After the Lie: A gripping novel about love, loss and family secrets (8 page)

O
ver the next
couple of weeks, my mistake became clear. Katya took my one-off walking kindness as a sign that I’d opened the door to her becoming my best friend. She kept phoning me with suggestions of things to do. I batted her away, claiming that my latest commission, planning a wedding in Italy, was taking up all my time.

My resistance was no match for Katya’s fear of her own company. ‘Get your diary out. Let’s make a plan.’

I couldn’t say that I didn’t have a free day for the next year. Especially with Mark urging me to keep the McAllisters sweet.

Katya had so much energy for the new and the different. She came up with things I had always wanted to do but that led to the kids finding urgent homework and Mark needing to sort out his toolbox if I ever suggested them. So, when Katya mentioned jazz at Polesden Lacey, an art exhibition in Dorking, the sculpture park at Churt, I found myself agreeing. After every outing, I vowed to disentangle myself from the McAllisters’ lives, but then she’d call again, picking just the places I fancied going and I’d promise myself it would be the last time.

As we wandered through the sculpture park, looking at horses made from recycled rubbish and skeletons dancing on the lawn, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken to a single person who could name any sculptor other than Henry Moore and Rodin. One of the offshoots of an adolescence spent on my own was that I’d been bored enough to discover hobbies to entertain me. Encouraged by my father, I had spent an entire summer reading about artists and sculptors. I harboured a little hope that I might follow in their footsteps, all easels and flowing smocks on the South Downs, until my mother crushed that idea with a sharp ‘The last thing we need in this family is a starving artist. You get on and study sciences like Michael and get yourself a decent job.’

So art as a career was knocked on the head. All these years later, I was overjoyed to find an outlet for admiring textures and discussing dimensions without Izzy and Jamie practically blowing me away with their yawning. In fact, Katya and I puzzled over how we’d managed to produce children who shared none of our passion.

‘Honestly, Eleanor is so like Sean. She likes photography, ‘real stuff’ as she calls it. Anything abstract or surreal she thinks is a load of old nonsense. But maybe that arty-farty gene brings a measure of fragility with it. At least she isn’t full of self-doubt, like me.’

I restrained myself from saying, ‘You can say that again, cocky little madam,’ and restricted myself to ‘Do you think the two are related? I’d love to blame my insecurities on my arty-farty gene.’

Katya turned to me. ‘I can’t believe you have any insecurities. You always seem so in control to me.’

For some reason, that struck me as ridiculously funny and I laughed until I was in danger of looking like someone you wouldn’t want to be alone with among a canopy of trees.

‘What’s so funny?’ Katya sounded slightly offended at my hilarity.

Where to start? It was so tempting to burst out with ‘Oh yes, I’m so in control, I’ve been living a lie for years. Even my own husband doesn’t know the truth and guess what? Your husband, who, incidentally, I have kissed hundreds of times, has been at the root of it all. Still want to be my friend? No. Thought not.’

I managed to curtail my laughter by thinking about dying while the children were still young and Mark having to do the periods talk with Izzy. ‘It’s just that I don’t see myself like that at all.’

‘But look at you. Mark is always saying how proud he is of you, what a brilliant businesswoman you are. Sean never says things like that about me. He’s always telling me how intellectual this or that person is, how he admires so-and-so, how he’s met this mum who spotted a gap in the market and set up such-and-such a business. It makes me feel so inadequate.’

I hated discussing Sean, so I kept quiet. Katya waited for a response. ‘Have you noticed that he’s always praising other women?’

‘No. But even if he does, I don’t think he means to make you feel bad. His family were self-made and admiring entrepreneurship was just something that was prized when he was growing up.’

Jesus. I really had to stop doing that. ‘Or at least, that’s the impression I get.’

I blushed into the pause before Katya replied. I pretended to be examining a trio of frogs very closely, running my hands over the pitted bronze.

‘I’m not sure he’s ever explained that to me in those terms.’ Little pin darts of puzzlement and defensiveness studded her voice.

I scrabbled for a recovery. ‘Mark told me the other day that they’d had a long discussion about whether the desire to be self-employed stems from your family background. Mark’s dad was a self-employed carpenter, and I think Sean’s dad worked for himself too, didn’t he?’

‘He ran his own garage. Sean really rates Mark. He finds so many of the men round here such willy-wagglers – all talk about cars, holiday homes and what bloody bonus they’re hoping for.’ She carried on. ‘Generally he gets on better with women. He finds you fascinating.’

I tried to make a joke. ‘Oh yes, that’s the first word that springs to his mind, no doubt.’

‘He’s always really interested in what we’ve talked about. Usually he finds women’s conversation a bit banal.’

