The Authenticity Project

by Clare Pooley

  “Oh, morning, sleepyhead,” he replied. “I’m just making some space. For you. In case, you know, you have anything you want to keep here. In your own drawer.”

  “Oh, wow,” she said, laughing. “Are you sure you’re ready for that level of commitment?”

  “You may jest,” said Hazard, crawling back into bed and kissing her gently on the mouth, “but I’ve never given anyone a drawer before. I think I’m finally ready to take that leap.” He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him.

  “Well, I’m truly flattered,” she said. And she was. “And I think I’m ready to just go with the flow. You know, to take life as it comes.”

  “Really?” said Hazard, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Well, I’m ready to try,” said Monica, grinning back at him. And, for the first time, she really wasn’t worried about what happened next, because she knew, she just knew, with every fiber of her being, that this was where she belonged.

  “OK, let’s take it one drawer at a time,” said Hazard.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Alice

  Alice had been waiting for the perfect moment to talk to Max, calmly and rationally, about the state of their marriage. Then, of course, she picked the very worst one.

  Max had come back late, as usual, from the office. Alice had, for once, managed to prepare an evening meal, from scratch, but now it was overcooked and dried out. Bunty was teething and had taken an age to settle, and Alice was exhausted.

  They’d sat at the kitchen table, exchanging the sort of news of their respective days that you’d share with strangers. Max picked up his (unfinished) plate, took it over to the dishwasher, and left it on top of the counter.

  “MAX!” yelled Alice. “There is plenty of room IN the dishwasher. Why don’t you EVER put anything IN the dishwasher?”

  “Alice, there’s no need to start shouting like a bloody fishwife. You’ve had too much to drink again, haven’t you?” Max replied.

  “No, I haven’t had too much to BLOODY DRINK,” said Alice, who probably had. “I’ve had TOO MUCH OF BLOODY YOU! I’m fed up with being the only one who ever loads the sodding dishwasher, the only one who ever picks up your wet towels off the floor, the only one who gets up in the night when Bunty wakes up, the only one who does any tidying, cleaning . . .” The list was so long that she ended it by waving her arms and going “AAARRGGGHHHH!” like a proper grown-up.

  “Do you even know how to use the washing machine?” Alice asked, glaring at her husband.

  “Well, no, but it can’t be that difficult,” said Max.

  “It’s not DIFFICULT, Max!” yelled Alice. “It’s just mind-blowingly BORING. And I do it twice EVERY DAY!”

  “But, Alice, I have a job,” said Max, looking at her as if he had no idea who she was.

  “AND WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS, MAX?” yelled Alice. “I’M NOT EXACTLY SITTING AROUND ALL DAY HAVING MY NAILS PAINTED!” As she said it, she remembered she had, actually, had a manicure the day before while Lizzie looked after Bunty. But it was the first time in months. She clenched her fists to hide her nails. Then, somewhat to her alarm, she found herself crying. She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands, forgetting about her nails.

  “I’m sorry, Max,” she said between sobs. “It’s just I’m not sure if I can do this anymore.”

  “Do what, Alice?” he said, sitting down opposite her. “Being a mother?”

  “No,” she replied. “Us. I’m not sure I can do us anymore.”

  “Why? Because I didn’t put my plate in the dishwasher?”

  “No, it has nothing to do with the fucking dishwasher, or at least not much; it’s just I feel so alone. We’re both parents to Bunty, and we live in the same house, but it’s like we’re strangers. I’m lonely, Max,” she said.

  Max sighed. “Oh, Alice. I’m sorry. But it’s not just you who’s found all this hard, you know. Frankly, this is not the way I saw my life either. I love Bunty, obviously I do, but I miss our perfect world. The weekends away in fancy hotels, the pristine house, and my gorgeous, happy wife.”

  “But I’m still here, Max,” said Alice.

  “Yes, but you’re cross and tired all the time. And, to tell the truth”—he paused for a few beats, as if weighing up whether or not to continue, then made the wrong decision—“you’ve rather let yourself go.”

