One phone call. Two lives. Their darkest secrets.

Lana needs to sell a holiday, fast. Stuck in Tenerife, in a dead-end job, she never expected a response quite like Liam’s.

Hundreds of miles away, a phone rings. Liam never intended to pick up – he’s too busy choosing the quickest way to die. But at least someone should know the truth before he goes, even if that someone is a stranger.

As time runs out, each is drawn to the other, expressing thoughts they never thought they would share.

When you’re about to die, will your secrets even matter?

Trust Me

Gemma Metcalfe

GEMMA METCALFE

is a Manchester-born author who now lives in sunny Tenerife with her husband, Danny, and two crazy rescue dogs, Dora and Diego. By day, Gemma can be found working as a primary-school teacher, but as the sun sets, she ditches the glitter and glue and becomes a writer of psychological thrillers. An established drama queen, she admits to having a rather warped imagination, and loves writing original plots with shocking twists. The plot for her debut novel, Trust Me, is loosely based on her experiences as a call-centre operative, where she was never quite sure who would answer the phone!

For Auntie Kath – who always loved to read.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Author's Mailing List

Acknowledgements

Endpages

Copyright

PROLOGUE

As she stepped through the door, her first thought was how deadly silent it was.

Especially given the circumstances.

‘Hello, where is everyone?’

The long, narrow hallway was encased in darkness, thanks to the bulb blowing a few days previously. She fumbled around in the dark with the toggles of her coat in an attempt to take it off, her fingers stiff with cold thanks to the buckets of icy rain which had pissed all over her on the journey home. Finally freeing herself, she attempted to hang the coat on the rail, but the lack of light meant it fell to the floor with a thud.

‘Hello?’ she shouted again into the darkness, her voice catching in her throat for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. ‘Anyone in?’

Nobody answered.

Gripping hold of the banister rail, she gingerly made her way upstairs and towards the bathroom. Opening the door, her teeth chattered hard as she flicked on the light with her elbow, too scared to use her hands in case she got an electric shock. Leaning over the bathtub, she wrung out her heavy, soaked, blonde hair, while sniffing up loudly in an attempt to stop her nose dripping like a tap.

It was then that she heard a noise.

Opening the bathroom door, she let the light seep out, illuminating the stairs and hallway.

What happened next would change her life for ever.

Running into the living room, she saw him – curled up in a ball, a pool of blood by his side. Perhaps due to the shock, or her hysterical screaming, she didn’t notice the mobile phone; nor did she hear the pleading voice on the other end of the line.

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

Lana, Tenerife, 9.30 am

‘What is the first rule of sales?’ asks my manager, Damien, a pathetic, bald-headed, little Scouser who has a surprisingly large forehead and an even larger ego.

‘Well?’ he demands when nobody speaks, a manic grin plastered on his face thanks to the bag of cocaine he’s no doubt just shoved up his hooter. He cracks his knuckles twice, looks around the room for an answer. We stare ahead uninterested, dodging eye contact.

Through the window of the office – a characterless, white, walled box packed to the brim with computers and sweaty bodies – I catch a glimpse of paradise. Tenerife looks especially beautiful this morning: pale-gold sand meets crystal-blue sea, blending effortlessly into a cloudless sky; lazy morning sun beats down on half-naked bodies like warm honey; couples arm in arm, forgetting for at least one week about the damp, cold weather and depressing recession, which are destined to greet them off the plane home. I swivel around in my chair ninety degrees and can just about make out the harbour in the distance: rich people’s yachts bobbing up and down with the fresh morning breeze; excited babies being rocked on their mothers’ knees, their chubby faces covered in bubble-gum ice cream. Damien says I have the best desk in the office, next to this window. He calls it ‘the window of opportunity’. He likes his play on words does Damien – that’s one of the many reasons why I think he’s a prat!

‘Lana!’ he often barks, while looming over my desk with his Armani tie swinging in my face and his beer breath wafting up my nostrils. ‘If looking through that window doesn’t inspire you to sell holidays, you might as well go and look in the job-centre window, instead.’ Then he laughs hysterically before giving way to a smoke-induced coughing fit, like the wit he possesses needs to splutter out before he spontaneously combusts.

