A Version of the Truth

by B P Walter

  I was still slightly dazed with sleep and for a moment didn’t have time to process what she’d said. Eventually, it sank in. ‘Phone call?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ she said, now fiddling with the bookmark ribbon of a critical theory anthology on my desk.

  I felt myself growing cold. Nobody ever called me. Something must be wrong.

  ‘Did they say who it was?’

  ‘Mother? Father? Something parental. I didn’t take the call. It was that coloured girl from down the hall.’

  ‘She’s African-American. From Washington,’ I murmured as I pulled myself out of bed and took my dressing gown off the desk chair.

  ‘Your mother?’ said Ally, not really listening. She was busy running her hands through the pages of the anthology. ‘God, I have no idea how you make sense of this. Have you actually tried reading it?’

  I sighed. ‘No, not my mother,’ I said, then headed to the door, not bothering to answer her question about the book. I left her in my room and walked down the corridor to the phone. The receiver had been left on the top of the unit and I picked it up gingerly, unsure what I was about to find out.

  ‘Hello?’ I said, slightly nervously.

  ‘Hello? I’d like to speak to Holly. It’s her mother talking.’

  ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Oh,’ she gave a small little laugh. ‘Sorry, love. You sounded so different.’

  She’d mentioned this before and it was becoming irritating. During our brief and awkward short chats on the phone in the past month she’d implied that my accent had become posher, and I wasn’t quite sure if this was a dig or something she wanted to encourage.

  ‘I just said “Hello”. How could that be so different?’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re having a good morning.’

  ‘It’s 8.00 a.m.,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘It hasn’t really started.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot you students are such late risers.’

  That was certainly a dig. She knew I was naturally an early riser and prided myself on it, but I hadn’t bothered setting an alarm the night before.

  ‘Is there anything wrong, Mum?’

  ‘Oh no, definitely not. Something quite nice, actually. It’s about Christmas.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, you see, our friends the Searles … you remember them, don’t you? Well, they’re going on a cruise over Christmas. The Caribbean. Anyway, they were going with their two sons. Well, there’s been a bit of an upset and the boys are no longer going.’

  I remembered the Searle family very well. My mother had met them at the local church fete and decided they seemed like good people to befriend. Middle class enough so she felt like it was a good thing to be seen in their company but not so posh as to make her feel intimidated. She’d even tried encouraging me to befriend the two sons, particularly the one closest to my age. We’d gone to the cinema together to see Total Recall and then afterwards he’d confessed he wasn’t really up for dating and had only gone out with me to be nice. I’d told him I didn’t want to date him either and had only agreed to go because I fancied Arnold Schwarzenegger. A bit of a white lie, but it made his eyes widen in a rather satisfying way.

  ‘Sorry to hear that. What kind of upset?’

  ‘Well, one of their boys, the older one, um, well, he’s become in the family way with a girl at university. He’s at Warwick. Maybe that sort of thing goes on there. Anyway, the Searles have all been in a bit of a state about it and Kieran is refusing to go with them on the cruise, and now his brother, Samuel, your friend, is refusing, too. So they’ve very kindly invited us along.’

  I was taken aback. The thought of my mother on a cruise felt foreign to me.

  ‘That’s … that’s nice of them. I suppose I could bring along my work and stuff …’

  ‘Oh … oh dear, I’m sorry, love. By “us” I meant your dad and me. I thought you’d probably be busy with all your studies and would want to go out with your Oxford friends at some point. You’ll probably have a much better time with some peace and quiet, anyway.’

  I tried to digest what she was saying, but it was as if her voice was getting steadily quieter.

  ‘I’m sorry, love. I know we’ve usually done the traditional turkey dinner for Christmas, but I sort of thought your going to Oxford would … well … kind of put an end to things like that. You’re grown up now and I wouldn’t want to hold you back and force you to do all our old-people things. Is that okay?’

  I struggled to get the words out, but finally managed to breathe. ‘Yes. Okay. I understand. That’s fine.’

