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A Few Little Lies
Sue Welfare
Sue Welfare’s first novel of modern manners, now available as an ebook.There are two ways to make sex pay. One is illegal and the other can land you in a whole lot of trouble.When writer Dora Hall’s erotic novels become successful, her agent decides to cash in with a promotional tour. Unfortunately Dora’s career is her best-kept secret, and so she is delighted when he hires a glamorous stand-in. Predatory blonde Lillian Bliss fulfils everyone’s criteria; she’s a walking sexual adventure, lapping up media attention and making it all look wonderfully simple – until she starts to deviate from Dora’s carefully written script.Chaos descends upon the small Norfolk town, local celebrities and politicians scrabble frantically to hide their seedy pasts and Dora’s cover is completely blown. What began with a few little lies turns into a spectacular slice of mayhem in this wickedly witty and warm debut from a tremendously talented writer.
SUE WELFARE
A Few Little Lies
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_ad8b9d54-1010-5ea6-b9f2-644866a77487)
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins website address is:
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
This paperback edition 2000
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998
Copyright © Sue Welfare 1998
Sue Welfare asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780006514312
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780007401154
Version: 2016-08-03
DEDICATION (#ulink_8a0c6aea-a693-52d9-8541-bd5a400b465a)
This book is dedicated, with fondest memories, to the late Mr C. A. Woolley and Mr Glyn Howells, dedicated educators, who encouraged my enthusiasm for books and words and who, at different times, both offered the sage advice: ‘Work more and talk less.’
CONTENTS
Cover (#u9e2bc75d-cf9a-53ad-bda9-1d91692427b9)
Title Page (#uec2bbe87-2c7b-5ca0-878c-1f76347b6332)
Copyright (#ulink_dd289d86-5f98-50cb-9fd1-344619169801)
Dedication (#ulink_517e7b08-ed61-5950-a31d-0ff773f29f84)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_eb5edecc-bbd7-5757-a349-26766decfa8a)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_3ddbea15-c692-511d-92fd-aceb9d9fb83c)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_a36c9952-e7f2-5c33-9f91-d0a95a246613)
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Keep Reading (#u29eb3053-be0b-5c28-863c-a54c1c90d98d)
About the Author
Other Books By
About the Publisher
1 (#ulink_e160c17b-6d18-5257-bc09-ec1b6806fb20)
‘Letitia strode into the room, naked except for her bull whip and boots.
“I’ve come for you, Tony,” she murmured between full pouting carmine lips.
On the leather sofa, bound hand and foot, Tony Vincetti trembled.
“Oh, please don’t hurt me, Letitia,” he whispered, the sweat rising in glistening beads on his top lip.
They both froze as they heard the doorbell ring.’
‘Not in my book, they didn’t,’ Dora Hall whispered, pushing her glasses back up onto her nose. She erased the final sentence from the computer screen, then stretched, waiting for the machine to digest the latest morsel before leaning forward to switch it off.
Beside her, the intercom buzzed more insistently, followed closely by a thin, high-pitched voice through the speaker.
‘Dora, are you up there?’
Dora pushed the swivel chair away from the desk and yawned. It was extremely tempting to say no. Instead she pressed the call button.
‘Come up. Sheila, door’s unlocked.’
She padded into the kitchen, scratching and yawning deliciously with every step. Oscar, the resident ginger tom, mewled the lament of the wildly over-indulged and leapt onto the cooker, while she plugged in the kettle and lit a cigarette. Opening the fridge, Dora prised a carton of milk off the shelf and sniffed it speculatively.
A few seconds later Sheila, her sister, pushed open the kitchen door. She peered around and sniffed, looking rushed. Sheila inevitably looked rushed.
‘Oh, you’re in here, are you? I thought you told me you’d stopped smoking? You’ve left the street door on the latch again. Don’t know why you’ve bought that security thing, anyone can just walk up –’
Dora hunted around for the teapot. ‘I nipped across to the shop first thing.’
Sheila’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not like that, surely? You’re not ill are you?’ She picked her way across the kitchen and stood a wicker basket on the table amongst the debris of breakfast, letters and open books. Oscar headed towards the cat litter tray.
Dora glanced down at the grey dressing gown she was wearing and shook her head.
‘No, I’m fine. I’ve been up for hours. I’ve been working on the computer this morning. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘You said quarter past ten,’ Sheila said flatly, tapping her watch for emphasis. She looked wounded, tipping her head accusingly to one side.
‘I did? I can’t remember saying quarter past ten. What was supposed to happen at quarter past ten?’
