The Authenticity Project

by Clare Pooley

Dear Mary,

  My name is Lizzie Green. Here is my truth: I am extremely curious. Some might say nosey. I love people—their quirks, their strengths, and their secrets. Which is how I found you. Not dead at all, but living in Lewes.

  Another thing you should know about me is that I hate deceit. I will defend anyone to the hilt, so long as they are honest, with me and with themselves. And Julian, as you know, has not been honest.

  If there is one thing The Authenticity Project should achieve, it’s making its creator be more authentic.

  So, that’s why I’ve sent you this book, and that’s why I’m telling you that Julian teaches an art class at Monica’s Café every Monday evening at 7 p.m.

  With love,

  Lizzie

  SIXTY-THREE

  Julian

  How was it possible to feel so horrified that she was here, and yet so thrilled to see her simultaneously? The conflicting emotions churned together like the two colors in a lava lamp. She was different, of course she was—it had been fifteen years. Her face had—drooped—a little. But she was as straight, tall, and strong as a silver birch, luminous.

  Had she always been like that, and he’d just failed to notice, or had she only become like that since she left? And then, an uncomfortable realization: perhaps it was he who’d destroyed it—that luminescence. It was what had drawn him to Mary in the first place, and then he had snuffed it out.

  He remembered the first time he’d seen her, in the cafeteria at St. Stephen’s Hospital. He’d broken his toe climbing over the wall to the studios, having lost his keys. He’d heard one of the other midwives call her name—Mary. He’d not been able to stop looking at her, so he drew her portrait on a page of the sketchbook he always carried with him, wrote an invitation to dinner on the other side, tore it out, and placed it on her tray as he hobbled past.

  “Hello, Mary,” he said now, “I’ve missed you.” Three words that couldn’t even begin to describe fifteen years of regret and loneliness.

  “You killed me,” she replied.

  “Your leaving killed me,” he said, clutching on to the nearest chair for support.

  “Why did you lie, Julian?” asked Monica. Gently, this time. Mary answered before he could.

  “He just wanted you to like him. All he’s ever wanted is for people to like him. You see . . .” She paused, searching for the right words. The only sound in the café was from the traffic, still trundling up and down the Fulham Road. “If the truth wasn’t how he wanted to see himself, he’d change it. Like adding more color to a painting to cover over the imperfections. Isn’t that right, Julian?”

  “Yes, although it wasn’t just that, Mary,” he said, then stopped, looking like a fish gasping for air.

  “Carry on, Julian,” said Monica.

  “I guess I found it easier to believe you were dead than to constantly remind myself that I’d driven you away. All the women, all the lies. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he said.

  “You know, it wasn’t just the women, Julian. I was used to that. It was the way you made me feel so insignificant. You have such energy. You’re like the sun. When you’re interested in someone, you turn your rays toward them and they luxuriate in your warmth. But then you turn somewhere else, leaving them in the shadow, and they spend all their energy trying to re-create the memory of the light.”

  Julian hardly dared to look at Monica, his new friend whom he’d let down, just as he’d let down so many others over the years.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Mary. I loved you. I still do,” he said. “When you left, my world fell apart.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I read your story, in the book.” He noticed, for the first time, that she was holding The Authenticity Project in her hand. How on earth had she gotten hold of that? “I’d thought you’d barely notice my absence, that one of the many girls would slot into my place. I had no idea you’d found it so hard. I was angry with you, but I never wanted you to suffer.”

  She walked over to him, put the book down on the table, and took both his hands in hers. “Sit down, you old fool,” she said. And they both sat at the table. Monica brought them over a bottle of the Bailey’s and some glasses.

  “You know, I never drink this stuff anymore,” Mary said. “Too many memories. Anyhow, it tastes ghastly. I don’t suppose you have any red wine, do you, my dear?”

  “Don’t worry, Monica, I got the Bailey’s on sale or return,” Julian heard Riley say, as if it mattered.