  ‘We’ll be gone by the time you return from Oxford, I’m afraid. We leave on December tenth.’

  ‘I get back on the twelfth,’ I said in a monotone.

  ‘I’ll leave some nice bits in the freezer for you. And presents under the tree. I’ve got you some vouchers, too, so you can go out and do a bit of shopping? That will be nice, won’t it?’

  I didn’t say anything. She hurried on. ‘I just thought we’ve never been a big Christmas-type of family, have we? Just us three, chewing away at whatever cheap, leathery turkey your dad’s picked up and my burnt potatoes. It’s not as if we’ll be missing much.’

  ‘Okay.’ I didn’t want to hear any more. I just wanted her to get off the phone. ‘What day do you get back?’

  ‘We’ll be back just into the New Year. January sixth.’

  ‘So you’ll be gone nearly a month?’

  A pause. ‘Yes. You see, the Searles are retired now, so they don’t really have any time constraints.’

  ‘Surely their sons would have …’

  ‘Oh, that’s not been a problem. They’ve managed to extend our tickets without much of an uptick in price. It’s all been very reasonable. They …’

  ‘That’s great, Mum. Really great. I’ll have to go. Somebody wants to use the phone. I’m glad Kieran Searle’s lack of condoms has made your Christmas complete.’

  ‘Okay, love. Er … sorry, what?’

  It took her a while to compute what I’d said, but I’d had enough. ‘Send me a postcard,’ I said, then put the phone down. I went back to my room to find Ally still there, now reading a large Agatha Christie omnibus she must have found at the back of my bookshelf.

  ‘Did you know Hercule Poirot is supposed to be Belgian? I saw that new TV series last year and I swear David Suchet plays him as French.’

  ‘He doesn’t. He does a Belgian accent.’ I didn’t bother trying to sound friendly, but Ally didn’t notice.

  ‘Oh well, I’ve always been rather rubbish with European accents.’ She slammed the book shut and leapt up. ‘Do you want to go and get some breakfast?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t feel well,’ I said bluntly. ‘I’m going to go back to sleep.’

  ‘Oh no! Dearest!’ Ally rushed to my side. ‘Do you need a paracetamol? Is it period pains? Or flu? There’s definitely something going around. How about I bring you some hot orange juice with a dash of lavender honey in it?’

  I stepped away from her and went to lie down on my bed. ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I’m sorry, Ally, that’s very nice of you. I just need to sleep.’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Quite right, quite right. Have a good rest. Come and join me for Neighbours later if you feel better.’

  At last, she left me alone with nothing but my thoughts. And they weren’t good company.

  Chapter 9

  Julianne

  Knightsbridge, 2019

  My mother is on her way out and James is being much more attentive than I am, as usual, helping her with her coat, checking she’s got her scarf, demanding to know where Stephen has got to again (he went back upstairs halfway through The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel).

  ‘Goodness, I’m not looking forward to going back to my cold, empty old place on a night like this,’ she says, fully aware she’ll be going back to a warm, comfortable, modern house with her live-in housekeeper.

  ‘I can driv
e you, if you’d prefer that to the taxi,’ James says.

  ‘No, no. I don’t want to be a nuisance and Julianne looks like she’s about to collapse. You’d better get her into bed.’ She comes over to me and gives me her trademark awkward tap on the back and kiss on the cheek. ‘Take care, dear. Try not to let everything get on top of you. Remember some women have a career and a home to run. Imagine how much harder it is for them. And say goodnight to Stephen for me. Such a conscientious boy. I’ll see you all on Christmas Day.’ With this parting shot, she disappears into the night, no doubt confident her final few thinly veiled jibes will have well and truly hit home.

  ‘Well,’ James says, ‘I don’t think you look like you’re about to collapse. I think you look as lovely as ever.’ He moves towards me and wraps his arms around my shoulders, bringing his body close in to me so that we’re touching. I know the signs. He always does this when he wants to have sex.