So, anyway, the first rule of sales is to not believe a word the client on the other end of the telephone says. Obviously, I know this but I wouldn’t give Damien the satisfaction by answering. He is right, though: they all lie to you from the second you say, ‘Hello.’ One lady, a Mrs Chilton, aged seventy-two, from Brighton, once told me she couldn’t possibly take up my offer of a beautiful, luxurious holiday because her parrot had separation anxiety. Apparently, he had taken to pulling out his own feathers and hanging upside down while singing Lionel Richie songs whenever she left the house. Perhaps this one was true – either that or Mrs Chilton is an absolute legend!

‘The first rule of sales is to never believe the client,’ declares my colleague Terry, smugly, like Jeremy Kyle revealing his lie-detector results. Damien almost whoops, ecstatic that somebody has actually paid attention. He then screeches a decibel louder than is necessary.

‘Listen up! I’m going to announce the Star of the Week.’

He breathes in deeply, psyching himself up for the grand revelation, as if we were finalists on The X Factor.

I look around to see if anyone’s actually listening. Over in the far corner, next to the fire extinguisher and overflowing bin, I see Louise playing on her iPhone. Next to her, Max is looking intensely at what looks like a piece of chewing gum on the floor, and Holly is giving the wanker sign to Martin. Mel, who is sitting next to me, seems to be concentrating extremely hard on not vomiting all over her new flip-flops.

‘Are you all right?’ I whisper into her ear, careful to keep my voice low so that Damien doesn’t acknowledge my existence.

As she responds with a dry heave, I can’t help but smile at the slightly faded admission stamp on her hand, which advertises ‘a free shot with every drink’.

The people who work with me are all British expats. They’re a harmless mismatch of eighteen-year-old party animals, bored housewives and young suits who fancy themselves as the next Wolf of Wall Street.

Well, I’m definitely no Jordan Belfort! Five months I’ve been working here and I haven’t sold one single holiday. I’m that skint I can’t even afford mayonnaise to mix in with my dry tuna pasta, which is currently sitting in a Tupperware container on my desk, sweating in the sticky morning heat.

But now things have become serious. Damien pulled me to one side yesterday and placed his skinny, moist palm on my arm. I dodged the spittle flying at me as he spoke in his whiny Scouse accent.

‘No sale tomorrow and you gotta go… sorry, girl.’

Speaking of Damien, I see he’s finally sat down. Who won Star of the Week? I half wonder. Oh, well, I suppose it’s time to pick up the telephone and annoy some people. A huge poster looms above me: ‘smile while you dial’.

‘Are you listening to me, Lana? I said, do you want a brew?’ Mel nudges me on my arm, her Katie Price perfume billowing above our heads like a cloud of lemon sherbet.

‘If you can manage it without puking.’ I wink at her, letting her know my banter is well intended. She sticks her fingers up at me in classic Mel fashion, before turning on her heel and sauntering off.

As I fire up my computer, I, unfortunately, catch my reflection in the monitor. God! I desperately need a good night’s sleep and a bit of TLC. I’m twenty-six and I look about forty: dark-brown circles have started to form under my eyes and unruly, coarse eyebrow hair is sprouting out in all directions like the chits on an old potato. My limp, blonde hair is pulled back lazily into a ponytail with Amber’s butterfly clip shoved in as an afterthought. Oh, yeah, I have a daughter, by the way: Amber. She’s six. It’s because of her I had to leave our home in Manchester.

It’s because of her I’m on the run.

CHAPTER TWO

PRESENT DAY

Liam, Manchester, 1.45 pm

Don’t mistake my relief for happiness. It’s vital that you understand the difference.

I suffer with asthma, but when I was younger it literally consumed me; probably down to my father’s forty-a-day habit and the fact we lived right next to the Mancunian Way. When an attack took hold, I felt like fifteen rugby players were in a scrum around my windpipe. You never get used to that crushing feeling; desperately trying to drag in air that evaporates the moment it reaches your lips. Then my foster mum would appear, as if by magic, with a reassuring smile and an inhaler tucked inside her pinny.

‘You’re always losing them, Liam,’ she would say soothingly. A quick press of the nozzle and the deadly grip loosened. For a blissful moment I felt free… but definitely not happy. How could I be happy when I knew all too well that the feeling would return… and the next time it could be fatal?

