The Truth-Teller's Lie by Sophie Hannah Page B
Authors: Sophie Hannah
up suddenly. ‘Was there anywhere with a nice indoor pool? And a spa? A spa’d be great! I fancy one of those dry floatation treatments.’
Charlie’s heart plummeted. Why couldn’t everything have been perfect, just this one time? Was that too much to ask? No one was more fun to be with than Olivia, if the conditions were right.
‘I didn’t look,’ she said. ‘But I think it’s unlikely, unless you want to spend a small fortune.’
‘I don’t care about money,’ Olivia was quick to say.
Charlie felt as if there was a coiled spring inside her, one she had to keep pushing down or else it’d leap up and destroy everything. ‘Well, unfortunately, I have to care about money. So unless you want me to look for two separate hotels . . .’
Olivia was less well off than Charlie. She was a freelance journalist and had a colossal mortgage on a flat in London’s Muswell Hill. Seven years ago she’d been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The operation to remove both ovaries and her womb had been immediate, and had saved her life. Ever since, she’d been throwing money around like the spoiled child of aristocrats. She drove a BMW Z5 and took taxis from one side of London to another as a matter of course. Getting the Tube was one of the many things she claimed to have given up forever, along with compromising, ironing and wrapping presents. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, Charlie worried about her sister’s financial situation. It had to involve a lot of debt—an idea Charlie hated.
‘If we can’t do the hotel thing properly, I’d rather do something completely different,’ said Olivia, after mulling it over for a while.
‘Different?’ Charlie was surprised. Olivia had vetoed, quite unambiguously, any form of self-catering on the grounds that it was too much effort, even after Charlie had said she’d do any shopping and cooking that was required. As far as Charlie was concerned, making some toast in the morning and a salad at lunchtime was not hard work. Olivia ought to try doing Charlie’s job for a day or two.
‘Yes. Camping, or something.’
‘ Camping? This from the woman who wouldn’t go to Glastonbury because the toilet paper isn’t folded into a point by a maid?’
‘Look, it’s not my preferred option. A nice hotel in Spain in June, in the heat, was what I wanted. If I can’t have that, I’d rather not have some sad mockery of my ideal. At least camping’s meant to be shit. You go there expecting to sleep on some mud, under some cloth, and eat packets of dried food . . .’
‘I’m sure you’d dissolve like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz if you ever tried to go camping.’
‘What about Mum and Dad’s, then? We haven’t been there together for ages. Mum’d wait on us hand and foot. And they’re always asking me when I’m next coming, with just a trace of disinheritance in their voices.’
Charlie pulled a face. Her and Olivia’s parents had recently retired to Fenwick, a small village on the Northumberland coast, and developed an obsession with golf that was at odds with the game’s leisurely image. They behaved as if golf were their full-time job, one they might be fired from if they weren’t diligent enough. Olivia had been to their club with them once, and she’d reported to Charlie afterwards that Mum and Dad had been about as relaxed as drugs mules in front of airport customs officials.
Charlie didn’t think she had the stamina to cope with all three members of her immediate family at the same time. She could not reconcile the concept of parents with the concept of holiday. Still, it was ages since she’d last made the trip up north. Perhaps Olivia was right.
The barman turned up the volume of the music. It was still Rod Stewart, but a different song: ‘The First Cut Is the Deepest’. ‘I love this one,’ he said, winking at Charlie. ‘I’ve got a “Rod is God” T-shirt, me. I normally wear it, but I’m not wearing it today.’ He
Charlie’s heart plummeted. Why couldn’t everything have been perfect, just this one time? Was that too much to ask? No one was more fun to be with than Olivia, if the conditions were right.
‘I didn’t look,’ she said. ‘But I think it’s unlikely, unless you want to spend a small fortune.’
‘I don’t care about money,’ Olivia was quick to say.
Charlie felt as if there was a coiled spring inside her, one she had to keep pushing down or else it’d leap up and destroy everything. ‘Well, unfortunately, I have to care about money. So unless you want me to look for two separate hotels . . .’
Olivia was less well off than Charlie. She was a freelance journalist and had a colossal mortgage on a flat in London’s Muswell Hill. Seven years ago she’d been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The operation to remove both ovaries and her womb had been immediate, and had saved her life. Ever since, she’d been throwing money around like the spoiled child of aristocrats. She drove a BMW Z5 and took taxis from one side of London to another as a matter of course. Getting the Tube was one of the many things she claimed to have given up forever, along with compromising, ironing and wrapping presents. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, Charlie worried about her sister’s financial situation. It had to involve a lot of debt—an idea Charlie hated.
‘If we can’t do the hotel thing properly, I’d rather do something completely different,’ said Olivia, after mulling it over for a while.
‘Different?’ Charlie was surprised. Olivia had vetoed, quite unambiguously, any form of self-catering on the grounds that it was too much effort, even after Charlie had said she’d do any shopping and cooking that was required. As far as Charlie was concerned, making some toast in the morning and a salad at lunchtime was not hard work. Olivia ought to try doing Charlie’s job for a day or two.
‘Yes. Camping, or something.’
‘ Camping? This from the woman who wouldn’t go to Glastonbury because the toilet paper isn’t folded into a point by a maid?’
‘Look, it’s not my preferred option. A nice hotel in Spain in June, in the heat, was what I wanted. If I can’t have that, I’d rather not have some sad mockery of my ideal. At least camping’s meant to be shit. You go there expecting to sleep on some mud, under some cloth, and eat packets of dried food . . .’
‘I’m sure you’d dissolve like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz if you ever tried to go camping.’
‘What about Mum and Dad’s, then? We haven’t been there together for ages. Mum’d wait on us hand and foot. And they’re always asking me when I’m next coming, with just a trace of disinheritance in their voices.’
Charlie pulled a face. Her and Olivia’s parents had recently retired to Fenwick, a small village on the Northumberland coast, and developed an obsession with golf that was at odds with the game’s leisurely image. They behaved as if golf were their full-time job, one they might be fired from if they weren’t diligent enough. Olivia had been to their club with them once, and she’d reported to Charlie afterwards that Mum and Dad had been about as relaxed as drugs mules in front of airport customs officials.
Charlie didn’t think she had the stamina to cope with all three members of her immediate family at the same time. She could not reconcile the concept of parents with the concept of holiday. Still, it was ages since she’d last made the trip up north. Perhaps Olivia was right.
The barman turned up the volume of the music. It was still Rod Stewart, but a different song: ‘The First Cut Is the Deepest’. ‘I love this one,’ he said, winking at Charlie. ‘I’ve got a “Rod is God” T-shirt, me. I normally wear it, but I’m not wearing it today.’ He