  “LET MYSELF GO?” shouted Alice, who felt like she’d been punched. “This is not the bloody 1950s, Max! You can’t expect me to ping back into shape within months of giving birth to your child. That just doesn’t happen in the real world.”

  “And I feel left out,” said Max, who’d obviously realized that moving swiftly on was the only possible tactic. “You know exactly how to deal with Bunty, what to do when, and how to do it. I feel useless. Surplus to requirements. So I end up staying in the office for longer and longer, because there I know exactly what’s expected of me, and people do what I say. They respect me. Everything happens on schedule. I’m in control.”

  “I’m doing my best, Max, but I’m fed up with feeling like I’m not meeting expectations. Not yours, not your mother’s, not Bunty’s, not even my own. Marriage and family are all about compromise, surely? You have to work at it. It’s not perfect and easy and beautiful, it’s messy and exhausting and bloody difficult a lot of the time,” said Alice, waiting for Max to tell her he loved her, that he’d help more, that they could make it work.

  “Maybe we could hire a nanny, Alice. For a few days each week. What do you think?” said Max.

  “We can’t afford that, Max, and even if we could, I don’t want to pay someone else to look after my child just so I can spend more time keeping up the pretense of being your ideal wife in your ideal life,” said Alice, trying not to cry.

  “Well, I don’t know what the answer is, Alice. I just know that you’re not happy and neither am I.” And he walked up the stairs to his office and closed the door, just like he always did.

  Alice felt unbearably sad. She picked up her phone and scrolled through her Instagram page, looking at all the photos of her flawless world with the gorgeous husband and cute baby. Could she give up the mirage? Could she and Bunty cope on their own?

  She thought of Mary, walking out on Julian after forty years, and looking so luminously happy. She thought of Monica, who, she’d learned yesterday, had dumped Riley, despite the fact that she was nearly forty. She thought of all her new friends, with their lives that didn’t look beautiful on an Instagram square, yet who were so much deeper, stronger, and more interesting than that.

  She could be like that too. Couldn’t she?

  Surely it would be better to live a messy, flawed, sometimes not very pretty life that was real and honest, than to constantly try to live up to a life of perfection that was actually a sham?

  Alice looked at her page again: @aliceinwonderland. Real-life fashion for real-life mums and their babies. Smiley face. Maybe she could show what real-life mums really looked like. She could post about the mess, the exhaustion, the stretch marks, the bulging tummy, and the disintegrating marriage. She could ditch that irritating smiley face emoji too. What had she been thinking? Surely she couldn’t be the only mother in the world who was fed up with trying to be perfect all the time?

  The thought of ending the pretense was such a relief, like kicking off a pair of crippling stilettos at the end of the day.

  I’m doing a great job. Or, at least, the best job I can, she told herself, since no one else was going to. And if that’s not good enough for Max, or for my Instagram followers, then they can go find someone else to stick on a sodding pedestal, because I can’t stay up here any longer.

  * * *

  • • •

  ALICE SHIFTED BUNTY on to her hip with one hand and rang the doorbell with the other. Lizzie opened the door, revealing a warm, happi
ly chaotic and cluttered home, just like the one Lizzie had grown up in. Max would sneer at it, thought Alice, which reminded her why she was here.

  “Lizzie, I’m so sorry to bother you so late,” she said, “but could Bunty and I possibly stay for a few days? Just until we work out what to do?”

  Alice really hoped Lizzie wouldn’t ask her any questions, because she hadn’t yet worked out any of the answers. All she knew was that she needed some space to think, away from Max. Away from all the expectations and recriminations. Lizzie must have understood this, because, for once, she kept her curiosity at bay. Alice was sure that wouldn’t last for long.

  “Of course you can, duck,” she said, ushering Alice in and closing the door firmly behind her.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Monica

  Monica sat, holding a glass of Pimm’s, her back against a tree in Kensington Gardens. She saw a couple standing on the edge of their group. They were holding hands and looked entirely self-contained.