Today I have pressed down the nozzle, figuratively speaking, of course. I’ve struggled through the denial, fought against the sadness, given into the anger. But I know the relief will soon evaporate, leaving cold droplets of fear in its place… it always does.

I sit down tentatively in my easy chair, light up an Embassy No 1 and draw in deeply. I need a minute to think. I know I shouldn’t be smoking, by the way, so you don’t need to lecture me. I close my eyes lightly, inhale the finality of the situation along with the tar. It is there that I see her, floating just behind my eyelids, her face just slightly out of reach: Alice, my beautiful, darling Alice.

Snapping my eyes wide open, I cast them onto the front-room door, just slightly ajar, my heart hammering so fast I feel almost giddy. I look and wait, not daring to take another breath. But Alice isn’t there. Of course she isn’t.

Looking over towards the huge bay window, I notice that the curtains are closed. I realise only then what a blessing that is. It’s nice to feel hidden; cocooned against the torrential rain that’s bouncing off the window panes and the howling of the wind as it smashes against the door knocker.

Elliott is eyeing me suspiciously, like he knows I shouldn’t really be smoking in the house. I bring my finger up to my lips.

‘Shhh.’

He smiles. I wink.

It’s then the situation really hits me, as I look into my boy’s open, trusting face. The brief freedom of a few seconds earlier disintegrates in front of my bloodshot eyes, just like I knew it would. I begin to feel a stirring in my stomach, an acidic cocktail of panic and regret thrashing around, desperate to erupt. I take another drag of my cigarette, this time more harshly than I should, deep into the lungs. I pray the nicotine will banish any feelings of doubt. I’ve no room for doubt. ‘Smoking kills’ reads the label on my half-smoked packet. I realise I’m crying.

Elliott whines from across the room. ‘Sorry, pal,’ I whisper, while rubbing my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve. I rake my free hand through my thick, chestnut hair, greying just slightly at the sides. At thirty-six, I have what you would call a ‘lived-in’ face: rugged around the edges, with emerald-green eyes and naturally tanned skin. I suppose I used to be handsome, before all of this happened, of course. Now, every time I look into a mirror, I can’t help but notice that my cheeks are a little too hollow and my eyes have lost their spark. Still, there’s worse things in life to worry about than your own appearance, isn’t there?

As I lay my head on the squashy headrest of my chair and close my eyes, the salty tears run freely down my cheeks. ‘It will be okay,’ I protest; to myself, or maybe to Elliott? I’m not too sure.

He continues to look at me strangely, which makes me feel even worse.

‘Just the smoke making my eyes water,’ I offer, while wafting the cigarette in his general direction. It’s pointless really as I know Elliott doesn’t understand. I then notice Bob the Builder is on the television, his absolute favourite. Balancing the half-smoked cigarette on the side of the ashtray, I walk over to where he’s sitting, crouch down so we’re eye to eye. As he looks up at me, I focus on his dark-blue eyes, eyes that draw you straight to him, mesmerise you.

‘I love you, mister. Everything I have done, and everything I am about to do, is for you. You know that, don’t you?’

In response, Elliott cranes his head around me, transfixed instead with Scoop the digger and Jess the cat. Or am I getting confused with Postman Pat? What’s Bob’s cat called? Pilchard, that’s it. I laugh; fancy thinking of such trivial things at a moment like this.

‘You’re a little sod, you are, pal,’ I laugh through my tears, while ruffling his soft, Milky Bar curls. ‘It’s all right, son, I’ll let you off. Watch your programme.’

God! I adore that little boy so much.

And yet I’ve no choice but to leave him behind.

CHAPTER THREE

PRESENT DAY

Lana, 2.00 pm

So far I’ve been sat at this pigeonhole of a desk for almost five hours and the only thing I’ve booked is a dental appointment. Four hours to go; now I’m really sweating. I owe the landlord six hundred euros on our shitty, one-bedroom apartment that’s crawling with cockroaches and ants.

Today is it – shit or bust! I can’t even consider the consequences.

I bash the next number into my computer keyboard while screwing up my eyes tightly so I can see the digits. I curse myself for leaving my glasses back in Manchester. But then again, I guess I did leave in a hurry.

