The Liar's Chair (8 page)

My coat hangs on a hook in front of the glass panel on the back door, blocking out the daylight and throwing a shadow over the table. The fabric was smoky from the pub and I’d dropped it
on the floor, so Will must have hung it up this morning. On top of the table, folded in a pile for each of us, are the rest of our clothes. Last night they’d been scattered in a line towards
the bedroom, like Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs.

After sex, Will had buried his face in my hair. ‘We could go away, you and me,’ he’d said. ‘I could arrange a boat, no one would know, we could disappear.’ I lay on
his stripy nylon sheets and stared at the ceiling, tracing the damp spots in the plaster above my head and joining up the dots, thinking how true it is that without women most men fall apart; they
eat crap, they die young – there’s no one to tell them to go to the doctor’s. And so I stroked his head, kissed him, told him I’d consider it, slipping into role and making
myself real to him because it felt good to be needed, all the while resisting the realization that he mattered to me. With the worst of what I throw at him, Will keeps letting me back; he remains
consistent, his feelings unconditional. The sense that I don’t deserve his attention overrides the strong temptation to jump in, and of course there is always the background hum of David, my
loyalty to him more of an addiction. After all these years of being guided through my life, without him I would be rudderless.

In the kitchen, a mug of hot tea is plonked on the table in front of me. Spills lap over the sides and Will mops them up immediately then returns to his washing-up. He wears tracksuit bottoms
covered in splashes of paint, and on his feet are a trodden-down pair of slippers. The radio plays music. He turns it up, swaying his hips to an old Smiths song, then turns to face me with a soapy
washing-up brush in one rubber-gloved hand and a cigarette in the other, smiling his huge smile. He sings along to the track.

The butt end of his fag is soggy. He drags sharply on it then raises his hands in the air as if this is a connecting moment for us, hauling us back to some utopian youth where the world was at
our feet. His youth may have been like that, but mine passed me by.

The kitchen clock reads 9.30. Through the window, thick clouds steal up the last of the blue sky, and the sun dims like a switch. Will turns on the kitchen light. The unshaded bulb has little
effect.

‘D’you remember this one?’ he says, taking a swig of his tea, still swaying to the music. Even at uni I’d never really liked The Smiths – all that sleeve-wearing
emotion – and I pretend I don’t know the song. Will laughs and sings, muffled with the cigarette still in his mouth. ‘I used to play this one with the band.’

He turns his back to resume his sink duties, dancing at the worktop, the baggy movement of his muscles pressing through the fabric of his trousers, and I question why it is that I like him. With
David there was no choice; it never felt like a romance, more a togetherness with no question of it being other; we were a given, he made me his. With Will, I shouldn’t keep coming back
– there’s no practical future here, and it would be dangerous for both of us if David found out – but each time I see Will the sensation of
us
grows stronger. It comes from
nowhere I know how to control. I gulp down my tea, and with it any desire to make this a reality. As the liquid hits the dregs of last night’s spirits in my stomach, nausea rises up.

A text-ping comes from inside my coat. I stand, giddy for a moment, the alcohol still thick in my blood, and walk to the door to fish my mobile from the pocket. Scrolling through the messages I
notice missed calls as well, all from David. The texts start with a brusque, ‘Where are you?’ at midnight, and end with the most recent, ‘I will find you both.’

His presence looms through the phone. What he would do if he found us makes me more afraid for Will than for myself.

‘I need to go,’ I say. I’d hoped to drink less last night, to give it more time before I drove home, but the panic of knowing that David is waiting has set in.
‘I’ve stayed too long.’ I’ll drive more slowly this time, I’ll pay attention. Get a strong coffee on the way home.

Will stops moving but doesn’t turn round. The radio crackles as the tuning slips and a burst of voices from a local taxi firm hisses across the ether. ‘Fine,’ he says.
‘Off you go.’

With my pile of clothes in hand, I push the chair aside. One of the rubber feet has worn away and the bare metal screeches across the lino. In the lounge I gather the rest of my things: my bag,
my shoes, the cashmere sweater which Will missed, now covered in dog hair. Bessie’s eyes follow my movements, the useless guard dog and the dispassionate burglar. Will turns off the radio and
I hear his feet scuffle the carpet as he comes up behind me. He kisses my neck. His breath holds the tang of last night’s alcohol.

