I Know Who You Are. Alice Feeney

Twenty-One

       Twenty-Two

       Twenty-Three

       Twenty-Four

       Twenty-Five

       Twenty-Six

       Twenty-Seven

       Twenty-Eight

       Twenty-Nine

       Thirty

       Thirty-One

       Thirty-Two

       Thirty-Three

       Thirty-Four

       Thirty-Five

       Thirty-Six

       Thirty-Seven

       Thirty-Eight

       Thirty-Nine

       Forty

       Forty-One

       Forty-Two

       Forty-Three

       Forty-Four

       Forty-Five

       Forty-Six

       Forty-Seven

       Forty-Eight

       Forty-Nine

       Fifty

       Fifty-One

       Fifty-Two

       Fifty-Three

       Fifty-Four

       Fifty-Five

       Fifty-Six

       Fifty-Seven

       Fifty-Eight

       Fifty-Nine

       Sixty

       Sixty-One

       Sixty-Two

       Sixty-Three

       Sixty-Four

       Sixty-Five

       Sixty-Six

       Sixty-Seven

       Sixty-Eight

       Sixty-Nine

       Seventy

       Seventy-One

       Seventy-Two

       Seventy-Three

       Seventy-Four

       Six Months Later . . .

       Acknowledgements

       Reading group questions

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       About the Publisher

One

       London, 2017

      I’m that girl you think you know, but you can’t remember where from.

      Lying is what I do for a living. It’s what I’m best at: becoming somebody else. The eyes are the only part of me I still recognise in the mirror, staring out beneath the made-up face of a made-up person. Another character, another story, another lie. I look away, ready to leave her behind for the night, stopping briefly to stare at what is written on the dressing-room door:

      AIMEE SINCLAIR

      My name, not his. I never changed it.

      Perhaps because, deep down, I always knew that our marriage would only last until life did us part. I remind myself that my name only defines me if I allow it to. It is merely a collection of letters, arranged in a certain order; little more than a parent’s wish, a label, a lie. Sometimes I long to rearrange those letters into something else. Someone else. A new name for a new me. The me I became when nobody else was looking.

      Knowing a person’s name is not the same as knowing a person.

       I think we broke us last night.

      Sometimes it’s the people who love us the most that hurt us the hardest, because they can.

       He hurt me.

      We’ve made a bad habit of hurting each other; things have to be broken in order to fix them.