  “Julian. I’m so pleased you invited Mary!” she said.

  “Yes. And her boyfriend. Can you call someone a boyfriend when they’re nearly eighty? It sounds like a contradiction in terms.”

  “He’s definitely what you’d describe as a silver fox, isn’t he?” said Monica. “As are you, of course,” she added quickly, knowing that Julian’s pride would be hurt otherwise.

  “He seems like a nice enough chap, if you like that kind of thing,” said Julian. “A little bland, but hey ho. I’d better introduce him to everyone.”

  Julian walked over toward Mary and Anthony, followed by Keith. Both of them looked a little stilted and arthritic. “Keith’s not a dog,” she heard him say to Anthony, “he’s my personal trainer.” Benji came over and sat next to Monica.

  “Monica, I wanted to tell you something,” he said. “I don’t want to steal Julian’s and Riley’s thunder, but I can’t keep it secret from you any longer.” She suspected she knew what he was going to say.

  “Baz and I are getting married.” Yay! Just as she’d hoped. The next sentence was, however, a surprise. “And we’d very much like you to be our best man. Or best woman. Best person. Whatever. Will you? Please say yes!”

  “Oh, Benji, I’m so thrilled for you,” she said, throwing her arms around him. “I’d be totally honored.”

  “Hurrah! I can’t wait to tell Baz! Betty thinks the wedding is all her idea, obviously. She’s already planning the menu for the reception. We’re getting hitched at Chelsea Town Hall—like Julian and Mary, but with a happier ending, I hope. Then we’re having a party at Betty’s restaurant.”

  “So Betty’s completely relaxed about the whole thing now?” Monica asked.

  “She seems to be,” Benji replied. “Although, she’s got herself completely worked up about gay rights in China. Did you know that homosexuality was only legalized there in 1997? But the thing that really upsets her is that China won’t allow gay couples, there or abroad, to adopt Chinese babies.”

  “Well, if anyone can persuade the People’s Republic of China to change their policy, I’m sure it’s Mrs. Wu. Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” said Monica, realizing that, possibly for the first time, she was nothing but genuinely pleased to hear news of another wedding. She waited to feel the familiar gnawing sense of envy, but it didn’t come. Hazard came over and sat down on her other side.

  “You look happy,” he said.

  “I am,” she replied, wishing she could share the news, but Monica prided herself on being good with secrets. “It feels like everything’s coming together.”

  “You know, this is the first party I’ve been to since I was a child when I haven’t felt the need to get off my face. Even back then I’d overdose on Smarties and Coca-Cola. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “It is, Hazard. You are amazing. Oh, I have something I need to give to Riley. I’ll be right back.”

  She walked over to Riley, who was surrounded by a group of his Australian friends, including Brett, who was going with him to Amsterdam in a few days’ time.

  “Riley, can I have a quick chat?” she asked. Riley immediately disentangled himself from the crowd and followed her to a quiet spot, on the edge of the party.

  “I’ve been wanting to say thank you. For what you wrote in the book about me. About how I’d make a great mother. I can’t tell you how much that means to me, even if I never get the opportunity to see if you were right.”

  “I’d forgotten I’d written that, even though it’s absolutely true,” he said, with a smile.

  “I have something for you,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out an oddly shaped parcel, wrapped in paper dotted with holly and ivy. “I bought this for you at Christmas, but with all the excitement of Hazard’s arrival and the flying figgy pudding, I never gave it to you. Today feels like the right time for you to have it.”

  Riley took the parcel and tore it open, with all the genuine excitement of a five-year-old.

  “Monica, it’s beautiful!” he said, turning it over in his hands. It was a perfectly engineered trowel, with Riley engraved on the handle.

  “It’s so you can garden wherever you are,” she said.

  “Thank you. I love it. I’ll think of you, all of you,” he corrected, quickly, “whenever I use it. Please, can we stay in touch? In any case, I want to find out what happens with you and Hazard,” he said.

  “Is it that obvious?” asked Monica, secretly rather thrilled that it was. “Do you mind?”