‘Hello, 2010.’

Oh, God, I hate it when they answer like that. I know your number, love, I bleeding dialled it. ‘Oh, hello. Is it possible to speak to a Mr Meaking?’

‘No, pet.’ The lady sounds ancient, her Geordie accent scratchy and hoarse.

‘Err… okay. When would it be possible to speak to him?’

I hear her cackle and cough in response, both actions happening simultaneously. She finally comes up for air and replies: ‘I think you’ll be waiting a while, my darling.’

‘Right,’ I stutter. ‘Do you know where he is?’

There’s a fleeting pause and I get the impression she’s smiling. ‘Well, I can’t be sure but I’m pretty certain he’s still boxed up in the cemetery where we put him four years ago.’

‘Oh, good God!’ I instantly feel the heat travelling up my body before resting on my chest and neck, leaving red, angry blotches. ‘I’m so very sorry.’ I want the ground to swallow me up along with the late Mr Meaking. But Mrs Meaking is clearly enjoying her Friday-afternoon chat.

‘Oh, don’t apologise, love; best place for the miserable old git. He always liked the outdoors, anyway.’ She then starts whistling the theme tune to the sitcom One Foot in the Grave, so I take it as my cue to hang up.

Right. I dial the next number. This one has to be a sale. I hear the phone ring out and psyche myself up.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello. Is that Mr Simpson?’ I ask in my telephone voice.

‘I’m sorry, dear, can you speak up?’

‘I’m looking for a Mr Simpson?’ I direct the question slowly and loudly.

‘Who do you want, cocker?’

Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m getting frustrated now. Why leave a telephone number when you can’t bloody well hear the person on the other end? ‘I want a Mr Simpson… a Mr Bart…’ I realise just in time.

‘Excuse me?’ croaks the old boy on the other end of the line, clearly about ninety, clearly not Bart Simpson. Thank the Lord for deaf people!

‘Never mind,’ I say, but he’s already gone.

At two-thirty, the sun is high in the sky, beating its powerful rays on all its unsuspecting prey below. A stag party blunders past; T-shirts with names printed on the back. I can just about make out ‘Mad Dog’, who in real life is probably a bank manager called Paul with a wife, two kids and a Honda Civic. The groom is stumbling all over. I presume he’s the groom, seeing as how he’s wearing a giant-cock hat. I shake my head while rolling my eyes.

‘James Carter speaking?’

‘Hello, is that Mr Carter?’

‘Yes, of course it’s Mr bloody Carter. I’ve just said that, haven’t I?’

I get the vague impression Mr Carter isn’t going to book a luxurious holiday for a fraction of the normal price, but I swallow loudly and push on regardless.

‘Hello, Mr Carter, it’s Lana, here. I’m calling from…’

‘Are you selling something?’

Shit, hate that one, no answer is ever good.

‘I… no, well, yes, but…’

‘I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling, goodbye.’

I think right at this moment Mr Carter is the person I hate most in the entire world, even more than Damien, even more than… no, we won’t go there. I need to focus.

‘What are you playing at, Lana?’ howls Damien in my ear, making me jump and throw my plastic cup of tea in the air. Luckily, it was only lukewarm and the spillage isn’t much; just enough to soak through my sales sheet. Tomorrow, it will look like one of those old treasure maps I used to make in primary school with cold, wet teabags. I vaguely wonder if I’ll be here to see it.

‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ I mutter half-heartedly, while rubbing at the booklet with my cardigan sleeve.

‘If you don’t get a sale in the next two hours, you’re out on your ear, girl. Stop arsing around!’

He slaps me on the back a bit too hard and struts off.

‘I’ll get it?’ I shout after him. It is meant to be a statement but it comes out as a question. My head begins to pound and my eyes start to water. Quickly, I throw back two paracetamol, swish them down with the last dregs of cold tea, breathe in deeply, count to five, and dial the next number…

Liam, 2.25 pm

Bob the Builder has just finished. It’s almost two-thirty. She’ll be home from work shortly. Best get a move on.

I force my legs to stand.

The rain has stopped; the rhythmic dripping of the drains is all that can be heard outside, along with the occasional bark from next-door’s dog. It’s possibly because of the eerie silence that I jump when my mobile phone rings.

