The Key (8 page)

“You speak very good English,” he said.

We sat outside a pub on the river route called The Loopy Lady—very apt, I thought—the bench damp beneath my arse, the cold seeping through my jeans. It wasn’t particularly good weather to be sitting out, but I hadn’t wanted to remain inside. Too many people had been in there when we’d gone inside to order drinks—both of us choosing white wine—the press of them giving me a near panic attack that someone from work would stroll in and I’d be spotted. Although The Loopy Lady was far enough from my place of work, one could never tell, with the kind of luck I had, whether the fates would throw a colleague or two my way. At least out here I’d see them coming—hopefully before they saw me. Mind you, they were used to me with my hair a little less…freaky and wouldn’t be expecting me to look like a wild man from Borneo at all. Maybe my horrible hair would be a good disguise.

“It is my first language,” I said, realising that could lead to uncomfortable questions and answers, so I went on with, “But that is enough about me. You have yet to tell me about yourself.”

“Not much to tell,” he said, his smile a little sheepish.

I suspected he didn’t like talking about himself, perhaps found it embarrassing. The slight pink tinge to his cheeks told me that, as did the lowering of his eyelashes, him looking sideways, as though he was either choosing what to tell me and how much, or watching some memories flicker through his mind.

“There must be something you’d like to talk about,” I said. I hoped he was forthcoming, as I’d rapidly come to the conclusion that I wanted to get to know all about him, not just as much as he’d allow.

“I was born and raised here. Nice parents—they live in the same street as me, but on the corner at the far end—and I went to school, college, university, then set up my business and here we are. Very boring life.”

“Ha! I cannot believe this. You mentioned the women and the parties. You must have been to some in order for you to know you do not like them. The same with the meals in fancy restaurants. Tell me about this life.”

He winced, and I felt guilty that I’d pushed, possibly asking him to retell about a section of his world that he’d rather not. I’d breezed over my boring existence because if I’d been bored living it, he’d sure as shit be bored hearing about it. I wondered if that was how he felt now. Or were there painful issues wrapped up in those glitzy nights?

He sighed. “Yes, once I started making big money, I was invited to a lot of parties. Felt I had to go to further my career, get my name out there, make myself known. It turned out I didn’t. I became known anyway, what with winning cases.”

“You are a lawyer?” I asked, all manner of scenarios flying through my mind. He was a clever bean. It wouldn’t take him long to work out I was a big ball of swindle. He’d have ways and means of finding out everything about Jane Smith and nothing about Chantal Rossi if he had a mind to go snooping.

Oh, Lord.

“I am. Is that a problem? Do you have a seedy past full of illegal dealings I need to know about?”

“I do not. Seedy and illegal are not in my nature.”
Although I have taken to lying a lot lately…

“Then why the deer-in-the-headlights look?”

I hadn’t been aware I appeared as though I was a constipated Bambi, but who was I to argue? I couldn’t see my face to know what it looked like, although I did know my eyes were wide and my mouth was clamped shut. I relaxed my features, bringing out a smile, which rapidly faded as I spotted a man and woman peeling themselves out of a red Ford Fiesta in the car park.

Time seemed to stand still. With my heart doing double time and forgetting to beat every few seconds, I stood, remembering we’d sat at one of those bench sets where the seat was attached to the table. No amount of me trying to scoot the seat away was working, and I toppled backwards, my head and shoulders landing on the grass, my legs still hooked over the wooden slats. Mortified, I lifted my legs off then crawled on hands and knees to the end of the table amid David asking if I was all right and joining me, going down on his haunches to help me up.

“What the bloody hell happened there?” he asked, no trace of amusement on his face.

I was thankful for that. It took the sting out of my mishap.

“I, err, sleeeped,” I slurred, my accent thicker. Had the knock to my head done something to my brain? “I need to sit here for a moment, that is all.”
I need to hide!

“Okay,” he said. “Take your time. Do you feel sick?”

I thought of the people and the red Fiesta. Oh yes, I felt sick. “A little.”

“Do you feel tired?”

Tired of lying. It was getting to be a bit of a burden already. “Yes.”