  ‘She’s probably right, I am a bit tired,’ I say, slightly stepping away from him, but he doesn’t let go.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he says, leaning back to look at me. I find I can’t meet his eyes, and instead settle for a point on his shoulder. Not getting anywhere with his attempts at affection, he changes tack. ‘What was wrong with Stephen? All evening he seemed … not like himself.’

  I extricate myself from his grip and move towards the stairs. ‘What he said, probably. School stuff.’

  He nods, looking a bit troubled. ‘Listen, I’m sorry the subject of Oxford came up when your mother was here. I realise it isn’t always helpful to have her chipping in.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I say, still not looking him in the eye.

  ‘Let’s go to bed. Leave the plates and things for Cassie in the morning.’

  I sigh and nod, feeling bad for adding to Cassie’s workload, even if such jobs are the very things we pay her to do.

  James goes ahead to our bedroom, but I pause on the landing to listen at Stephen’s door. I can hear the sound of his television. Knocking softly, I open the door and see him on the bed, hugging his knees close to him, as if he’s cold. He’s got his pyjamas on, itself rather unusual – he normally only wears them when he’s got flu and doesn’t want to be lying about in just his underpants when his father and I are bringing him hot drinks, soup and paracetamol.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, and he nods. ‘I’ll talk to Dad about … about what you found. There’ll be an explanation. They’ll be to do with his work, or maybe a computer virus or something. Just … try not to dwell on them.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I give him a weak smile, say goodnight, close the door to his room and walk over to mine.

  James is already in his boxers and brushing his teeth in the en suite. He sees me looking in the mirror and I can tell, from the slightly mischievous look in his eye, that his desires haven’t gone away.

  I need to talk to him. I can’t sleep until I’ve got all of this off my mind and heard his explanation. He comes towards me now, using the hand towel to wipe toothpaste from his chin. His dark-brown hair is slightly damp from where he’s washed his face, a few strands from his fringe hanging limply over the smooth skin of his forehead, making him look much younger than his forty-eight years. I start to say something about needing to talk to him, but he starts kissing me without warning, the scent of mint and his Hugo Boss fragrance mingling, intoxicating, making me almost fall into him. Then it all happens very quickly, as it usually does when we make love. Though I’m not sure making love is the right word for it. As soon as he’s got me, ready and compliant, he pushes me away onto the bed so I’m lying on my front. With one hand, he gathers my arms together so they’re pinned in front of me, my frame bent over the bed. With the other, he pulls down the bottom half of my clothes, a little roughly, and casts them aside. My face is being pressed into the mattress, the scent of James now replaced by fabric softener and the pine-tree air freshener installed in the corner of the room. I hear the snap of the waistband of his boxers as he hurries to get them down and then, without much warning, always without much warning, there’s the sharp suddenness of him entering me from behind. More often than not, I’m aroused, enjoying the sensation, liking what he’s doing to me, so that he slips in easily. But today I’m not. And he hasn’t asked. He hasn’t checked. He hasn’t said anything, apart from his usual low grunt as he pushes himself deeper. Surely he can feel I’m not ready? That he might be hurting me? Doesn’t he care? He’s pushing quicker now, in and out, gathering speed. And then a grey shape at the corner of my consciousness starts to take hold, bit by bit, until something falls into my mind. Two words. Trial run. The impact of those two words, what they could mean, explodes through my brain. No attempts to contact police have been made. I can’t do this. I cry out and pull myself up.

  ‘I’m nearly finished,’ James pants, still going, stabilising himself by holding on to my shoulder. Or is he trying to hold me still, stop me struggling?

  ‘Stop!’ I shout, and again try to get up. He does stop and pulls out of me, too quickly for comfort, and I roll to the side away from him. Lying on my back on the bed, I hear him ask what’s wrong and if I’m okay, but my heart is pumping too loudly and my vision is blurred.

  ‘Julianne, talk to me?’ He comes into focus now, crouching down beside me, his hands taking hold of mine. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

  I let out a splutter – a noise of disbelief. I can’t help myself. ‘Unwell? Must I be feeling unwell to not want you hammering away at me like that?’