‘Shit,’ I mutter to myself. ‘Who on earth can that be?’ I start to panic. But I must answer it. I reach over and grab it off the coffee table and press the green button. ‘Hello?’ I speak more abruptly than intended. I’m standing in the middle of the room but it doesn’t feel right to sit. There’s a screeching noise on the other end, a really bad connection. ‘Hello?’ I try again, purposefully sounding lighter this time.

‘Oh, hello. Is that Mr Roberts?’

The girl sounds serious. My heart lurches and I feel a twisting in my gut. I change the phone onto my good ear. ‘Yes, this is he.’

‘Oh, hello, Mr Roberts. I’m calling from Getaway Holidays in Tenerife. You left us your details on a competition website around four years ago and…’

Right, just a sales call. Thank the Lord for that. I realise I’m holding my breath, so I breathe, and as I do I feel my stomach muscles relaxing, my windpipe expanding. I’ve got to keep these nerves under control. It occurs to me then that the girl has paused, expectant perhaps of a response. I flop down in the easy chair, grateful for the small reprieve. ‘Carry on,’ I instruct, as I light another cigarette, the previous one now nothing but ash.

‘Well, it’s about the holiday you’ve won. Well, when I say won, I mean sort of won. It’s like a “pay for one night get six free” kind of thing and, well…’

‘What’s your name, love?’ I’m not sure why I ask.

‘It’s Lana,’ she whispers softly. I can almost hear her smile.

‘Lana’s a nice…’

‘So, as I was saying,’ she interrupts, a steely determination suddenly taking hold of her, ‘have you ever been to Tenerife before, Mr, erm, Mr…?’

‘Roberts,’ I rescue her. She laughs nervously and I hear the turning of a page. Am I the furthest she’s ever got to a sale?

‘So, have you, Mr Roberts…? Have you been to the beautiful tropical island of Tenerife?’

I start to feel guilty. I know what she wants and I’m wasting her time, desperate as I am to stall the inevitable.

‘Look, love, I’m sorry,’ I offer reluctantly. ‘I’m not in the position to take a holiday, all right?’ I flick my cigarette ash as I speak; it misses the ashtray and lands on my jeans. I rub it in carelessly.

‘Oh, well, isn’t that a surprise!’

‘Pardon?’ I wonder if she’s been switched. Is this their sales tactic? Good cop, bad cop?

‘Let me see,’ she continues, her voice shaking with every syllable. ‘You’re all booked up, you have no time, and you aren’t in the market for a holiday right now?’ I can almost see her making air quotes above her head.

‘Sorry, love, it’s just really not convenient.’ I sound bored but really I’m just sad. A holiday would be nice.

‘Why? Why not?’ Her voice balances on the edge of tears; tears of frustration, no doubt. I stay silent, suddenly unsure of what to say. ‘Go on, then?’ she persists. ‘Why can’t you come on this holiday you registered for?’ A holiday you left your number for?’ She really emphasises the ‘you’.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’ I draw on my cigarette, desperately trying to think of a plausible excuse.

‘What? Go on! I’m all ears! Tell me your excuse so I can file it down in my book along with all the other shit excuses?’ There’s a moment’s pause. ‘Sorry.’ She laughs sadly, as if she may suddenly be embarrassed by her outburst.

I don’t know why I say it, because, as the words slip off my tongue, I know it’s a really bad idea – though maybe I want to shock her, maybe I feel really bad for her and I want to make her see I’m not just like every other time waster, or maybe I just really want to tell someone – but, whatever the reason, when I say the words, it feels good, it feels cathartic to say it out loud, even if only to a total stranger. ‘I can’t come, darling,’ I say quite calmly, ‘because, in a minute…’

‘Yeah?’ she mutters, the fight now gone.

‘In a minute, I’m going to kill myself.’

I’m not sure who hangs up first – perhaps it’s me, or maybe it’s her – but, suddenly, the line is completely dead.

CHAPTER FOUR

PRESENT DAY

Lana, 2.30 pm

‘Oh, God, shite… Mel?’ I swivel round on my chair and fly over to where she’s sitting a few metres away. ‘Mel?’ I try again, almost shouting this time. My hands are shaking, heart pounding in my chest.