  “Julian, we’re going to go now, to give you some space,” said Hazard. Julian nodded at him and waved absentmindedly at his students, as Hazard ushered them out. Only Monica and Riley stayed behind, clearing up the detritus of the party.

  “Are you happy, Mary?” he asked, realizing that he really wanted her to be.

  “Very,” she replied. “After I left, I learned to be my own sun. I found a lovely man, a widower, Anthony. We live in Sussex.” OK, of course he wanted her to be happy, but not too happy.

  “And you look happy too,” she said, “with all these new friends. Just remember to treat them well, and don’t get sidetracked by all that nonsense again.”

  Monica came over with a bottle of red wine and two wineglasses.

  “Maybe it’s just too late for me to change,” said Julian, feeling rather sorry for himself.

  “It’s never too late, Julian,” said Monica. “After all, you’re only seventy-nine. You’ve got loads of time left to finally get it right.”

  “Seventy-nine?” said Mary. “Monica, he’s eighty-four!”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Monica

  The Authenticity Project was based on lies. Monica’s friendship with Julian, which had grown to take up so much of her life of late, was not what it seemed. What else had Julian lied about? And she’d just spent hours planning and executing a memorial for someone who wasn’t dead.

  It was nearly midnight by the time Julian and Mary left the café.

  Mary had hugged her as she’d gone. “Thank you, for looking after my Julian,” she’d whispered in Monica’s ear. Her breath was like the memory of a summer breeze. She’d squeezed Monica’s hand, her skin rendered so soft and fragile by the passing of the years. Then the door closed behind Mary and Julian, the bell announcing their departure with a desultory chime. And with them went half a century of love, passion, anger, regret, and sadness, leaving the air behind them feeling thinner.

  Monica felt terrible about the assumptions she’d made, that Mary was insipid, a doormat, and far less interesting than her husband. The Mary she’d met that evening was wonderful—she radiated warmth, and yet her softness covered a core strength, strength that had enabled her to walk away from nearly forty years of marriage and start all over again.

  Riley followed Monica up to her apartment.

  “Blimey. What an evening. That was all a bit intense, don’t you think?” he said. Monica bristled at the way he’d distilled an evening of such high emotion so casually. “Who d’you think sent Mary the book?”

  “It must have been Lizzie,” said Monica. “She found the notebook at the nursery after it fell out of Alice’s bag. That’s how she ended up helping with Bunty.”

  “Do you think it was a bit mean of her to land Julian in it like that?” Riley asked.

  “Actually, I think she did him a favor, forcing him to confront his lies. He was different by the time he left this evening, wasn’t he? Less bluster and show, more real. I think he’ll be a much nicer, and happier, person from now on. And maybe he and Mary can be friends.”

  “I guess. Although I always rather liked him as he was. Do you have anything to eat? I’m ravenous.”

  Monica opened her kitchen cupboard, which was embarrassingly bare.

  “I’ve got some cooking chocolate, if you’d like some,” she said, breaking off a square and putting it in her mouth, feeling
her energy returning with the infusion of sweetness. Now the tension had dropped she realized how hungry and exhausted she was.

  “Monica, stop!” said Riley. “You can’t eat that. It’s poisonous.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” asked Monica, her mouth full of chocolate.

  “Cooking chocolate. It’s poisonous until it’s cooked.”

  “Riley, did your mother tell you that when you were little?”

  “Yes!” he replied. She watched the penny drop. “She lied to me, didn’t she? To stop me stealing the chocolate.”

  “That’s one of the things I love so much about you. You always assume that people are good and telling the truth, because that’s how you are. You always think that things will turn out well and, because of that, they generally do. By the way, did she tell you that when the ice-cream van played music it meant they’d run out of ice cream?”

  “Yes, she did actually,” he replied. “I do have a dark side, you know. Everybody thinks I’m so bloody nice, but I have as many evil thoughts as the next man. Honestly.”

