and you’re always buying stuff you never wear – or at least, I never see you wear. Who’s it all for? Who do you need to impress?’
    â€˜That’s not true, I . . .’
    But before Therese could finish her sentence Nic was out on the landing and running downstairs.
    â€˜Let me show Dad.’
    I jumped up to follow them but had to balance on my heels on account of The-Peachy-Cream-Peril. I was therefore quite slow. All I saw was Therese at the bottom of the stairs, still clutching the banisters, with her knuckles turning white. She told Nic to stop making a scene just as I heard Mr Prevost do a wolf whistle. I’m not sure if it’s right for a father to wolf-whistle his daughter, but Mr Prevost had recently drained the bar at the Royal Hotel.
    He was standing in what I called the sitting room but they called the lounge, holding a glass of brandy, and he grinned when he saw me.
    â€˜Look at my two gorgeous women, am I not the luckiest man alive?’
    Therese was standing next to Nicolette, staring down at her naked legs.
    â€˜Darling, you don’t have to try so hard.’
    â€˜What, like you , you mean?’
    I can’t be sure what happened next because I was worrying about my toenails, but I think Mr P. told Therese not to fuss. Then he reached into his wallet and suggested that Nic and I go for a walk so he could spend Quality Time with his beautiful wife. Mr Prevost was always wanting sex in the middle of the day because Therese was too tired at bedtime. According to Nic they were both having affairs, which must’ve been exhausting.
    â€˜It’s no big deal,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing else to do on this pissy little island.’
    Funnily enough, Dad had said something similar in a much more elegant way.
    Three years back there’d been this big fight on White Rock one Sunday. It was between two rival gangs of boys