She puts her right hand up near my face, index finger in the air. ‘Oh, of course, Mr Matlock,’ she purrs, her attention back on the phone. ‘It would be an absolute dream to be acquainted with you when you arrive.’ She meets my eye and smirks. ‘Now, sir… or do you mind if I call you Stanley?’ Giggling, presumably at his response, she flicks her strawberry-blonde hair to one side. ‘Oh, you naughty boy; don’t let Edith here you saying that. Hey, just one second, Mr Matlock.’ As she flicks up her mouthpiece, I take it as my cue to speak but, as the words jump off my lips, she raises that bloody finger again. ‘Just two ticks, chick – I’ve got him here.’ She then reaches in her bag and produces a miniature bottle of vodka.

‘What are you doing? I really need to speak to you.’ I realise I sound pretty desperate but she obviously doesn’t notice.

‘You want one?’ she offers, while unscrewing the top.

‘No, I…’

‘Okay, suit yourself.’ Leisurely, she pours herself a generous measure in a plastic Coca-Cola cup and swills it around with a pen, conceals the empty bottle back in her handbag, then adjusts her headset accordingly.

‘Mel, I really…’ I try again, but she’s already back on the phone.

‘Okay, Stan, I’m back. Did you miss me?’ She laughs, while taking a sip of the harsh, neat vodka. ‘Well, we just have the small matter of payment, then you must tell me all about those lovely Speedos.’ She makes a ‘mmm’ sound before continuing: ‘So how would you like to pay, my dear, apart from in kind?’

Oh, for heaven’s sake, I haven’t got time to listen to Mel and her alternate sales tactics. Instead, I rush over to Damien, who’s sat at his desk playing on Candy Crush and chomping on some BBQ-flavour Pringles.

‘Damien, guess what? Guess what’s just happened?’ The words trip out of my mouth on top of one another.

‘You haven’t gone and got yourself a sale, have you, babe?’ he states without expression, the word ‘tasty’ blaring out of his phone as he clears the candy.

‘No, it’s not that. But I was speaking to some guy and…’

‘If you haven’t got a sale, I don’t wanna know… Vamoosh!’ He waves me off dismissively like you would a chastised toddler.

‘Damien, please.’ I realise I’m close to tears.

He pauses his game, raises his head slowly. His brow creases as he nods for me to proceed.

‘This man I just called.’ I swallow hard. ‘He said he’s going to kill himself. Like now. He’s going to commit suicide or something.’ I stop talking, unable to provide any further information.

There’s a pause, a fleeting moment where we both stare at one another. Then Damien bursts out laughing.

‘Bleeding hell, Lana. I knew you were bad on the phone, girl, but actually making people wanna top themselves?’ He claps his hands together, leans back on his chair and screeches like a banshee. ‘Hilarious, absolute quality.’

‘I’m being serious,’ I shout, louder than I mean to. Tears of frustration threaten to escape as I inwardly plead with Damien to take me seriously. I can’t just allow that man to die now I know about it. I can’t just turn my back on him.

I did that once before… and I won’t make the same mistake again.

‘Listen, love,’ says Damien, as if reading my mind. ‘I’ve heard some excuses in my time but that’s the best.’ He smiles then, showing a teeny scrap of remorse, his face a mask of sincerity.

‘But…’ I struggle to speak.

‘But nothing,’ he barks, breaking the brief moment of sincerity. ‘Go and chill out, have a ciggie and nip over the road for a pint or something. Take five minutes. Then get back on the phone. Forget it. That man, alive or dead, isn’t going to keep you your job.’

So that’s it, conversation over. I go to respond but he’s already back on Candy Crush. I see he’s on Level 387.

Liam, 2.35 pm

I’m not expecting the girl to ring back, so when she does I get irate and tell her to piss off, not so much because I want her to piss off but because I desperately need to get on with the small matter of killing myself.

Elliott, thankfully, dozed off a few moments ago, so I carried him upstairs and placed him in his dinosaur bed. Actually, it’s just a normal wooden bed held loosely together by those crappy screws and pins, which are probably all in the wrong place. But he has dinosaur bedding, which he absolutely loves. As I tucked him in, and pulled the covers up just underneath his chin, my heart broke all over again. To think of everything he has been subjected to in his short life. That’s why I have to do this now. Without Elliott, my life is nothing, and I’m going to lose him one way or another – that much is a given.