  “No, you don’t, Riley,” she said, sitting down next to him on the sofa. “There’s so much I love about you,” she said, passing him a few squares of chocolate, “but I don’t love you.”

  Monica remembered what she’d overheard Mary saying, about learning to be her own sun. She remembered the conversation with Alice on the train. There are advantages to being single. She didn’t need anyone else to orbit around. She didn’t need a baby, either. A baby doesn’t make the happy ever after. She knew what she had to say.

  “I can’t come traveling with you, Riley. I’m sorry. I need to be here, with my friends, and the café.”

  “I was kind of expecting you to say that,” Riley said, looking uncharacteristically defeated. He placed the chocolate down on the coffee table like an unwanted consolation prize. “I understand, Monica. I’d originally planned to go alone, in any case. I’ll be OK.” And she knew he would. Riley would always be OK. “And if you decide you’ve made a terrible mistake, you can always come and find me in Perth.”

  “We can still be friends until you go, can’t we?” she asked him, wondering if she had, indeed, made a terrible mistake. Surely this was what she’d always wanted, and now she was just throwing it away.

  “Sure,” he replied, as he stood up and walked to the door.

  She kissed him. It was a kiss that said much more than good-bye. It said sorry, and thank you, and I very nearly love you. But not quite.

  And she didn’t want to live with not quite.

  Riley left, taking all her daydreams with him. The two of them standing on the Bridge of Sighs in Venice, swimming in a secluded cove on a perfect Greek island, kissing in a bar in Berlin while a band played. Riley teaching their children to surf. Monica taking them back to Fulham to show them the café where it all started.

  Monica sat down on the sofa, feeling very, very tired. She looked over at the photo of her mum on the mantelpiece, laughing into the camera. She remembered when she’d taken it—on a family holiday in Cornwall, just weeks before the diagnosis.

  I know I don’t need a man, Mum. I know I shouldn’t compromise. I can look after myself, of course I can.

  But sometimes I just wish I didn’t have to.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Hazard

  It was a week since Hazard’s disastrous date with Blanche, and his realization about Monica.

  He’d thrown himself into his work, taking on all the most back-breaking gardening jobs himself, as a form of distraction. He’d stopped using the café as an office and was shocked how much he missed his working sessions and games of backgammon with Monica.

  It was ironic that, after all those weeks of matchmaking, the only person he really wanted her to be with was him.

  But he’d blown it.

  His memory of the wedding was patchy at best, but one scene stayed with him, in startling clarity, replaying over and over in his head: Get a fucking life, Monica, and stop being such a bore. You are not my mother, or my wife, or even my girlfriend, and thank fuck for that. Or something along those dreadful lines.

  She’d been lovely to him the day after, and perfectly friendly ever since. She didn’t seem to bear a grudge, but there was no way she’d ever consider going out with him now she’d seen him at his worst.

  Anyhow, she was going traveling with Riley. Good old Riley, who was the complete opposite from him—trustworthy, honest, uncomplicated, kind, and generous.

  If he really cared about Monica, he should be happy for them. Riley was obviously the right man to choose. But Hazard wasn’t that nice, that was part of the problem. He was damaged and selfish. And he really, really wanted Monica for himself.

  Everything about Riley was annoying him, from the stupid Australian accent, to the way he whistled as he worked. Snap out of it, Hazard. It’s not his fault. Riley’s done nothing wrong.

  He turned to Riley, whistling happily alongside him. “So where are you and Monica going to visit first?” he asked, despite knowing that this conversation was going to hurt.

  “Actually, mate, she’s not coming with me after all,” Riley replied. “She says she’s got too much going on here, so I’m going on my own, unless I can persuade Brett to tag along.”

  Hazard tried really hard not to look at Riley, or to give away any clue as to quite how much this casually uttered sentence meant to him. He was aware that he should reply to Riley or run the risk of seeming rather uncaring, but he knew if he did, he’d give himself away.