“I think we may need to get you to a doctor. You took quite a bang to the head there. Come on.”

Before I could protest, he hauled me upright. The man and woman were walking towards us, arm in arm, chattering about something or other. If I could just… Too late, the woman turned her head and stared straight at me.

“Jane? What on
earth
are
you
doing here?” she screeched.

I staggered backwards, needing to get the hell away. If I started speaking in a French accent around those two, the game would well and truly be up. They’d ask outright why I was talking in such a daft way, and would I
ever
grow up,
ever
stop making a fool of myself?

On and on I went, backwards, backwards…

I started falling, windmilling my arms to try to get myself upright again. It didn’t work. I cried out—hoping the yell could pass for both French and English—and realised, with total horror, where I was going to land.

River water greeted me with open, cold arms, cuddling me whole. I closed my mouth too late, a treat of dirty water filling it, and a caul of my hair cemented itself stubbornly across my face. I flapped my arms and legs, tried to peer through my hair to find out where the sunlight was but couldn’t see a thing but blackness. I struggled, panic setting in, and floundered beneath the murky depths, wondering, inanely, whether this was my last act. I’d die under this crap-infested water never having known what it was like to love and be loved.

A whoosh of movement tossed me sideways, and I floated away from it, feeling the ripple and push of the undulating momentum. Everything sounded so dull—the somewhat creepy tinkling of the water changing direction, a female scream, an odd whistling inside my head—and my lungs felt like they were going to burst. I lifted one hand, still frantically flapping the other, and pushed my hair off my face. I stared around, seeing nothing but brown—no welcoming lightness to tell me where the surface was.

I was a goner, I really was.

May as well face up to it and let the river claim me. It wasn’t like I was going to be able to get away with anything after this. I’d been caught and there was no getting away from that.

I sat on the riverbank, shivering and looking down at the sodden grass, water streaming off my hair to drip onto my soaking jeans. I couldn’t lift my head, didn’t want to see the people surrounding me. And there were many. Several pairs of feet in various shoes were arranged in a semicircle. I couldn’t see David’s trainers.

“Jane, whatever were you
thinking
?” my mother shrieked.

I winced. The game
was
well and truly up.

“Always been the bloody same you have, my girl,” Dad said. “Remember that time on Lobb’s Mountain, Vera? When she wouldn’t listen to us and ran down it, falling in—”

“That’s enough, Harold,” Mother said. “Really, the good people here don’t want to listen to that. I’m more concerned that she’ll get ill after gulping all that water, or at the very least catch a chill. Go in the pub and ask them for a blanket, will you?”

If I knew Dad, he’d walk away without complaint and do her bidding.

“And you,” Mother said. “Friend, are you? I’d say boyfriend, but our Jane hasn’t had one
ever
—not that
we
know of, anyway
—
so I can’t see her having one now.”

She could have been talking to anyone—there were male pairs of shoes in the watching crowd. I’d just sit still and let her get on with it. Embarrass me as much as she liked so long as I could get away from here, face unseen, and back to my flat where I could live the rest of my life alone. I’d been a fool to think finding a man to share my life with would be anything but disastrous. Yet for a while back there, I’d convinced myself it might work, this relationship thing. I’d have just had to pretend to be French for the rest of my days and avoid letting David meet my parents, that was all.

“Yes, I’m her boyfriend,” David said.

I snapped my head up, then realised what I’d done. It was too late now, though. I stared up at him as he stared down at me, my heart going mental, making up a new dance as it thudded along. He was soaking, the weight of the water dragging his sweatpants lower than they’d been earlier. Inappropriate for the situation, I studied the damp hairs and skin peeking out from where his T-shirt had ridden up, a ruche of material fingers. I might as well, because I wasn’t going to get to see that sight again.

“Oh, right,” Mother said. “How long has this been going on then, young lady?”

I raised my eyes so I could watch his facial expression.

He smiled. “Long enough for me to know I’d like to see her every day.”

“Well, that’s a turn-up for the books.” Mother again.

