The Authenticity Project

by Clare Pooley

  * * *

  • • •

  IT WAS A FEW DAYS before Lizzie thought about the maths book again. She’d asked some of the mums if one of their children were missing it and had been carrying it around with her, waiting for someone to claim it, but no one had. So, since she was having a well-earned break with a cuppa, she took it out and looked at it. It didn’t say “arithmetic” at all—she hadn’t been wearing her reading glasses, so she’d misread it—it said The Authenticity Project. What on earth did that mean? She flicked through the pages. There were none of the sums she’d been expecting to see; instead, several different people had written in it.

  Lizzie felt a wonderful tingle of anticipation. She had always been nosey. It was one of the best things about being a nanny or a maternity nurse—you could learn all sorts of things about a person by having a good old snoop in their knicker drawer. You’d think people would be a little more inventive with their hiding places. And this book looked as if it might hold secrets. Like a diary, maybe. She never did anything with the information she collected. She prided herself on being honorable and decent. She just found other people fascinating, is all. She sat back and started to read.

  How well do you know the people who live near you? How well do they know you? Do you even know the names of your neighbors? Ha! Actually, Lizzie knew all her neighbors. She knew their names, their children’s names, and the names of their cats. She knew who didn’t sort their recycling properly, she knew who had the most marital arguments, she knew who was having an affair and who was spending too much time at the bookies. She knew far more about everyone than they’d want her to know. She was, she knew, renowned for being a curtain-twitcher. But at least she was popular with the Neighborhood Watch.

  Julian Jessop.

  Sometimes she would hear a name and the walls would fall away, like a set change at the theater, and she’d be transported right back to another time, and now she was in 1970, on the King’s Road with her friend Mandy. They’d spent so much time together back then that they were known as “Lizandmandy.” They were fifteen years old and had dressed up specially in miniskirts, with their hair backcombed and eyes ringed in jet-black kohl.

  They were looking through the window of the fabulous Mary Quant studio, when a group of people, in their late twenties or early thirties, walked toward them. They were impossibly glamorous. The three men were wearing the latest flared trousers, and the girl a minidress, hem several inches higher up the thigh than theirs, a fur coat, and bare feet. In public! Her hair tumbled down in messy curls to her waist, as if she’d just gotten out of bed. Lizzie was sure that if she got close enough to her, she’d smell of sex. Not that Lizzie knew what sex smelled like back then, but she imagined it would be a bit like tinned sardines. One of the men had a real parrot sitting on his shoulder.

  Lizzie had been aware that her mouth was wide open.

  “Blimey, Lizzie, do you know who that was?” said Mandy. Then, not waiting for an answer, “That was David Bailey, the photographer, and Julian Jessop, the artist. Weren’t they gorgeous? Did you see Julian wink at me? He did, I swear he did.”

  Until that day, Lizzie had never heard of Julian (although she’d not let on to Mandy, obviously; she didn’t want to give Mandy any more reason to think herself the cooler of the two), but she’d seen his name several times in the years that followed, in the gossip columns usually. She’d not heard it for decades, though. If she’d thought about him at all, she’d have assumed he was dead, from something tragic but faintly glamorous, like a drug overdose or a venereal disease. Yet here he was, living just down the road still, writing in a little book that someone had dropped right into her lap.

  Monica. Lizzie knew her, too—she’d been in her café and had a cup of tea and a slice of cake once or twice when she was feeling flush. She’d liked Monica, because although she was obviously busy, she’d generously stopped what she was doing for a chat. They’d discussed the local library, if she remembered correctly, and what a godsend it was to the community.

  She knew exactly what Monica’s problem was. Young women today were just too fussy. In her day, they’d understood the need to settle. You found a young man, about the right age, usually one whose parents your parents knew and lived nearby, and you got married. He might well pick his nose when he was driving, or squander too much of the housekeeping down the pub, or have no idea where to find a clitoris, but you realized that you probably weren’t perfect either, and an averagely good husband was better than no husband at all. The problem with all this new technology was people had so much choice that they just couldn’t make a decision. They carried on looking and looking until one day they realized all their eggs had hard-boiled. Monica should stop fannying around and get on with it.

  Bugger. Her tea break was over. She was dying to read more, but it would have to wait.

  * * *

  • • •

  “WHAT ARE YOU reading there, Liz?” asked Jack. It came out a bit mumbled as he was still trying to get a bit of chicken out of one of his back molars with an index finger. No wonder she’d not kissed him on the mouth for years. These days she tended to just give him a peck on the top of his head, where there was a large bald spot, like a helicopter landing pad, as she passed by.

  “Just a book from work,” she replied, being deliberately vague. She was reading Hazard’s story. She knew him, too. Presumably there couldn’t be two young men from Fulham with the name Hazard, in which case he’d come back from Thailand and was working in the garden at Mummy’s Little Helper. He was quite dishy, despite the beard. Lizzie generally had no truck with men in beards. I mean, what did they have to hide? Apart from the chin.

