After the Lie: A gripping novel about love, loss and family secrets (2 page)

U
nlike my mother
, Mark had been more put-out than proud that I was head honcho of the fundraising committee. ‘Couldn’t they find someone who doesn’t work to do it? Surely one of the Eastington House mothers could take a break from making quinoa and pomegranate salads to push around their plates?’

The fact that Mark even knew what quinoa was made me laugh. ‘Get you, MasterChef. I know. It was just really hard to say no.’

Mark stabbed at his phone and sighed. ‘I hope you’re not taking on too much. I don’t want you keeling over with exhaustion. And frankly, I need your fundraising skills a bit more than Eastington House’s posh and privileged. I’ve no doubt those kids can go on to lead fulfilling lives without underfloor heating in their changing rooms. I could really do with a hand chasing up kitchen leads before Christmas. The order book is completely empty for November.’

‘I don’t suppose it will be very onerous, so perhaps I could do some follow-ups for you in the evenings. The main event is the hog roast in October to raise money for the new clubhouse.’

‘I’d much rather have a few grand a year off the fees than a swanky new bar. I’d be quite happy to sit on a camping chair under a gazebo.’

Yet again, I wished I’d stood up to my mother when she’d done her whole ‘private school or die’ as soon as I’d had kids. By the time I’d packed Jamie off to Eastington House kindergarten aged three – in his cap, for god’s sake – I was still deluded enough to think I could build some bridges with her. Instead, I’d just signed us up for a lifetime of tightening our belts, which made my poor husband feel as though he’d let me down.

If only he knew the truth about me.

About all of us.

I heaved a sigh of relief as Mark picked up his laptop and started packing his briefcase for work. I had to squeeze in a meeting with my fellow fundraisers before racing off to a consultation with a woman who’d sounded more funereal than bridal. Black tulips, black jelly babies and black candles. The idea of standing my ground with the bossy women on the committee was stressing me enough without having to persuade a client that caves, crypts and dungeons were not suitable wedding venues.

The front door clicking shut, for me, was right up there with a baby’s laugh and the first cup of tea after the school run. The moment of the day when I could just be myself. The self that no one knew. The person who wanted to shake my mother by her scrawny shoulders when she banged on about the right way to behave, the right circle of friends, the right connections. The wife who wanted to make plans for the future without fearing the past. The mother who wanted to encourage her children to live expansively, joyously, to cultivate a healthy immunity to what ‘everyone’ thinks.

About anything.

Instead, I checked my make-up and took my navy blazer from the coat cupboard. I tried to ignore the whimpering of our black Labrador, Mabel, who had just realised that a walk was not on the immediate agenda.

Despite arriving at the café twenty minutes early, Melanie was already sitting in the far corner. I paused on the threshold, recoiling from a one-to-one spotlight with the woman whose opinions came at you with all the finesse of a prop forward: ‘We shouldn’t allow alcohol at school social evenings. One father was sick in the flowerbed that had been specially planted to look like the school crest last year’; ‘The school really needs to serve plain water, not fruit juice, at sports matches because of the risk of tooth enamel erosion.’

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Melanie also seemed to have a secret hotline to the exam results of every child in her son’s year, with a special terminal illness announcement voice for anyone with less than fifty-five per cent in Maths. As it was the start of a new term, she’d no doubt be up till midnight trying to crack the teacher’s streaming code. It would only be a matter of time before she worked out that the duffers were languishing in the Rhododendron set, with the brainy ones beavering away in the Apple Blossom group.

Although Melanie was scribbling in a notebook, she appeared to have little antennae on the top of her head that swivelled round the second my foot creaked on the step. ‘Lydia. Lovely to see you.’ She untucked herself from the armchair in a graceful movement, her black trousers swishing to attention above her ballerina pumps. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘I’ll just get a coffee.’

‘I thought we’d do one big round when everyone gets here, to save wasting time. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you first, without the others.’

It seemed a bit childish to get into a big hoo-ha over the cappuccino timings, even though I hated giving into Melanie’s little power play. I pulled out a chair.

Melanie crossed her legs and tapped her pen on her notebook. ‘Now, the main project this year is the new rugby clubhouse. It’s going to be your job to keep the form reps involved and force them to push the other parents to help out. You’ll have to be a bit dictatorial, otherwise nothing will happen.’

I told myself that I made life-changing weddings happen all the time, without ever needing to draw on my inner dictator. Quiet efficiency and polite requests had worked well enough so far.