Katya’s demeanour made me wonder whether there was a body language position known as the half-hedgehog – a semi-defensive stance, prickles at the ready without ascertaining a definite threat.

I tried to deflect her. ‘To be fair, you can’t blame him for not wanting to listen to eyebrow waxing recommendations or the pros and cons of the Mirena coil.’

It was so unlike me to mention anything to do with sex. And the fact that I had made me blush. I guess Sean and nudity were inextricably linked in my brain.

Luckily, Katya laughed. ‘Oh god, I know. Still, I imagine a quick discussion about the Mirena coil is slightly preferable to a breakdown of their child’s effort grades versus achievement grades. I don’t want to know that their kids have made no effort and still got a bloody A* in Physics.’

It was so easy to bond over a combined dislike of all that was petty, competitive and self-aggrandising. I’d never had a friend I could march straight up to at the kids’ school and be confident of an enthusiastic welcome. Over the last few weeks, I hadn’t had to hang around at swimming galas and music evenings waiting to be invited into a group. Whenever I appeared, Katya was always waving, ushering me into a little posse, making me look quite the woman about town as she regaled them with our latest trip to the National Portrait Gallery.

For the first time in my life, I appeared to belong without even applying to join the club.

I
n my saner moments
, I knew spending time with Katya was like running up to a snarling dog to see if I could cut it as a dog whisperer. As long as we didn’t talk about Sean, the habit of pretending everything was normal was so ingrained in me that I’d almost begun to see her as my arty friend with shared interests, rather than a landmine waiting to be trodden on.

Until Mark said, ‘I think Eleanor’s got a soft spot for Jamie.’

‘She’d better not have.’

‘Why? She came in when I was fitting the cupboards today and started chatting. She seems to know an awful lot about what position he plays in rugby and which choices he’s making for A levels. There was a huge amount of “Jamie doesn’t really like our Spanish teacher”; “I might take Jamie’s advice and do History in the sixth form.”’

I was shaking my head. ‘She’s far too advanced for him. She’d frighten him to death. I don’t think he’s interested in girls yet, anyway.’

Mark laughed. ‘Don’t you believe it. Whenever I go up to bed, he’s always texting someone.’

‘You never told me that. He’s supposed to leave his phone in the kitchen at bedtime.’

‘Lydia. He’s sixteen. He’s going to have a girlfriend at some point. And here’s breaking news: he might not tell us when he does.’

With a rush of recognition, I realised all the signs were there – the hours in the shower, the flexing of the muscles every time he walked past the hall mirror, the big cloud of Lynx engulfing us over breakfast. And he couldn’t tear his eyes away from that bloody phone. If it was up to me, he’d still have a fifty pence piece Sellotaped into his school bag for emergencies.

God, how I envied Mark. He thought Jamie getting a girlfriend was a bit of fun, a rite of passage. My intellectual self knew that too. But my paranoid self wanted to vet all the girls he came into contact with, until I found a sensible one to make him happy. One who didn’t have burgeoning breasts popping out of a T-shirt and a smile to steal his heart.

The thought of Jamie going anywhere near Eleanor made me dizzy. I couldn’t let him date someone whose father knew my past when his own dad didn’t. As soon as I’d chased everyone off to work and school, I stood hovering by Jamie’s computer. There were answers to be had, right there in front of me.

I lifted the laptop lid, pulling a face at the screensaver message of:
I ain’t doing shit today – mission accomplished
. I moved the cursor to the password box, then folded my arms. My mother had read my diary when I was about twelve – luckily, endless variations on how much I loved Simon Le Bon and wanted to look like Abba’s Agnetha – though I’d still felt humiliated that I couldn’t have a single secret thought without my mother intruding. But this, surely, was different? It was for Jamie’s own good that I had to stop him getting involved with Eleanor. Before I could talk myself out of it, I quickly typed in ‘Absolute Bullshit’. Izzy had told me his password ages ago in the hope of getting him into trouble but subconsciously, I’d known that the day might come when I needed it.

Hello that day.

I logged onto his Facebook account and scrolled down the newsfeed of YouTube videos, which appeared to appeal to the lowest common denominator – a combination of old ladies breaking wind, people dancing at bus stops and dogs pulling over their owners. The appalling language running through the comment sections astonished me – the casual way ‘gay’, ‘fuck’ and worse were bandied about by children whose parents were killing themselves to meet the £20,000 fees a year. It was so tempting to print out a sample to shove under my mother’s nose when she said, ‘I was saying to Joyce, at least at Eastington House, the children are mixing with the right sort of people. Her youngest grandson didn’t even get into grammar school.’