  She didn’t judge him for the whole addiction thing. She knew how these things could sneak up on you. She’d gone through a phase of being rather too fond of the cooking sherry herself, not to mention the scratch cards, and Jack still smoked twenty John Player Specials a day, at vast expense, ignoring the ghastly photos of blackened lungs plastered all over the packets.

  Riley sounded like a sweetheart, the poor confused lad. She knew him as well. He was one of the lovely young Australians working with Hazard. She was dying to find out if Hazard was still on the wagon, if Julian was teaching the art class, and if Riley had sorted things out with Monica. This was better than EastEnders.

  There was one story left to read. Who was it next? She’d save it for her break tomorrow.

  * * *

  • • •

  LIZZIE WAS SETTLING in for the perfect tea break in the staff room: PG Tips, two Jammy Dodgers, Steve Wright in the Afternoon on Radio 2, and a book containing someone else’s secrets. As her kids would say, what’s not to like? She made herself comfortable in her favorite armchair and began to read.

  My name is Alice Campbell. You might know me as @aliceinwonderland.

  BINGO! Lizzie had a full house. She knew everyone in the book. What’s more, she knew exactly how the book had come to be here. Alice was the pretty blonde who helped them with their fund-raising. She remembered Archie, one of the toddlers, playing with the shoulder bag Alice had left in the hall, under the coats. He must have taken out the book and left it on the floor.

  Lizzie worried slightly whenever Alice turned up at Mummy’s Little Helper that she might make the other mothers feel inadequate. She was always so perfectly dressed, so obviously in control, so different from the mums they helped, who were usually chaotic and invariably struggling. Although Lizzie did wonder how much of Alice was a front. Sometimes her carefully modulated, uptight accent slipped just a little, revealing shades of a much more colorful and accessible one. She carried on reading.

  Although, if you follow me, you don’t actually know me at all, because my real life and the perfect one you see are diverging further and further apart. The messier my life becomes, the more I crave the likes on social media to convince me that it’s all OK.

  I used to be Al
ice, the successful PR girl. Now I’m Max’s wife, or Bunty’s mum, or @aliceinwonderland. It feels like everyone has a piece of me except for myself.

  I’m really tired. I’m tired of the sleepless nights, the feeding, the nappy changing, the cleaning and the washing. I’m tired of spending hours documenting the life I wish I had, and replying to messages from strangers who think they know me.

  I love my baby more than I ever thought possible, but every day I’m letting her down. She deserves a mother who feels constantly grateful for the life they share, not one who’s always trying to run away, into a virtual world that’s much prettier and more manageable than the real one.

  I wish I could tell someone how I feel, that sometimes I sit in the circle at Monkey Music and just want to punch my fist through the stupid pink tambourine. Just yesterday, at Water Babies, I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to sink to the bottom of the pool and take a deep breath in. But how can I confess that @aliceinwonderland is just a sham?

  And if I’m not her, then who am I?

  Oh, Alice. Even before postnatal depression was officially “a thing,” the women in Lizzie’s family and social circle knew the signs. Back in the days when Lizzie had her first baby, all the grandparents, aunts, uncles, godparents, and friends would rally round a new mum. They’d offer babysitting, bring casseroles, and help with the housework, which helped ease the physical, emotional, and hormonal shock of giving birth.

  And there was Alice, feeling she had to do it all alone, and desperately trying to make it look perfect.

  As soon as her shift finished, Lizzie looked up Alice’s address in the contacts book. What little Alice needed was a professional.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Hazard

  Hazard had borrowed the minibus from Mummy’s Little Helper for the day. Monica had, he’d discovered, never learned to drive, having spent her life in London with its plethora of public transport options, and the village was miles away from any train station, so he was playing chauffeur. One of the mums had stuck a big sign on the back saying DRIVER HAZARD, which was hilarious. Not.

  He pulled up on the double yellow lines outside Monica’s Café and hooted.

  “Is that you with your hazards on, Hazard?” said Monica. He hadn’t heard that one before either. He did a slow wolf whistle.

  “Monica, you look like a buttercup! A particularly sexy buttercup!” he said, as she climbed into the passenger seat wearing a bright-yellow shift dress and matching wide-brimmed hat. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wearing anything other than black, white, or navy before.”

  “Well, I do like to make an effort sometimes,” she replied, looking rather chuffed, he thought. “And look at you, all dandy in a morning suit. You’ve even trimmed that beard, if I’m not mistaken.” She said “beard” in a way that implied ironic air quotes. “Here, I’ve got takeaway coffee for the journey. Yours is a large latte, full-fat milk. I know I’m right,” she said, gesturing at the brown paper bag she was holding.

  “Bang on, thank you,” he said, oddly thrilled that she’d remembered his coffee order. “And I have Rowntree’s Fruit Gums. Help yourself. Don’t hold back—I bought a family pack, the ones shaped like little fruits. Always liked those.”

  As they motored down the M3, they relaxed into an easy banter.

  “Are you excited?” he asked.

  “Not really. I find weddings rather depressing. Marriage—it’s only a piece of paper, and the divorce statistics are shocking. Waste of time and money, frankly.”

  “Really?” he asked, surprised.