At least my death will give him a shot at life.

Walking past the master bedroom on the way back downstairs was shockingly surreal: the realisation that I’ll never again sleep in my bed, never draw the curtains, never kick off my boots after a hard day’s graft, never snuggle down under the covers on an icy winter’s morning, never wake up ever again…

Through the crack in the door I noticed Jessica’s earplugs, casually tossed on the bedside cabinet. Her side of the bed was unmade, the quilt ruffled up like somebody was hiding underneath. I choked back a sob at this normal, everyday picture of married life. Nobody ever looks a fraction deeper, but soon they will.

I’ve googled how long it takes to die from an overdose but, as always with Google, there’s no straightforward answer. I realise I haven’t got very long. Soon she’ll be home and then I couldn’t possibly go through with it. Will she blame herself? Who knows?

Ignoring the phone as it rings yet again, I subconsciously surmise that this takes nuisance calls to a whole new level. ‘Stop ringing,’ I spit under my breath. Beads of cold sweat are forming on my upper lip. I realise I’m finding it difficult to swallow, my heart hammering against my ribcage like it’s going to smash straight through and kill me in an instant… I guess that’s one way to go.

Marching into the kitchen, I drag open the drawers, frantically grabbing at any medication I can find and tossing it onto the kitchen table, knocking off Elliott’s painting in the process. The A4 paper, stiff with dried-up poster paint, wafts high in the air, then sways rhythmically downwards until it skims the cold, hard floor below. I go over and pick it up, stick it up on the fridge with a palm-tree magnet we bought many moons ago in Tenerife.

When you see people take an overdose on television or in films, they always have the correct ingredients: twenty packets of the same tablets and a bottle of the finest malt. What do I have? Three packets of aspirin, sixteen Valium, four individual Pro-Plus and an unopened packet of laxatives; all washed down with a quarter bottle of vodka, a can of Stella and a WKD Blue. As the foam erupts from the can of Stella, the phone rings yet again.

‘Listen, sweetheart, just leave me alone, all right?’

Lana, 2.40 pm

‘I can’t leave you alone’

I hear him sigh on the other end of the line before taking what sounds like a huge gulp of something, most probably whisky. Isn’t that the drink of choice for suicide? I hear a loud burp down the line, which makes me wrinkle up my nose.

‘Pardon me,’ is all he offers.

There’s suddenly a silence as I try to figure out what to say. How do you convince a stranger to not take their own life? I can’t even convince someone to come on holiday for a measly ninety-nine pounds.

‘Are you all right?’ I know it’s a ridiculous question the second it hits the receiver. No wonder I’m three hours away from unemployment.

I hear the snapping of plastic, followed by more frantic gulping.

‘You’re not?’ My blood turns to ice. ‘Please, tell me they aren’t tablets?’

Another pause… he swallows hard.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Sorry, darling, but I’m against the clock here.’ The sudden sound of his voice makes me jump.

‘Shit!’

‘Shit, indeed.’ He allows a small, sad laugh. I’d place him in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. His accent, clearly Mancunian, has a certain texture to it: gravelly, like a man dragged down from the moment of his conception.

‘But why?’ I realise I’m stabbing my pen frantically into my pad. I take a quick glance around to see if anybody has noticed. The midday sun, which is shining through the closed window, is burning holes into my head. I scrunch up my eyes tightly, cover them over with the palm of my hand.

‘It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand.’ He sniffs up and I think he might be holding back the tears. I bite my bottom lip hard as I contemplate how to proceed. He must have read my mind as he gives me a bail-out. ‘This isn’t your problem, Lana.’

Wow, he remembered my name. Nobody ever remembers my name. Most of the time, they don’t wait around long enough to hear it and if they do they always forget. At best I get the odd, ‘Thanks, Laura,’ or ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Hannah.’

‘That’s nice that you remembered my name.’ I smile despite the situation. I can’t help but warm to this sweet, suicidal stranger.

