The Good Liar Read Online Free PDF Page A

bring flowers anyway, he’d said forlornly; it’s a waste of money. And sure enough they have.
    This morning he has been subjected to geriatric hyperactivity, a
    running commentary on the preparations and a lengthy debate over
    what he should wear. Good God, he knows full well how to turn
    himself out. He’d had to put his foot down.
    So here they sit, drinking sherry, the component parts of this odd
    gathering, all of them transparently ill at ease apart from Roy, in spite of their quite hopeless attempts to pretend otherwise.
    It is cramped in the small living room. There is a real risk that
    someone will knock over one or more of Betty’s knick- knacks.
    Michael and Anne perch awkwardly on the edge of the small sofa.
    Their unprepossessing daughter, Emma, with spectacles, lank hair
    and an unspecified skin problem, sits on a kitchen chair. Stephen sits on the stairs. Roy thinks, where do they get their ugliness from?
    Certainly not from Betty. Her hubby must have been something to
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    behold, with dominant genes. Michael, Stephen and Emma resem-
    ble to him a family of weasels, with their beady eyes and sloping
    foreheads. Not to mention their snarly, unpleasant Mancunian twangs.
    Betty is in continual motion between them, covering the small
    patch of carpet furiously hither and thither, fussing with nibbles, muttering irrelevancies thirteen to the dozen. Roy leans back in his chair. On one level he is quite enjoying this. Their discomfiture at meeting him for the first time is amusing.
    He stifles a yawn and looks outside. At least they have a decent
    vehicle. Michael’s large metallic German car stands at the kerb in
    the rain. So this nonentity must amount to something despite the
    evidence.
    Someone has spoken to him. The lids close momentarily over his
    eyes as he contains his boredom and strives for civility. ‘Pardon?’ he says.
    ‘I said, you’ve acclimatized to life outside the metropolis all right?’
    asks Michael with infinite patience but in a voice that suggests he is dealing with an imbecile.
    Acclimatized. Yes, that’s the kind of word this bespectacled geek
    would use. He even calls his mother by her given name. Betty this,
    Betty that; not Mother or even Mum. No respect. Disgraceful. But
    it is necessary to hold one’s temper in check.
    ‘Oh yes,’ he says with a thin smile that even he thinks may not be
    entirely convincing. ‘It’s not so hard. I like living here.’
    ‘And you sold your place in London?’
    Cheek. Roy knows what he’s driving at. But he answers calmly.
    ‘No. Not yet. I’m thinking about it, and considering my invest-
    ment options.’ He looks in Betty’s direction and smiles.
    ‘You play the market, then?’ asks Michael with a persistence Roy
    might not have credited.
    ‘Oh no. Not really. No, my money’s safe. I have an associate from
    the old days. A broker who’s looked after me for many years. What-
    ever he comes up with, I’m OK. We’ll be all right, won’t we, my
    dear?’
    ‘Pardon?’ says Betty, flustered as she is interrupted on her way to the kitchen. ‘Oh yes, of course.’
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    They all smile at one another insincerely and then sip their sherry.
    You don’t like me, thinks Roy. Except Betty of course. You don’t like me. And I don’t care. He chuckles inwardly, and then starts. It is
    becoming harder, much harder, as time goes on, to maintain that
    necessary veneer of politesse and feigned eager, smiling interest.
    The ageing process. He must not merely try harder; he must do bet-
    ter. For all their sakes he must show himself an engaged and
    enthusiastic participant, a welcome initiate in the bosom of this
    complacent coterie, not an interloper.
    But it is so very hard. Tolerance has never been his strong suit, he will freely admit – to himself. Disguise of intolerance, yes, but that’s a very different thing. It has been