  Was it at all possible that Monica was staying in London because of him? He very much doubted it, but perhaps it was a sign. It was certainly an opportunity, and one he couldn’t let just slip through his hands. He had to at least talk to her, before he drove himself crazy.

  As Hazard pulled giant thistles from the overgrown flower bed, he thought about what he might say.

  I know I’m a rude, egotistical bloke with addiction issues who was unforgivably horrible to you recently, but I think you’re wonderful, and we’d be really good together, if you’d just give me a chance. Not exactly selling himself.

  Monica, I love everything about you, from your strength, ambition, and principles, to the way you care so much about your friends and your obsession with your food standards hygiene rating. If you’ll just give me the opportunity, I’ll do everything I can to be worthy of you. A bit too needy, perhaps.

  Monica, all those things you wrote about—wanting a family and children and the whole fairy tale—well, maybe I could want that too. Mmmm. The truth was, he was still trying to get his head around that one, and he was determined to be honest. Was he ever going to be grown-up and responsible enough to be a father? Besides, he wasn’t sure that bringing up what she’d written in the book was a good idea; she was rather sensitive about it, as he and Riley had both discovered.

  Maybe he should just turn up at her apartment and play it by ear. After all, what did he have to lose?

  Hazard drove to Mummy’s Little Helper on autopilot. He had to drop off the gardening tools they’d been using. It was, however, impossible to get in and out of the place quickly, since he was always mobbed by his gardening buddies.

  “Hey, Fin,” he said to the small, skinny boy helping him stack the tools in the shed, “are you any good with girls?”

  “Me? I’m the best!” said Fin, puffing out his chest. “I have FIVE girlfriends. That’s more even than Leo. And he has a PlayStation 4.”

  “Wow. What’s your secret? How do you let them know you really like them?”

  “That’s easy. I give them one of my Haribos. And you know what I do if I really, really like them?”

  “What?” asked Hazard, leaning down to Fin’s height.

  Fin whispered, his breath hot in Hazard’s ear, “I give them the one shaped like a heart.”

  SIXTY-SIX

>   Alice

  I wasn’t sure you’d be here, Julian, what with Mary not being dead and everything,” said Alice, as she reached the Admiral’s grave. “Hi Keith,” she said, bending down to pat the dog’s head. Keith looked rather put out, as if patting were an affront to his dignity.

  “Mary, it turns out, hasn’t been dead for the last fifteen years, dear girl,” said Julian, as if this were news to him, “but I still came here. Not just to remember her, but to keep a link with the past—so much of which I’d left behind. I’ve bought this, instead of the Bailey’s, though,” he said, pulling a bottle of red wine, some plastic glasses, and a corkscrew out of his bag. “I never really liked Bailey’s, and it turns out that even Mary doesn’t drink it anymore, so I don’t think we need to.”

  Alice, who’d secretly been emptying her glasses of Bailey’s into the undergrowth for the past few months, was rather relieved. She sat down on the marble, next to Julian, taking the glass of wine he handed her. The graveyard was filled with bluebells, and blossoms were falling from the trees like snow. Spring, a time for new beginnings. She took Bunty out of her pushchair and sat her on her knee. Bunty reached out for one of the flowers, clutching it in her fat fist.

  “Alice, dear, can I tell you about my new idea?” he said. She nodded, a little nervously. You never knew quite what Julian was going to come up with next. “I’ve been thinking about The Authenticity Project, about why I started it, how lonely I was. And I know there are so many people out there feeling just the same, spending whole days without talking to anyone, and eating every meal by themselves.” Alice nodded. “Then I remembered Hazard talking about his stay in Thailand and how, although he was on his own, the place he was staying at had a communal table and everyone ate together every night.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” said Alice. “It’s a great idea. Think of all the different people you’d meet, the conversations you’d have.”