The Perfect Lie

1 Saturday 4 August, 10.45am. Saturday morning is my favourite time of the week. No kids, no work, no stress. It’s the only chance I get to actually be myself. I don’t need to be Supermum at home or Amy’ll-Do-It at work. I get to do what I want to do, in my own time, for five whole hours. Harry and Jacob being two years apart means they are — for the time being — in different age groups when it comes to football. Harry plays in the under-10s, and Jacob for the under-8s. The beauty of that is that the under-10s play at nine o’clock in the morning, and the under-8s don’t kick off until midday. Brendan’s great. He takes the pair of them every Saturday morning, and Jacob waits patiently while Harry plays his match, then they head to a nearby café for brunch before going back for Jacob’s game. The house is eerily quiet on Saturday mornings, but that’s the way I like it. The only sound I want to hear is my own breathing. If the weather’s good, as it is at this time of year, I like to sit out in the garden with a book. The garden’s not a conventional shape (Brendan called it ‘weird’ when we first viewed the house, and still swears he got ten grand off the asking price for it). It curves and sort of doglegs at the end, leaving a nice secluded decking area, a perfect morning suntrap for a mug of coffee and a few chapters. No view of any buildings or people. Just me in my own little oasis. During the winter, or whenever the weather’s colder, I’ll quite often take a bath. The enforced solitude — even though the house is empty — is so relaxing. Saturday mornings are about the only time I get to read. I always try and get another chapter down before going to sleep, but I’ll inevitably fall asleep with the book on my face after about three paragraphs. Even holidays aren’t as relaxing as they were before we had the boys. We were in Tenerife only a couple of weeks ago, but I swear Brendan and I came home more stressed than before we left. The idea of being able to lay on a beach and do nothing just isn’t realistic when you’re trying to stop two kids from fighting or destroying each other’s belongings. Brendan said it was ‘cabin fever’. I told him I’ve got no idea how you can get cabin fever while you’re sitting on miles of open beach, staring across the vast ocean at the coast of Africa. But then again the boys have never been ones for playing together. We thought having them only two years apart would mean they’d grow up together, but other than football they don’t really share many interests. Harry’s very much into his computer games. He’d spend all day playing online if we let him. He’s loud, energetic and very much in charge. Jacob, on the other hand, is more like me. He’s easy going. He much prefers to sit in peace with a book. We stick together, me and Jacob. It’s due to be a blisteringly hot day. It’s already unbearably warm and muggy, and the parasol is doing little to keep the heat away. The sun might be kept at bay, but the air is still and there’s no hiding from the humidity. I decide to get up and go inside for a glass of iced water. The house will be even hotter than it is out here — one of the downsides to living in an old building — but the thought of an ice cold drink is too much to resist right now. As I open the fridge, I hear banging on my front door and window. Furrowing my brow, I walk through the house to the front door, and open it. Two uniformed police officers are standing on my front doorstep. ‘Good morning. We’re looking for a Mrs Amy Walker,’ one of them says, looking beyond me and into the house, as the other casts his eye over me. ‘Uh, yes. That’s me,’ I say. ‘What’s happened?’ The other officer nods. ‘Amy Walker, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’