Melanie stared at me. ‘You’ll have to accept that not everyone is going to like you. As I’m sure you know, I’ve ruffled a few feathers, but that comes with the job.’

I couldn’t even tell the dog off without kissing her head and giving her a biscuit afterwards.

‘We need to raise at least twenty thousand pounds. There’s a parent who’s joined the school this year who’s very interested in photography. He’s going to take photos at various sports matches, which he will then print and sell at other events. He’s coming along this morning so you can meet him.’

‘Don’t we need permission from the parents to take photos?’

Melanie twittered her fingers airily as though I was obstructing her brilliant ideas. ‘You’ll have to get permissions signed. The sports staff can send them out to the parents.’

Oh dear. That would mean talking to Mr O’Ryan who called all the pupils ‘Boooooy!’ and frothed at the mouth whenever Eastington House was losing.

Before I could sink any further under my burden of duties, a few other women came clacking in. Melanie pointed them into seats, cutting across chatter about the new Italian restaurant. She whistled up a waitress and dispatched her to get coffee. ‘White Americano okay for everyone?’

I dared to disrupt Melanie’s call to action with a request for soya milk, earning me an irritable glance as though I’d started discussing a complicated order for a triple decker sandwich, hold the mayo, no tomato.

Melanie tapped her clipboard for silence. She turned to Fleur, an ex-model and Pied Piper for the dads at any school event. ‘Right. Fleur, your job is to source some shawls, scarves and shrugs we can sell at the Christmas fair. Do you think some of your connections in the rag trade would be happy to donate?’

Fleur raised her eyebrows and smoothed her glossy hair behind her ear. ‘Fashion designers, do you mean, Melanie? I’m sure a few of my friends will be able to oblige.’

‘Good.’ Melanie ploughed on. ‘Terri, could your husband offer some complimentary tickets to… What is it he does? Bingo evenings?’ Melanie managed to say the word ‘Bingo’ in the manner of someone who’d just bitten into a maggot-ridden nectarine.

Terri cackled with laughter and slapped Melanie’s knee as though she’d cracked a great joke. Melanie made a big show of struggling not to spill her coffee. ‘Come on, Mel, don’t be naughty, you know he owns casinos now. You should come down sometime. Get you on the blackjack tables. Free drinks when you’re gambling. I’ll sort out some freebies for you. You’ll have to stick his name at the top of the programme though – he likes a bit of a fanfare.’

At that moment, a stocky man strode up to the table. Melanie leapt to her feet, running her fingers through her hair and straightening the neckline of her T-shirt. ‘Sean! You found our little gathering. Come on in. He’ll make a great addition, won’t he, ladies? We could do with a bit of male insight.’

I looked up at the object of her adulation and blinked hard, feeling the world quiver slightly. While Terri launched in with a hundred questions about what year his kids were in and where he was living, I excused myself to the loo, aware of my feet skittering on the wooden floor like the dog when she was trying to escape the Hoover.

Why would it be him, here, now?

I
lowered
the loo lid and sat down. I couldn’t be sure. There was no sign that he’d recognised me. He probably didn’t see me in the worshipful fog surrounding him. I hadn’t seen the man in thirty years. I hadn’t forgotten about him – how could I? – but I’d stored him away in the understairs cupboard of my mind, to remain there undiscovered until I died, with any luck. Last I’d heard he was living in America, some big-shot estate agent for the rich and famous. Why would he turn up in a Surrey backwater? Sean was a pretty common name. It didn’t have to be Sean McAllister. I re-applied my lipstick and prayed that it was any other Sean: Sean Smith, Sean Connery, Shaun the flaming sheep.

My body seemed to think it was him, though. Every time I tried to bring his face to mind and compare the chunky adolescent with today’s broad-shouldered man, my stomach suffered from air turbulence. If it was him, his hair wasn’t as dark as I recalled. But maybe, like me, he had plenty of grey. I hauled myself up and leant on the sink. My hands were shaking so much I was rattling the taps. I had to go back out there. I’d brave a few more of Melanie’s diktats, then I’d make an excuse to disappear.

I opened the door and pretended I was stepping into a meeting with a new client, steeling myself to look smiling, confident and capable. I hovered at the side of the room, staring straight at the back of the man who’d blown my life apart so many years ago. Was it him? I didn’t remember his hair being that wavy. I strained my ears. There was a deep timbre to his voice. Was that a slightly American inflection? Or Irish? Mark always teased me about my inability to distinguish a Brummie from a Liverpudlian. I consoled myself that if Sean wanted to ingratiate himself with the great and good of Eastington House, he wouldn’t be in a hurry to tell the story either. Too many of the women out there had teenage girls themselves.