It didn’t seem to occur to her that Jamie and Izzy might not be considered ‘the right sort of people’ if it came out that their grandfather had done time for assault.

I couldn’t see anything on the newsfeed that suggested Jamie was involved with Eleanor. I clicked on the private messages. I scrolled down, reading various boring exchanges with his friends about the thrill of a new FIFA game, a bit of rugby banter and some utterly banal ‘WUU2?’ ‘Not much’. Plus the truly horrible ‘Taking a dump’ exchanges that made me want to shout, ‘Get off the computer and go and read a book!’

And then there she was, a tiny thumbnail at the top of the list, leaning forward into the camera. The way a hint of cleavage was visible above her vest top made my stomach clench. Little hussy.

I clicked on the message, flicking away a hot burst of shame at my snooping.

‘As I said, u can come to mine. Will let u no when parents go out. And DW about the other thing.’

Jamie had replied, ‘Good good. Let me no when.’

So. There it was in Facebook technicolour. What the hell was ‘the other thing’ he shouldn’t worry about? I didn’t even want to start listing possibilities. It was bad enough that the little minx was scheming to get him round when the coast was clear. The apple doesn’t fall far from the bloody tree.

I needed to have a proper discussion with Jamie, rather than one that involved snatches of eye contact over a laptop lid. Approaching the whole Eleanor debacle without revealing that I was hacking into his computer would be tricky. I wished that I didn’t have to go out to a Surrey Business Stars dinner that evening. Mark was keen for me to go as most business came through word of mouth and I could sell kitchens
and
event planning, whereas he was a one-trick pony. I always stayed over at these dinners. I made the best contacts late at night when the wine was flowing and everyone was in an expansive mood.

I phoned Mark. He sounded distracted. I pictured him methodically lining up his spirit level, pencil in hand. ‘Are you listening to me? I’m really worried about Jamie.’ I started to explain, desperate to impress on him how we couldn’t allow this fledgling relationship to happen, even if he was only privy to half the reasons why.

He cut me off. ‘As you know, that’s a tricky subject to discuss right now.’

I heard Katya’s voice in the background. I persisted, warming to the whole Facebook/super-snoop discussion.

‘Lydia! I can’t believe you went nosing into his computer. I don’t think that is on at all. He does deserve some privacy. I know you’re concerned about him but you can’t do that.’

The qualities I loved most about Mark – his sense of fair play and calmness – were fast shooting to the top of my hate list.

‘At least I’ve found out what’s going on. I don’t want to be the parent saying, “Sorry, I had no idea that my son was giving your daughter one” when Sean’s jumping up and down on our doorstep in nine months’ time.’

‘Don’t be such a drama queen. Just because Jamie is planning to meet up with E—, I mean someone, it doesn’t mean that he’s up to no good.’ I heard him turn away from the phone. ‘Yes, one sugar and a little drop of milk, please.’

He came back again. ‘I’ve got to get on. I don’t think it’s as dire as you are making out. He has to have some freedom. Have a good time tonight and let’s talk about this tomorrow.’

The line went dead. I had to unclench my fingers from the receiver. I couldn’t seem to get through to Mark at all any more. We used to be so united about the way we brought up the kids. Was I so deranged? Why was I the only one worrying about Jamie? Sometimes I felt that my love for the children was so deep that the roots spread right through my body, whereas Mark’s feelings for them were like a scattering of soil on the surface of his skin. The fact that he couldn’t understand my fears made me want to – what? Fly at him. Walk out of the door. Scream in his face. How could something so important to me be so irrelevant to him?

I packed. I was glad I didn’t have to deal with Mark’s bemusement tonight over my pathological interest in the love life of a sixteen-year-old. Jamie couldn’t go out with Eleanor. Absolutely not. I should never have become friendly with Katya. I’d made hanging out with the McAllisters seem normal, when, of course, it was insane.

I drove to Guildford, barging my way through the rush-hour traffic. Once I’d checked in at the hotel, I lay on my bed like a petulant teenager, feeling misunderstood and misrepresented. Drama queen, my arse. Mark made more fuss over a broken chisel than I’d made out of changing my whole identity. Tears huddled in a hard mass in my chest. I wouldn’t give in to those.

I dragged myself up and put on my long dress. At least I could hide behind the formality of business. I enjoyed being with men from that point of view. They didn’t often stray into emotional territory on a first meeting. When my feelings were raw like this, I’d learned to bury them until they started to scab over.

I stood outside the venue, gathering myself to march into the glittering palace of silver and purple. The balloon wholesalers must have made a killing. I glanced round for familiar faces – caterers, florists, marquee people, hoteliers, hairdressers. On the table plan I didn’t recognise the names of anyone I was seated with. Apart from one other woman who ran a chain of beauty salons, the rest were men. A waitress offered me some champagne. I took a big gulp. Just what I needed to take the edge off my grump.