  I can feel the shock in his silence. It fills the room. I’ve never spoken to him like this. I’ve never interrogated our sex life in such a stark, harsh way. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever really wanted to. Waiting for him to respond, I pull myself up so I’m in a sitting position on the bed and wipe my eyes, finding tears clinging to my cheeks.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ James says, standing there naked. ‘We were just having sex … why did you start shouting?’ He has a semi-erection that looks strangely ridiculous now. It’s practically deflating before my eyes. He’s realising we’re not going to start having sex again. Something serious is happening.

  ‘It’s the way you were doing it. As if I … as if you didn’t care about me.’

  He walks towards me and lays his hands on my shoulders. ‘Julianne, how can you say that? Of course I care about you. I was just … you know … in the midst of it all. Passion. Arousal. That sort of thing.’

  I still can’t look him in the eye. ‘That sort of thing,’ I repeat. It isn’t a question. The words just stick in my head and I have to get them out again. Because they seem too vague and leave room for doubt and interpretation. What sort of thing does he really want, does he really like? The thought is making me feel dizzy and I close my eyes.

  ‘Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s wrong.’

  I might be imagining it, but I think I can hear the faintest hint of irritation in his voice amidst the concern. Even the possibility that he might be frustrated with me makes me angry. I get up and go over to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. I turn the taps on and splash some lukewarm water onto my face. It soothes something within me, even though my heart is still pounding in my chest.

  ‘Do you prefer rough sex? Violent sex?’ I ask the question simply and quietly and for a second I think he hasn’t heard me over the sound of the water, but then he answers.

  ‘Violent? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about sex.’ I reply simply. I’m trying to keep my cool, to sound almost disinterested. It will make this as easy as possible to get through.

  ‘I don’t think we really need to discuss this.’ His tone is guarded and opaque. ‘I think we have a pretty healthy sex life. Compared to many couples our age.’

  I stop for a moment, not liking where my brain is going. ‘How about with other women?’

  I can feel the tension coming off him. Something’s shifted. He’s still, not moving, but I can tell his fight or f
light response has been triggered. I’m stepping over a line here.

  ‘Julianne, how can you possibly ask me that?’

  I take in a deep breath. ‘I think I can.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ I say slowly. Carefully. ‘Anything that springs to mind?’

  Another beat. Then: ‘I don’t know what’s brought all this on, Julianne. It doesn’t sound very healthy.’

  I turn off the tap.

  ‘Oh, I’m being unhealthy, am I? Curious choice of phrase, don’t you think? Talking about sex, about what turns us on, about what we like to do to each other – is that unhealthy?’ I look directly into the mirror above the sink and see him looking back at me from the doorway. He must see the danger in my eyes, as he starts backtracking.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I just mean that … well … all men like different things … and of course women aren’t all the same. Everyone has their own preferences and desires and … needs. Don’t they?’

  I find I can hold his gaze now, albeit through a reflection. ‘I don’t know. Do they?’

  A few beats of silence pass between us, then I break eye contact and wipe my face with a towel. I get up and, without making a sound, go back into the bedroom, pull on a dressing gown that’s hanging on the wardrobe door, and walk out of the room onto the landing.

  ‘Where are you going?’ James says as I close the door behind me. I ignore him.

  It takes me less than a minute to retrieve my iPad mini from the living room and return upstairs. His eyes widen when he sees what I’m carrying.

  ‘Julianne, please, tell me, what is all this about?’

  I still don’t say anything, but set to work unlocking the iPad, opening up my Facebook messages, taking care to tilt the screen away from him so he can’t see it’s Stephen’s message I’ve clicked on. I then navigate to Dropbox. It’s already signed in to the general family account we use and I follow the file path I’ve now memorised, all the while expecting him to stop me. He doesn’t. He just stands over me as that daunting list of files with the long numbers for names appears on the screen.