I slunk towards the group, undecided whether I was going to introduce myself or just slip in quietly. Melanie made the decision for me. ‘Sean. This is our new chairwoman – the very capable Lydia Rushford.’

Hallelujah for my parents’ decision to call me by my middle name when we moved away after everything that had happened. For the millionth time I thanked my lucky stars that I’d married Mark. Right now, the fact that he was kind and honourable was a bonus. Having his surname, totally different from my original name was the real prize. Sally Southport sounded like a weathergirl on the TV to me now.

Sean stood up. If it was him, he’d ended up quite tall, well over six foot. I remembered him as a thickset bulldozer on the rugby field, steaming through the opposition, stubby legs powering away. I’d loved watching him play. Saturday was my favourite day of the week, when I was allowed to linger on the edge of the ‘in’ crowd. When I stopped being the deputy headmaster’s daughter and became one of the rugby girlfriends.

My hand shook a little in his firm grasp. ‘Lydia, lovely to meet you.’ Had he lingered on ‘Lydia’? Put a little bit of emphasis on ‘meet’? Would he even recognise me now, with my blonde highlighted bob rather than the long brown hair I used to have? I’d been stick-thin then as well. I was what my mother would call ‘solid’ now. Certainly not the thirteen-year-old girl with the jutting hip bones of adolescence. Mark chivalrously called me ‘hourglass’, which would have worked if I’d been three inches taller.

I automatic-piloted, ‘Pleased to meet you, too’ and sat back in my armchair, unable to concentrate on any of the bulk-buying of jelly snakes as prizes, glow-in-the-dark antlers for the fireworks evening or rigid rules for the contents of the Christmas gift box for the children of Africa.

‘Toothpaste, toothbrush – yes. Chocolate, soldiers, anything gun- or sword-shaped – no.’ Everything had a life-or-death quality when Melanie spoke, as though slipping in a chocolate button would result in a revolution in Uganda.

Sean caught me staring and winked at me. It was him. That little lopsided grin. His nose didn’t seem crooked, though. He leaned back, one foot crossed over his knee. Long-discarded memories shrugged off their dust sheets. I batted them away, picking up my coffee to hide my face but I couldn’t take a sip. Everything in me seemed bilious, as though I’d glugged down a two-litre bottle of coke without pausing to breathe. I was making a gulping noise, the way the dog did when she was about to throw up. I put my cup back down and coughed, hoping to release, very quietly, some of the trapped air from my stomach. Instead, a big swell – a hard knot of fright – lodged itself halfway up my oesophagus, threatening to bring my porridge with it. I tried to breathe steadily, my mind catching wafts of Melanie’s ‘fundamental principles’, ‘expenses down and income up’, ‘more volunteers, lighter burden’. I was aware of Sean glancing at me now and again. His eyes were constantly on the move, drinking us all in. Still restless, then.

Would it all come out now, this secret we’d fought so hard to keep? What would they think, these people with their granite-topped kitchens, their husbands in the latest Range Rovers, their children with cellos in wheeled cases? Every time Jamie fouled at rugby, overdid the rough and tumble in the playground, or, god forbid, got into a fight, would there be mutterings of ‘From what I hear, it runs in the family’? Or would it be a total non-event, greeted with a shrug before they all went back to watching the
Great British Bake Off
? With my mother’s barometer stuck on stormy for all these years, I had no way of working out an accurate public disapproval forecast. Mark would know. But of course, he didn’t
know
.

‘Lydia. Lydia!’ Melanie’s sharp voice cut into my fear.

I dragged my eyes up to meet her questioning glance, feeling the beginning of a migraine.

She said, ‘You’d better have a separate meeting with Sean, to discuss pricing and publicity. It’s going to be a real money-spinner for us. I’ve seen his pictures; he’s an excellent photographer.’

Photographer.

The word bounced off the walls at me.

‘I’m sure he is.’

I gathered every last bit of strength, imagined my thigh muscles connecting to my knees and contracting to force myself into a standing position. I grabbed my handbag.

Sean smiled, a man used to a warm welcome wherever he went. ‘I’ll give you a ring, Lydia, and we can come up with a strategy.’

If he hadn’t recognised me, it was just a matter of time. My voice sounded thick, as though I was speaking underwater. ‘Okay. Sorry, I have a meeting now, I have to go.’

I raced out into the street, gulping in the urban air of exhaust, Chinese takeaway and fresh bread. I just managed to dash into an alleyway before I lost the battle with the porridge.