The Lie by Petra Hammesfahr

sheets of music on the rest. Behind the glass front of the rustic-style dresser she saw some glasses - and bottles! A little tot of schnapps to calm her down! Her father had sworn by it. It had helped before her second interview with the bank and she certainly hadn’t been more nervous then than she was now.
    She went over to the dresser, opened one of the doors, took out a glass and examined the bottles. They contained a wide range of expensive brands of alcohol. She looked in vain for the simple schnapps her father had recommended for medicinal purposes. But vodka would do in an emergency. As she picked up the bottle, she heard Michael Trenkler say, “What are you playing at?”
    It was a sharp reprimand and she presumed it referred to her silence until she felt him grasp her wrist again. It was impossible to ignore him any more. His grip was extremely painful and the sharp tone contained an unmistakable threat. “If you’re really serious, then I might as well just pack my bags and leave.”
    He took the bottle from her, squeezing her wrist as he did so, as if he were trying to break it. He put the bottle back, closed the cupboard and dragged her out into the hall.
    â€œYou’re hurting me, Michael!” Her wrist felt as if it were stuck in a vice. The words were out before she could stop them. She was just glad that his name came out naturally with them.
    He dragged her into the kitchen, pushed her to the fridge, pulled open the door and pointed to a veritable battery of bottles of fruit juice, mineral water, lemonade and ketchup. “If you need a drink, help yourself.”
    At last he let go. She took a bottle of Diet Coke out of the fridge. Leaning back against the worktop, his arms crossed, impassive, he watched her pour the drink. As she took her first sip, he asked, “Do I have to take the bottles with me, or are you going to be sensible?”
    It gradually dawned on her. Nadia must have a little problem with spirits. And her husband didn’t like it. She just had to think of Heller to remember how much she hated drunks herself.

    â€œI wasn’t going to get drunk,” she said softly, assuming a muted voice was less likely to give her away. “I just wanted a little pick-me-up because…”
    For twenty seconds or so she rattled off something about the Mr Moneybags he’d mentioned who’d stood her up and really pissed her off. She hadn’t intended to say so much, but it appeared to be exactly what Michael Trenkler expected. He certainly didn’t look surprised. When she finally stopped, he just gave a snort of contempt. Then he turned back into the hall, leaving her standing by the open fridge with her Diet Coke.
    Hearing him go upstairs, she examined her surroundings: luxury wherever she looked. Even a TV in the kitchen. There was a small set fixed to the wall above the fridge. Not very practical, she thought, you’d have to stand on a chair to switch it on. Presumably there was a remote control.
    After a few seconds she heard steps on the stairs again and Michael Trenkler reappeared in the doorway, a light jacket over his arm. “If you feel the need to get drunk, then don’t let me stop you. But I tell you, I’m not going through all that again.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” she murmured, took a deep breath and held up her glass of Diet Coke, “I’ll stick to this.”
    Again he frowned. For a moment she wondered if he’d seen through her. Then she realized she’d picked the wrong bottle again. That should never have happened! Nadia had lugged gallons of mineral water up to her flat and just once the orange juice. She could have bet her bottom dollar Nadia never drank cola.
    Without replying, Michael Trenkler turned round and went out. At first she was relieved, but then she started to wonder whether it was right just to let him go like that. Could her mistake with the vodka bottle have triggered off the