He laughs again, a bit happier this time, almost a chuckle. ‘I wasn’t lying when I said I liked your name.’

‘And were you lying when you said you were going to kill yourself?’ I hold my breath.

‘No, sorry. I wasn’t lying.’ As he speaks I hear the snapping of foil; it’s quick, like tiny bullets being popped from a gun. Of course he’s not lying.

‘I’ll ring the police, or an ambulance. Both, maybe I’ll ring both.’

I hear the scraping of a chair, the clattering of cupboards being opened and a glass being banged down firmly on something hard. He seems to be completely ignoring me.

‘Did you hear me?’

He’s pouring himself a drink. I can hear it trickling into the glass. Either that or he’s decided to have a piss.

‘Liam?’ I demand, the fury and frustration seconds from eruption. From across the room, I get told to ‘pipe down’ by Terry, who’s in the middle of obtaining some old dear’s credit-card number.

‘Lana, just go, all right. This isn’t fair on you. God, you don’t even know me. Just go.’

I don’t speak, but I don’t hang up either.

Liam, 2.45 pm

I tell her to go because it is the right thing to do, even though I want nothing more than to carry on talking to her. The truth is, now it’s come down to it, I’m absolutely petrified. I don’t want to die. What if it’s painful? What will be waiting for me on the other side? How long will it take Elliott to forget I ever existed?

Living, unfortunately, just isn’t an option. She’s seen to that… Jessica. How they will all feel sorry for her. Poor Jess. How could he? With little Elliott in the house as well?

I guess you’d get the odd person on Team Liam, them do-gooder types that go to church and always volunteer for Neighbourhood Watch. But nobody will ever know the real truth. I suppose I could leave a note? Expose Jessica? But there really isn’t time. And would it really matter, anyway?

‘Lana? You’re still there, aren’t you?’

I feel slightly drunk now, having knocked back the Stella with a full pack of aspirin. My fingers hover over the box of Valium but, instead, I down more aspirin. I don’t want the Valium to knock me out before I make sure there’s enough inside my stomach to end it all. Closing my eyes lightly, I tip my head back and take a deep breath, fighting back the panic slowly bubbling away inside of me. Its okay, I tell myself. You’re just going to sleep, and all the pain, all the betrayal and hurt… will float away.

‘I’m still here. Tell me, Liam, do you have a family, a wife?’

Suddenly, an image jolts me almost sober. I allow it to swim into focus.

Standing at the altar, I fidget with my shirt button, my stomach crunching with nerves. Looking over my shoulder, I give a small smile at my foster mother, Barbara, who in turn beams at me, her thumb up in the air. Her hair is freshly permed and for some reason that makes me prouder than I ever thought possible. Flicking my eyes over to my sister, Patty, I notice how she is clutching the order of service tightly to her chest, like it is the most precious jewel in the whole world. Suddenly, tears spring to my eyes as Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ fills the church. At first I don’t dare to look around, terrified I won’t be able to control my emotions.

But of course I do look… and my life changes for ever.

‘Liam, are you still there?’

Opening my eyes, I stutter as I try to reply, unsure of how to respond. But Lana is talking about the present… isn’t she? Only I am trapped in the past.

‘Yes… Jessica.’ Her name feels like poison on my tongue.

‘Children?’ she continues, oblivious to the images that are now scratching around inside my head. ‘What about children?’

I think about little Elliott, out for the count in his bed, unaware of just how much I love him. I briefly consider mentioning my stepdaughter, Amy, eighteen and a mini version of her mother. What about the others? Should I mention them?

‘Just one,’ I finally say. ‘Elliott. He’s the sweetest boy you could ever wish to meet.’

‘I have a daughter,’ she responds. ‘Her name is Amber and, likewise, she’s the sweetest, funniest girl you’d ever wish to meet.’ She laughs a little and then sighs and I briefly hear her sniff up, as if tears may be forming. I suddenly feel incredibly sick.

‘I need to go, Lana. I’m sorry.’

‘I just want to understand.’

She sounds sincere, genuinely interested. Maybe I could tell her? It’s not like it’s going to matter much. In approximately half an hour, I will have passed out; an hour tops and I’ll be dead. Perhaps I could tell her. So at least one person in this whole world knows the truth…

The real truth.

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