I leant against the wall and looked at my watch, hoping that Mark would be supervising Facebook use at home.

‘Hello there.’ A young man walking past raised his champagne glass to me. ‘You look like you’d rather be curled up on the sofa with a good book.’

I laughed because it was so true. ‘How did you guess?’

‘You seemed deep in thought about something that I don’t think was the Surrey Business Stars.’

I bet I’d been talking to myself. The kids always pointed it out and laughed at me. ‘I’m not as sociable as some people here. I’m always embarrassed in case they’d rather chat to someone more useful but don’t know how to escape me.’

‘Useful? Is that how you judge people, by their usefulness?’ He sounded serious but his eyes were teasing. ‘Might work both ways. Maybe you don’t want to waste time with me.’

I relaxed slightly. It was so much easier to talk to complete strangers when I felt like this. ‘What do you do?’

‘Ha. I like that. You’re going to judge my worth by my job. Very male. What do you think I do?’

The Jamie/Eleanor cloud was starting to dissipate slightly. ‘Funeral director?’

‘No. Do I look that miserable?’

‘I was thinking about usefulness.’

He laughed. ‘Try again. I am quite useful but you’ll never guess.’

I studied him carefully. Dark blond hair but bright blue eyes contrasting against an almost swarthy skin. He looked as though he was ready to find fun in everything. ‘I don’t know. Lion tamer? Submarine specialist? Aubergine grower?’

‘Jesus. I’d love to be inside your brain for a day.’ Again, a ripple of great mirth. I could imagine him around a big pine table on Christmas Day, joking over the turkey and wearing a paper hat with aplomb. I bet he didn’t spend a moment of his life deliberating over whether the crackers were value for money and whether you could tell that the Yorkshire puds were Aunt Bessie’s.

‘No, I run a business inspecting hotels.’

‘Bet you’re popular.’

‘I am, actually, because the hotels employ me to check that they comply with all the millions of rules and regulations before they get an official inspection.’

My surprise must have showed.

‘You didn’t have me down as a box ticker, did you? No one ever does. In my next life, I’m going to be a racing driver.’

He took a step back and pretended to look me up and down. ‘So, what about you? Let me guess. You look rather brainy. You hold yourself very well. You’re fresh-faced and healthy. Chiropractor? Nutritionist?’

I blushed. I should have been flattered that the first thing that sprang to his mind was ‘brainy’. I wanted it to be ‘gorgeous’.

He noticed. ‘Ha! You’re going red. Something embarrassing?’

At that point I wanted to run away in case he started listing sex therapist, Ann Summers consultant or a host of other jobs that would have me squirming.

Luckily, the event compère took to the stage to direct us to our seats and the hubbub in the room quietened to a low buzz.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said.

‘You’re not going to dash off without at least telling me what you do, are you? And do you have a name, elusive one?’

‘Lydia. I’m an event planner. Not very exciting.’

‘Tomaso. Italian parents. Come and find me later if you don’t find anyone more useful to talk to.’

I smiled and walked off in the direction of my table. Several guests were already seated, a motley crew of men with varying amounts of hair. A few nodded to me. I chose the middle seat of the three left empty and sat, staring down at my plate. The beautician woman, Janine, slipped in next to me, all pert little features, matte make-up and elongated eyelashes. I was wishing I’d had my eyebrows waxed when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. ‘Lydia, we meet again so soon. Now you’ll have to tell me all about yourself.’

I looked up to see Tomaso. ‘That won’t take long.’

‘You don’t know what I want to know yet.’

I pushed my chair back and introduced Tomaso to Janine, fully expecting him to transfer his attention to her. Janine talked across me to discuss a range of male products she’d just started stocking in her Guildford store. He should pop in and try them sometime, maybe have a facial?

The rattling of a spoon on a glass signalled that the chairman of the Surrey Business Stars was about to make the first of his humour-free speeches. Tomaso attracted the attention of the waitress and minutes later, a couple of bottles of wine appeared. He did a ‘white or red’ shuffle in my direction.

‘Just a drop of white. The champagne’s already gone to my head. I don’t want to be remembered for the wrong reasons.’

Tomaso laughed. ‘I
love
the sound of being remembered for the wrong reasons.’

Fortunately, waitresses arriving with our starters brought the chairman’s monologue to an end. On the downside, the whole slimy texture and old-bins-in-the-sun smell of the smoked salmon turned my stomach.

Tomaso leaned in. ‘Not hungry?’