  “No, of course not, really! You’ve read my story, haven’t you? Nothing I like better than a happy ending and a good old wedding.”

  Then, apropos of nothing, Monica piped up with, “Hazard. I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time when you arrived. I was embarrassed. And I thought you were just some lazy, trust fund kid who liked meddling around in other people’s lives, feeling superior.”

  “Ouch. No wonder you hated me,” Hazard said. “I’ve always earned my own money, actually. My parents are solidly middle class, but spent every penny of their savings sending me to a posh private school where I was teased mercilessly for being the only boy whose house had a number, not a name, and who turned right on an aeroplane, instead of left.”

  “So what did you do before the gardening business?” asked Monica.

  “I was in the City. Trading. I suspect now that I chose that career because I was fed up with always being the least rich person in the room. I guess you didn’t read my story in the book, did you? Riley didn’t tell you?”

  “No, he’s quite sensitive like that, Riley. He’d leave it to you to tell me. So, what did you write, if you don’t mind me asking? You have read my story after all.”

  “Er, I wrote about how I was done with the City, was taking some time off to get my head together, and wanted to find a career that was more rewarding and fulfilling,” he said, which was the absolute truth, but definitely not the whole truth. There was a huge great elephant in the minibus, sitting between them and crushing the gear stick. Monica was, however, the last person in the world he wanted to discuss his addiction with. She was so decent and clean and shiny, and talking about it all was so grubby. Monica made him feel like a better person, and he didn’t want to remind himself that he wasn’t. He suspected that she’d never so much as taken a toke on a joint. And good for her.

  “And now you have! I swear that book works magic. Look at Julian, with all his hundreds of new friends, and you with a successful new business. I’m so impressed with how you’ve built it up so quickly. You’ve done a great job.”

  Hazard glowed with pride. He wasn’t used to feeling good about himself, or other people complimenting him. “Well, I’ve been trying to do things properly, for once. Like you do. You’re a really good businessperson—creative, hardworking, and a great boss. Plus, you have principles.” Was he laying it on a bit thick? Hazard always found himself trying a bit too hard with Monica. He wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t like him at all.

  “How do you mean?” asked Monica.

  “Well, for example, if a customer really, really pisses you off, do you ever spit in their food? Just to get them back?” asked Hazard. Monica looked horrified.

  “Of course not! That would be horribly unhygienic and, most probably, illegal. If it isn’t illegal, it bloody well should be.”

  “And if you drop some food on the floor in the kitchen, but it lands the right way up, do you just put it back on the plate, or would you throw it away?”

  “You can’t put food that’s been on the floor back on the plate! Think of the bacteria,” said Monica.

  “You see. You have standards.”

  “Don’t you?” she asked.

  “Oh yes, of course I do. But they’re low. Barely off the ground.”

  “Hazard,” Monica said, glaring at the dashboard, “you’re going well over the speed limit.”

  “Oops, sorry,” he replied, giving the brake pedal a token squeeze. “I’m afraid I have a tiny problem with rules. You show me a rule, I want to break it. I have never stayed within the speed limit—literally or metaphorically.”

  “We really are total opposites, aren’t we?” said Monica. “I love a good rule, me.”

  “Yellow car,” said Hazard, as he overtook a garish Peugeot 205. Monica stared at him, nonplussed.

  “Didn’t your family ever play ‘yellow car’?” he asked her.

  “Er, no. How do you play?”

  “Well, whenever you see a yellow car, you say ‘yellow car,’” Hazard explained.

  “And how do you win?” asked Monica.

  “No one ever really wins,” he said, “because the game never ends. It just goes on forever.”

  “It’s not exactly intellectually stimulating, is it?” said Monica.

  “Well, how did you keep yourself am
used on family car journeys then?” asked Hazard.

  “I had a notebook and I’d write down the license plates of cars as we passed them,” she said.

  “Why?” asked Hazard.

  “In case I saw the same one again.”

  “And did you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Well, I think I’ll stick with yellow car, thanks. So, has The Authenticity Project worked its magic for you, too?”

  “Well, yes,” she replied. “In a way, it’s saved my business. Setting up the art class led to lots of other weekly evening events, and then Alice and Julian keep featuring the café on Instagram and bringing in loads of new customers. I might even have to hire an extra barista. Before I found the book, I thought by now the bank would have pulled the plug and I’d have lost the café, and my life savings with it.”

  “That’s amazing,” he said. Then, more tentatively, “And did the book sort out your love life, too? Is everything good now with you and Riley?” He hoped she didn’t think him too nosey.

  “Well, we’re just playing it by ear. Going with the flow. Seeing what happens,” she said.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Hazard, “but I’d never have associated any of those expressions with you.”

  “I know, right?” she said with a grin. “I’m trying to be more easygoing. I have to say, it’s a bit of a challenge.”

  “But Riley’s leaving in a few months, isn’t he?” said Hazard. “Early June?”

  “Yes, but he’s asked me to go with him,” she said.

  “And are you going?” Hazard asked.

  “You know, at the moment I have absolutely no idea, which is a most unusual situation to find myself in,” she replied.

  “It must be so easy to be Riley,” said Hazard.