Sheila sniffed again. ‘I’ve been hanging around outside the post office for ages. Anything could have happened.’ She paused and pulled her suit jacket straight. ‘Absolutely anything.’
‘What was it I missed this time?’ asked Dora, noncommittally. ‘Tea?’
Sheila sighed, picking at a small dry stain on her lapel. ‘Just a quick one and then I’ve really got to get on. I told the vicar we’d go to his coffee morning today. Oh, and I’ve brought you these for that cat.’ She pulled a neatly tied bundle of newspapers out of the basket and added it to the chaos on the breakfast table. ‘I’d put us down for the washing up.’ Sheila ran her tongue over her teeth. ‘Too late now, of course. I’ll have to ring up and apologise when I get back.’
Dora fished two mugs out of the cold water in the sink.
‘I didn’t realise you’d promised anybody. I thought you said we were just going to raid the cake stall and rootle through the bring and buy. Why don’t you go into the sitting-room? I’ll bring the tea through.’ As she spoke she ran hot water over the remaining plates in the sink and added a squirt of washing-up liquid. It bubbled instantly and hid the debris of last night’s supper under a reassuring explosion of suds.
Sheila nodded, pointedly ignoring the grubby tea towel Dora had tucked over her arm, and the miasma emanating from Oscar as he strained triumphantly over the cat litter.
Obtusely Sheila stepped across the little hall into the adjoining room, barely bigger than a broom cupboard, that Dora used as her office. Dora scrubbed the rings off the cups, watching as her sister peered myopically at the blank computer screen.
‘So, how’s the translation coming along?’ Sheila’s high-pitched voice betrayed a rich mosaic of resentments.
Dora dropped two tea bags into the pot.
‘So-so, it’s a bit slow at the moment. How are the kids?’ She could see Sheila running a finger along her book shelves.
‘Not too bad, Jason’s getting his grommets next month,’ Sheila said distractedly. ‘Do you really read all these books?’
Dora carried the tray through and balanced it on a little table wedged between her desk and the office armchair.
‘Why don’t we go in the sitting-room. Sheila? You hate that armchair.’
Sheila shook her head, finger still working along the spines of the books arranged from floor to ceiling on the wall near Dora’s desk.
‘I prefer it in here, it’s the only room you keep tidy. There’s cat’s hairs everywhere on that settee.’ She paused. ‘We’re having a fund raiser next week, maybe you could sort out some of these you’ve finished with.’ Her stubby finger tapped on one spine. ‘I read about her in the paper. She’s going to be in Smith’s.’
Dora picked up her mug, gathering her dressing gown around her knees as she folded herself onto the swivel chair.
‘Who is?’
‘This Catiana Moran woman, she’s doing a book signing. I saw a bit about it in the Fairbeach Gazette. I think it’s one of the ones I brought –’
Sheila hurried back into the kitchen, reappeared carrying a newspaper, and began to thumb through the pages. She turned the paper back on itself and handed it to Dora.
‘There we are. What’s on in Fairbeach, half way down –’
Dora stared at a small grainy photograph.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, swallowing down her surprise, and folded the paper alongside the tray. There was a familiar face on the front page. ‘My God,’ she whispered, scanning the headline. ‘I didn’t know Jack Rees had died.’
Sheila pulled a face. ‘Who?’
Dora slipped on her glasses. ‘Jack Rees, the MP?’ She glanced down the column.
‘Oh, him.’ Sheila’s face registered her disapproval. ‘Jumped-up nobody, him. His dad was a fishmonger in Railway Road, mum used to work in the Co-op.’ She sniffed dismissively and turned her attention back to Dora’s shelves.
Dora stared at the picture of Fairbeach’s famous son. There were few modern political giants from the fens, which had made Jack Rees all the more special – a true Fen tiger, a local hero who had dedicated his life to improving things in his home town. His features were so familiar that it felt as if she was looking at an old friend. She felt a peculiar little flurry of loss, while, across the room. Sheila pulled out one of the books.
‘You’ve got an awful lot of that woman’s stuff here,’ she observed, peering at the photograph of a lascivious wet-lipped nymphet draped provocatively across the front cover. ‘Do you read a lot of this sort of thing?’ she whispered, turning it over so she could read the jacket.
‘No, and I don’t think it’s really your sort of thing either,’ Dora said. Leaning forward, she prised the novel gently from between her sister’s fingers and slipped it back into the bookcase with the others. ‘And they’re definitely not suitable for a church bring and buy. Here, why don’t you have your tea? How about if I get dressed? I was going into town later anyway, we could go out for some lunch if you like. I’m sorry we missed your coffee morning.’
