The Girl Before(68)

I take a deep breath. There’s something I need to explain, I say. It’s really complicated. I had to tell you in person.

The cabins are full of surveyors and draftsmen, so we walk beside the woods. I tell him what I told Amanda—that I was drugged and forced into sex by one of Simon’s friends, that he sent me a video he’d made of it as a way of threatening me and the police assumed it was Deon Nelson, that I’ve had to accept a formal caution for wasting police time but really none of it was my fault. He listens carefully, his expression giving nothing away.



And then he tells me, very calmly, that it’s over between us.

No matter whether I’m telling him the truth now or not, I’ve lied to him in the past.

He reminds me we agreed this would only continue for as long as it was perfect.

He says a relationship like this is like a building, that you have to get the foundations right or the whole thing falls apart. He thought our relationship was built on honesty when actually it was built on deceit.

He says that all this—he gestures at the fields—only came about because I told him I was attacked by Deon Nelson in my own home. He says this town is now being built on a lie as well. He’d been trying to design a community in which people looked out for and respected and helped one another. But such a community can only function on trust and now it’s tainted for him.

He says goodbye, his voice empty of emotion.

But I know he loves me. I know he needs our games, that they answer some deep-seated hunger in him.

I was wrong, I say desperately. But think what you did. How much worse was that?

He frowns. What do you mean?

You killed your wife, I say. And your son. You killed them because you didn’t want to compromise your building.

He stares at me. He denies it.

I spoke to Tom Ellis, I insist.

He makes a dismissive gesture. The man’s a bitter, jealous failure.

But don’t you see, I say, I don’t care. I don’t care what you’ve done or how bad you are. Edward, we belong together. We both know it. Now I know your worst secrets and you know mine. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? For us to be completely honest with each other?

I sense he’s torn, that he’s weighing the decision in his mind. That he doesn’t want to lose what we have.

You’re quite insane, Emma, he says at last. You’re fantasizing. None of that happened. You should go back to London now.





NOW: JANE

There are several reasons why I go back to see Carol Younson again.

“First,” I tell her, “you and Simon are the only people Emma seems to have shared her fears of Edward Monkford with. Yet I now have proof that on at least one occasion, she effectively told lies to you, her own therapist. Second, you’re the only person she spoke to who has a psychological background. I’m hoping you might be able to shed some light on her personality.”

I don’t tell her the third reason yet.

She frowns. “What lies?”

I tell her what I’ve learned—about Saul, and how Emma gave him oral sex after getting drunk.

“If you accept that she lied about being raped by Deon Nelson,” I say, “do you agree she might have lied about Edward too?”

She considers for a moment. “People do lie to their therapists sometimes. Whether because they’re in denial, or from simple embarrassment, it happens. But if what you’re saying is correct, Emma didn’t just tell one lie—she constructed an entire fantasy world, an alternative reality.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, it’s not strictly my area. But the clinical term for that kind of pathological lying is pseudologia fantastica. It’s associated with low self-esteem, attention-seeking, and a deep-seated desire to present yourself in a more favorable light.”



“Being raped is hardly favorable.”

“No, but it does make you special. Male pseudologues tend to claim they’re royalty or ex-special-forces. Female pseudologues are more likely to pretend to be survivors of some terrible illness or disaster. There was a notorious example a couple of years ago—a woman who claimed to be a nine-eleven survivor who was so convincing, she actually ended up running the survivors’ support group. It turned out she wasn’t even in New York on nine-eleven.” She thinks for a moment. “Strangely enough, I do recall Emma saying something once, along the lines of How would you react if I told you I’d made it all up? Almost as if she was toying with the idea of confession.”

“Might she have killed herself when her lies caught up with her?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. If she couldn’t construct a new narrative and use it to paint herself as a victim—at least in her own eyes—she might well have experienced what’s called narcissistic mortification. In plain English, she might have felt so ashamed she’d rather die than face up to it.”

“In which case,” I say, “Edward’s off the hook.”

“Well, perhaps,” she says cautiously.

“Why only perhaps?”

“I can’t diagnose Emma as a pseudologue posthumously, just to make the facts fit a convenient theory. It’s equally possible she simply told one perfectly logical lie, then told another to cover it up, and then another. The same goes for Edward Monkford. Yes, based on what you’ve told me, it seems Emma was the real narcissist, not him. But there’s no doubting he’s an extreme controller. What happens when a controller comes up against someone who’s out of control? The combination could be explosive.”