The Woman Before You: An intense, addictive love story with an unexpected twist...
You never know what secrets people are hiding.Isabel: Beautiful. Talented. Bored.Mathew: Mysterious. Handsome. Dangerous.For Isabel Archer, dating is a way to pass the time in her otherwise comfortable life. She casts herself as the Perfect Girlfriend for every man she matches with, playing a different girl with a different back-story every night for months. It's innocent – one goodnight kiss before swiftly deleting each profile – until she goes too far.Mathew likes playing games too. Only the games he wants to play are the kind you don’t always walk away from.Dangerous Liaisons meets Maestra in the most shocking thriller you’ll read this year.
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HarperImpulse
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © 2018 Seven Acres, LLC
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photograph © Nina Masic / Trevillion Images
Carrie Blake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely 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.
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.
Source ISBN: 9780008279479
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008279462
Version: 2018–03–16
Table of Contents
On the day he finally asked me, I knew. This was where everything had been leading, all along. I didn’t ask: What happens now? I didn’t ask: Why me? I didn’t ask: What will I have to do? I didn’t ask: How bad will I have to be? How evil?
I waited for him to speak.
He smiled at me across the table in the restaurant where he’d just shown me something that had changed everything. Something that put the last part of my life—or maybe my whole life so far and my immediate future—in an entirely new and different light.
He didn’t have to explain. He didn’t have to tell me what I’d just seen. He took my hand in his and gently stroked my palm. His hands were smooth and icy cold. As cold as the devil’s, I thought.
‘You’re perfect,’ was all he said. ‘Perfect.’
It’s always a nasty shock to learn that what you believed was your deepest self, your inner core, was, all along, only your surface. It’s even more shocking to discover how fast that clean, pure surface can crack—and reveal the darkness and dirt beneath.
On the surface I was a nice girl; the girl you want to have coffee with after yoga class, the girl whose shoulder you cry on after your break-up, the girl you call to watch your kids when the babysitter cancels at the last minute.
My senior year in high school, they actually tested us for compassion—to see how much sympathy we had. Our principal’s wife taught in the college psych department, and everyone said that the test was part of her research. We knew that this was probably not approved by the Iowa Board of Education, but no one objected. If you refused to take the test, it meant you had no compassion. You weren’t a nice person. You failed.
The school guidance counselor, Mr Chambers, took us one by one into a side room off the gym, a windowless cubicle that reeked of disinfectant and old sneakers. He asked a lot of questions. I aced the test without trying. Would I risk my life to save someone? Sure. If I won the lottery, how much would I give to charity? Fifty percent. Did I usually assume that a person was telling the truth or lying? Mostly, telling the truth. It depended on who the person was.
Mr Chambers put his hand on my knee. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He stared into my eyes. His eyes were liquid and brimmed with fat tears under his dark bushy eyebrows.
I ignored his hand inching up my leg. I pretended not to notice.
I answered his questions truthfully. I said what I thought. I didn’t have to think. I didn’t mention the fact that, all through the test, his hand kept edging further up my leg. Did he think he was being encouraging and supportive? Affectionate and kind?
Finally, I slapped his hand away, like a pesky mosquito. He raised his hand, and shook it from side to side, as if he were waving goodbye to me. After a few minutes, he put his hand on my leg again. I wanted to say something, to yell at him, to scream. But I didn’t. I just sat there, answering his questions.
To be fair, he never got further than my lower thigh. And maybe that was the real compassion test, underneath the fake one. Question: Did I think Mr Chambers was a disgusting perv who should be locked up for the rest of his life, or did I think he was a sick man who needed help? Answer: I thought he was a disgusting perv who needed help.
My friends and I never talked about what happened in that cubicle, and I think I learned something from that, though I couldn’t have said what it was. At least not then. Not yet.