‘We can’t meet in the pub any more. In fact, we can’t do this again,’ I say in a small voice.

‘Please don’t leave,’ he says. I relax inside the fold of his arms. ‘Stay a bit longer.’

Light wisps of rain have begun to fall and the morning appears closer to dusk. Across the street my new Mercedes is parked with rusty vehicles on either side. David insisted I have a duplicate
of my last car so that only the discerning would notice the change. It’s also a demonstration that nothing is irreplaceable – with enough money you can do almost anything you want.

The vehicle in front of my car is Will’s other business opportunity.
MAN PLUS VAN
is etched on the side of the grubby transit, with his mobile number outdated by
one digit. Between the occasional trip to the tip and the cocaine profits which he doesn’t snort himself, he has just about enough money to scrape by. Occasionally he has a windfall, a new
leather jacket or a guitar – I never ask where the money came from – and when we meet at the pub, I always pick up the tab; the etiquette is that the dealer never pays. That way we get
round the shame of his poverty.

Will turns me to him in the circle of his arms. A scruffy quiff flops over his right eye. Once he showed me a photo of himself in his band from twenty years ago, and nothing much has changed:
his style, his clothes, the drinking habit and the fighting – all serve as a homage to his adolescence, the glory days from which he’s been unable to evolve. Without the advantage of
youth, his image has lost some of its glamour. I twitch a smile and think about the man he should have been, and where it all went wrong for him. At what point did he realize, like me, that he was
totally alone?

‘We could go back to bed,’ he says.

The fresh bruise on his eye socket is taking on a purple tint. In the pub last night, insults were spat, old lines of territory tested, then a firework of fists erupted from Will and the other
man, over in seconds. I watched with thrill and terror as Will punched the man with less effort than it took him to lift his pint. He was very good, as if he’d been fighting all his life. The
man on the floor didn’t get off as lightly; blood spilled from his nose and poured into the barmaid’s beer towel as she hollered at the retreating Will. The wounded man got up and
chased us to the door, shouting, ‘I’m not done. Come back, you and your fucking slag.’ I had to pull Will to the car, the fear and excitement giving me the same strength I’d
once used to drag a body. On the journey home, all I thought about was how easy it would be for David to find us if he really wanted to.

Gran’s clock chimes ten. Seconds waste into rapid minutes. ‘I have to go,’ I say, taking Will’s hand in mine with a light pat before I move apart from him.
‘It’s late and I’ve got things to do.’

‘What things?’ He glares at me, snatching away his hand, an alcohol temper rising in his face. ‘See that fuck-wit of a husband of yours? Spend loads of money on crap at the
shops?’

I shake my head. His eyes glisten. I want to tell him that I don’t like shopping, that my husband’s touch chills me, and that even with all the imperfections I’ve never had
anything as close to happiness as this. Instead I move close again and nuzzle into his shoulder, wishing that everything were more simple. ‘I’m sorry. You should forget about me.
I’m bad news.’

‘Rachel, we can work this out.’ Will strokes the back of my head. ‘What I said last night about getting out of here – I know I was pissed and I know it probably sounded
nuts, but I meant it. We could leave. We could go somewhere where David couldn’t find you.’

‘You don’t know David. If you did you’d know there is no getting away.’ With my logic setting in again, I’m itching to leave and get back home before any more time
passes.

‘Well, I’m not scared of Mr Big, chucking his money around to get everything he wants.’

My impatience turns to panic. ‘Tough talk, you with your shabby little house and cash under the mattress. Leave problems you can’t handle alone.’

‘Fuck you, Rachel.’

‘Yeah, fuck you too.’

‘You’re a bitch.’

‘Well, you’re a bitch’s whore.’

Will grabs an empty can and hurls it into a wastepaper basket, the bin frayed with spikes of wicker. As he picks up an ashtray and dumps its contents into the basket, clouds of ash plume through
gaps in the weaving, covering his hand with speckles of grey. He circumnavigates the room, careful not to come too close to me, punching cushions and hurling them on the sofa. A mist of dust
disturbed after a long time is suspended in the air. I watch him for a moment then go to the bathroom, locking myself in and speed-dressing. In my bag, next to the walking man’s watch which I
carry with me at all times, I check I have the receipt for the hotel – the evidence that David will probably ignore – plus the wraps of coke I bought last night. Ten. Ten grams. Enough
to last David about a month. A month until I have to see Will again. I wonder if it will be hard to stay away or hard to come back.