I wanted her to go away. Wanted everyone standing around us to go away. To leave us in this moment, a sweet, emotional moment that had a lump expanding in my throat as big as a haggis. I must have looked a sight, but I didn’t care now. David looked one, too, hair plastered to his forehead, the kinks stripped out of it by running river water. So he’d jumped in to save me—
had
saved me. The haggis grew bigger. I wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the words. It seemed we didn’t need any. He was telling me all I needed to know with those eyes of his. That I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life alone. That, despite my lies, he wanted to see me every day.

That I had… Bloody hell, that I had a
boyfriend
.

The blanket was a welcome bit of warmth. Dad had shrouded me in its prickly embrace, making sure I knew I had to return it and not to forget, because I hadn’t been brought up to keep something that wasn’t mine and no daughter of his was a thief. I nodded amid Mother repeating what he’d said, David thanking them for being there, but that he really ought to get me back home now, home in the warm.

We took a taxi to my flat, saying nothing on the journey, him hugging me to his side. I worried about what he was thinking. I mean, it was all very well him saying he was my boyfriend, but I mulled over why—
why
would he want a liar in his life? Wasn’t he hurt by my deception? It was clear my parents weren’t French, that
I
wasn’t French, and very obvious I was plain old Jane Smith.

We got out of the taxi. Mr Big Bollocks wasn’t in his garden, but he
was
standing at his living room window, staring out through the glass with a shocked expression. He disappeared, and as me and David walked up the path that bordered Mr Big Bollocks’ hedges, my swollen-groined neighbour flew out of his house and peered over at us.

“You all right, Jane?” he asked, eyes wide. “Did this man here…? What did he do?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said. “He didn’t do anything.”

I walked on, up the steps, panicked for a second that I’d lost my keys in the river. I patted my jeans pocket, the familiar bulge of them beneath my palm, then pulled them out and let us in. Stood in the living room and allowed the tears to fall, hot and fat and searing down my cheeks. Clutched the itchy blanket tighter around me to ward off shivers that had decided to join my pity party.

David pulled me to him, held me close. “I meant it, you know. What I said. I don’t bloody care who you are—Jane Smith or the crazy Chantal Rossi. I knew the second you’d said Mont Blanc that you weren’t French, and it didn’t matter. I still wanted to see you every day, still do. I like you. A lot. Understand?”

I nodded, forehead rubbing against his damp T-shirt, and wondered, as sobs began their bizarre dance up my chest and out of my mouth, what the hell he’d want to do that for.

Chapter Nine

“Chantal Rossi Thompson, come here, woman!”

I still couldn’t get used to being called that. Not only did I have a new surname, courtesy of us getting married a week ago, but I’d had my birth name changed too. How many women could say their future husbands had understood why they’d pretended to be some nutball French woman, accepted it, then suggested she legally become said nutball French woman?

David was amazing.

I stared ahead at the endless stretch of beach, at the sand dunes of a place in the South of France, where sand dunes abounded. The ocean swooshed to my right, white spume chasing itself up the beach then retreating, as if the dry sand had shocked it into tumbling backwards. Sea birds squawked, wheeled in wide circles, nothing like the brazen, chip-fed gulls of Brighton, who swooped low and threatened to thieve your sandwich right out of your hand.

Our honeymoon location had been a surprise to me until we’d arrived. David having a private jet had meant I hadn’t had to see where we were going on a destination board or have a desk clerk give it away in a fake chirpy voice as we handed over our passports. It had warmed me that he’d recalled the time I’d said I wished we were on a French beach so we could fuck behind a dune. The idea of that didn’t appeal in reality, though—all that sand in my bits wasn’t an attractive prospect—but David had packed a blanket in the hopes I’d change my mind.

Shirking Jane Smith had been so easy, and once, David had said that I’d been Chantal all along, I’d just needed the courage to be her—be myself. Apparently, when I’d left my flat on the day of our wedding, Mr Big Bollocks had come out and shed a tear. I’d been so busy drowning in nerves that I’d failed to notice, but Dad had asked, as we’d sat in the car, me arranging my dress so it didn’t crease, what on earth that sobbing man had down his pants. David had pointed out that my swollen neighbour had a crush on me, yet I’d failed to realise all that time. I’d just thought he was a pervert with a perpetual hard-on.