  “You know, I did at first. Just a bit,” replied Riley, “but I love you both, so now that I’ve come round to the idea I couldn’t be happier.” Monica wondered how Riley could be so generous. In his place, she’d have been seething and sticking pins into wax effigies. And he did look just a little sad, behind the effusive smiles. Perhaps she was imagining it.

  “Riley, you really are one of the nicest people I’ve ever met,” she said, giving him a hug that he held for just a beat too long. “I’ll miss you. We all will.”

  “Hazard will make a great dad, too, you know,” said Riley.

  “Do you think so? He’s not so sure. He doesn’t entirely trust himself yet,” said Monica, realizing as she said it how little it mattered to her now.

  “Well, just get him to ask the kids at Mummy’s Little Helper if he’d make a good father. They’ll convince him!” said Riley.

  “You know, I might just do that,” said Monica.

  “Everyone, I have an announcement to make,” said Julian, using a ladle to bang on the side of the bin filled with Pimm’s. “When Mary left, she left behind something very special. No, I don’t mean me.” He paused for the laughter, like a West End performer working his audience. “She left her viola. I’m hoping she’ll play it for us now. Mary?” And he handed her the viola, which he must have hidden in one of his bags.

  “Gosh, I haven’t played for years. Hello, my old friend. I’ll give it a go,” said Mary, picking up the viola and turning it over in her hands, getting used to the feel and weight of it again. Carefully, she tuned each of the strings, then she started to play, slowly and cautiously at first, then exuberantly, playing a wild Irish jig. A crowd formed around them. Families, on their way home after feeding the swans, stopped to see who was making music with such flair and passion.

  Monica walked over to Julian and sat down on the grass next to his deck chair, scratching Keith, his ever-present shadow, behind the ears.

  “I’m been wanting to tell you, Monica, that I’m so pleased about you and Hazard,” said Julian. “I’d like to take just a little bit of credit for that, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course you can, Julian. After all, if it wasn’t for your notebook, I’d never have talked to him again after the first time we bumped into each other. Literally,” said Monica.

  “Don’t let it go, will you, Monica? Don’t make the mistakes I did.” He looked over at Mary
and Anthony, with an expression that managed to flit between happiness and sorrow.

  “You don’t think Hazard’s just a little too much like you, Julian, do you?” asked Monica tentatively, hoping he wouldn’t take offense. Julian laughed.

  “Oh no, don’t worry. Hazard’s far nicer, and less stupid, than me. And you’re far stronger than Mary was back then. Yours is going to be a very different love story, with a very different ending. Anyhow, don’t you worry, I’ve had a little chat with him. A sort of fatherly pep talk.” Monica was both horrified and intrigued by this thought. How she wished she’d been a fly on the wall for that one.

  “I have something for you, Julian,” she said.

  “Darling girl, you’ve given me a present already,” he replied, gesturing to the paisley silk cravat he had tied jauntily around his neck.

  “It’s not another present, it’s just something coming home,” she said, passing him a pale-green notebook with three words on the front cover: The Authenticity Project. It was looking a little battered after all its travels. “I know you told Mary you couldn’t keep it, because you hadn’t been authentic, but now you are, and you should have it. You’re where it started, and you should be where it ends.”

  “Ah, my notebook. Welcome back. What an adventure you’ve been on,” he said, placing the book gently in his lap and stroking it, like a cat. “Who gave it this smart plastic cover?” he asked. Then, seeing Monica grin, “Oh, how silly of me. I shouldn’t have to ask.”

  Mary was playing a Simon and Garfunkel song that everyone was singing along to. Bunty, who was sitting with Alice and Lizzie, stood up and clapped, then, noticing that she wasn’t holding on to anything, looked shocked and fell over. Where was Max? Monica wondered.

  It was getting darker. The sunbathers and dog walkers had all gone, and the midges had come out to feed. Monica had hailed some black cabs to help them take the bins, glasses, and rugs back to the café. Julian watched them pack everything up and start walking over toward the road.