I wait to hear Will go back into the kitchen before I come out, then I walk through the lounge to the small porch. As I twist the latch, the front door bursts open with a gust of wind from
outside and the latch bangs into my shoulder. From behind me comes the click and fizz of a can being opened. I close the door quietly behind me and cross the road to my car.

Having greeted the day, my hangover is worse than I’d expected and the keys shake in my hand. I slide into the incubated heat of the vehicle, the sun on the windscreen warmer without the
wind. The temperature tops up my blood. Here in my private enclave it’s safe, the only place that’s mine and mine alone. The engine starts and I drive away.

In the rear-view mirror I see a reflection of Will standing at his window holding a can of Special Brew. He doesn’t drink. He is statue-still and looks small, like a little boy, and even
though I don’t want to stay, I want to go home even less, and I wish I didn’t always have to start a fight to make it easier to leave.

I pull up in our drive and expect to see David in his favourite position inside the house: sitting on the long red sofa and looking out from the floor-to-ceiling window of our
main lounge. He likes to sit with one foot hooked over his opposing knee, arms stretched along the back of the settee as he surveys his manor. From this position he has the added benefit of
announcing his presence to whomever approaches. But today the sofa is empty, his car gone. No scrambled barks reach through the front door, so he’s taken his babies. The empty building holds
its breath. David’s angry texts lassoed me home, and now I’m here my punishment is his absence, leaving me guessing and worrying. Two wrongs do make a right in this house but I
don’t mind; it’s better this way, gives me time to tidy myself up, to regroup before the showdown and to polish my excuse. First there’ll be David’s loving concern, the
caresses and whispers that deliver the hidden threats. Then the silence – a tricky monosyllabic detour of hours or days depending on our resolve – and finally the point at which I fold
and explain my behaviour. When this comes, when I finally repent – which I always do – he’ll let me know he doesn’t care anyway. Games. We’ve become very good at them.
We have little else.

I head for the kitchen, fill a glass of water and stand with my back to the sink in the immaculate room. Cabinets run in long undisturbed lines, and the worktops exude a show-home sheen of
sanitized happiness, a fantasy that David’s worked hard to mimic, so much so that he actually believes it’s true; we have arrived therefore we are happy. The few things on display in
the kitchen – the cappuccino maker that’s been taken apart for cleaning, plus the maple knife block – are there for a reason: they speak of success and privilege, attributes that
David has spent his life attempting to acquire.

David’s broadsheet is spread across the marble kitchen table. Next to the newspaper is a cup of mint tea, half finished, still warm – half-an-hour warm. He prefers coffee, but allows
it only as his good-boy treat. The phantom of David’s action is held in the mug and newspaper – the
Financial Times
– the pages spewed apart where he’s flicked them
over, standing as he does with one hand splayed on the table for support, his other hand hauling the sheets across and wafting air in his face. If I dusted the table for prints, there would be one
complete palm next to the paper, fat and solid, pressed on to the table, his presence vast and close even in his absence.

I open the fridge, look inside, close the door. Everything is packaged, bottled or sealed. Nothing leaks or breathes. When was the last time I’d cooked? Probably that fateful dinner, three
weeks ago. After the cleaner surmounted that chaos, the house has stayed clean. She comes twice weekly, but there’s no need really; nothing is used or gets dirty. I work late and can’t
be bothered with food, snacking on whatever’s available: bits of cheese, supermarket soup, stuff that doesn’t need putting together. Even opening a tin is an effort too far, and I buy
ready meals with only a film of plastic to puncture before the microwave. With my back to the sink I stand as I do now, spooning the food straight from the hot plastic tray into my mouth. A few
mouthfuls before I’m nauseous. David dines out mostly – supper at the club, power bars at the gym – so long as when it matters, when clients come round, there’s something of
value on the table; a meal that looks expensive and has been cooked by a wife who cares. Though we’ll be using caterers from now on.