A Version of the Truth

by B P Walter

  ‘Well, I didn’t realise you’d be dropping in quite so literally as this,’ he said. Posh, similar to James’s voice. Calm and confident.

  ‘Rupert?’ I said, feeling a little confused.

  ‘The one and only,’ he said and smiled.

  ‘Sorry to break up the party here, but we’re kind of in the middle of something.’ This second voice made me start and I stood up, realising it had come from another male who was leaning over the arm of a chair. It took me a second to realise what was going on, but when I saw that both he and Rupert were naked, with the latter positioned behind him, their bodies touching, it hit me.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said, embarrassed and angry with myself for just walking in. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I looked away quickly and went to leave. I’d never seen two men even kiss, let alone do what they were doing, though I was vaguely aware of the mechanics of it.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Rupert said. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Carry on, it’s fine,’ I said, walking out of the shed and back into the night.

  I heard Rupert murmur an apology to the other boy and come after me. He pulled me round by the shoulder so I could face him. ‘You look upset,’ he said.

  I couldn’t help it. The tears continued rolling down my face and I sniffed loudly.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ he said, and pulled me into an embrace. I felt my cheek meet his bare chest and I heard the beat of his heart. I’d never been this close to a naked man in my life and was surprised at how much I liked it. How much I wanted him to hold me tighter and not let me go.

  ‘Why the crying?’ he asked quietly, rocking me gently.

  I didn’t know what to say so just kept silent, allowing the slow movement to calm me a little.

  ‘Holly. I’m sorry to be a bore, but it’s damn freezing out here and I haven’t got a stitch on me.’ He was starting to shiver and lifted me away from his chest. ‘Apart from this,’ he said with a hollow laugh, looking down towards his penis. He reached down and I heard a slap of elastic as he chucked away the condom. ‘I’m going to have to put some clothes on before I get pneumonia.’

  I nodded and managed to find my voice. ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  ‘Stop apologising,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come back in?’ He was edging back towards the shed door. ‘Don’t worry, Timothy won’t bite. I’ll make it worth his while later.’

  I allowed myself to be led back into the shed, which was marginally warmer than the night air. Inside, Rupert seated me on a chair – identical to the white wicker one James had been perched on minutes earlier while Julianne pleasured him. The other boy, Timothy, made a noise of disbelief as I settled myself down, but Rupert spoke quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Holly is just a bit upset. I’m going to take her home.’ He pulled on his bright-yellow Y-fronts, jeans and black t-shirt, along with a thick cream cardigan. Timothy didn’t say anything, just sighed and bent down to pull on his own briefs, then started to pick the rest of his clothes up off the floor.

  ‘I think I’ll be fine,’ I said, sniffing again, wishing I had a tissue. ‘I’ll just go back to the house.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Rupert said, heading for the door. ‘Come on. Let’s get you back home. We’ll have a chat on the way.’

  Before we left, I looked back towards the other boy, who was now fully clothed, seated on one of the chairs and in the process of lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Don’t burn the place down,’ Rupert called after him.

  The car was comfortable and warm. A BMW, I noticed when I got in, not that I cared much. Rupert asked if I’d like some music on, but I shook my head and said I’d prefer not, if he didn’t mind. He said he didn’t. After driving in silence for a while, I turned to him and asked, ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’

  He laughed at that. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I mean,’ I said, trying to choose the right words, ‘not many guys would abandon having sex halfway through to drive a random girl they barely know back home through the night.’

  ‘It’s not that far to your dorms. And anyway, I like driving.’

  I didn’t reply and he seemed to decide the evasion wasn’t going to work. ‘I don’t really like what Ernest’s lot do. Him, James, Ally – they’re careless. Careless with other people. People who aren’t like them. I’ve seen it before. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t the first. They used to do this when I was at school. They’d find someone – a pet, a plaything – someone a bit different to themselves, someone from a different background or just not part of their little club. They like impressing people, bewildering people, pushing them out of their depth.’

  I let these words sink in. A pet, a plaything. Is that all I was to them? ‘Ally’s not like that,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm.’ Rupert kept his eyes on the road, but he looked sad. ‘I like to think she isn’t. But she left you alone at a big party full of people you’ve never even met, didn’t she?’

  I was confused and leant back in my seat to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I saw her getting into a car with Ernest about an hour ago. Heard her telling people they were going to pick up Peter, but I know that’s not true. Peter’s at home in London with his parents.’

  ‘But … maybe they just …’

  ‘Just forgot? Too drunk to remember? Or just didn’t care?’

  I shook my head. ‘Ally isn’t like that,’ I said again.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. It sounded final, but I could tell he wanted to say more.

  I let silence fall again until we were nearing the road leading up to the accommodation, then I said something that had been on my mind all evening. ‘Everyone was having sex. As if it didn’t matter. Those people in the swimming pool, stripping off, apparently not bothered at all. And James and Julianne … I saw them. She was using her mouth on him. And … and …’

  ‘And me?’ he said, with a quiet laugh. ‘Yes, that isn’t exactly rare at house parties.’

  ‘Really? Am I just naïve, or does it all seem rather …’

  ‘Rather what?’

  I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m clearly just sheltered. Out of my depth, as you say.’

  He drew in a breath. ‘I didn’t mean anything bad by it.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, though it wasn’t. ‘I’m just glad to be back here. And I do appreciate you bringing me. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He turned the car into the driveway and along the small path towards the entrance. ‘Sweet dreams. I hope our paths cross again.’ He smiled at me.

  ‘Me too,’ I said, though as I said the words I somehow knew they probably wouldn’t. ‘Goodnight.’

  He didn’t drive away until I was inside with the door closed. Safe.

  CHAPTER 11

  Julianne

  Knightsbridge, 2019

  My mother used to struggle to sleep when I was young. I used to wake up and hear her tidying the already immaculate kitchen, bleaching the surfaces so they’d probably pass even clinical standards. Dad used to hate it. ‘Not being able to sleep is the sign of a guilty conscience,’ he always used to say, frequently within Mom’s hearing, which I’m sure exacerbated the issue. Her insomnia was only cracked when a family friend I called Aunt Joan, even though she was no blood relation, finally said to her, ‘I’ve got the cure. It couldn’t be more simple. Just don’t give a damn. Don’t worry for a single second you can’t sleep. It doesn’t matter. Don’t overthink it, don’t dwell on it, don’t try to sleep. Think about something else, read a book for a bit, and if you can’t sleep just shrug it off. The worst comes to the worst, you’ll be a bit tired the next day. That’s life. No big deal.’

  Lying here, trying to sleep now, I think of Aunt Joan and wonder what she’d advise if she knew what was keeping me awake right now. Whether she’d tell me to shrug it off. Not to care. To not give a damn and just go to sleep.

  Any attempts to quiet my screaming mind are falling flat. Nothing can drown out th
e noise. A thousand images push themselves to the front of my thoughts, jostling for space. Some are just words, taken from those documents I’d read. Sex worker. Illegal substances. HIV and hepatitis. Trial run. Others are things James said to me during our discussion before bed. Sensitive. Surveillance. MI5. Then my mind starts to spin towards other memories, ones of us. Our wedding. Our honeymoon. Our happiness. And other times. Times when he’s had to work late. Hours in front of the computer upstairs while Stephen and I are watching TV. The times he’s stopped a phone call in haste when I’ve entered the room. And, with a horrible sense of painful inevitability, a time when I was at my lowest at Oxford. Me, accepting the apologies of a tearful James. And then looking at a half-clothed girl, lying in a bed.

  Part of me was tempted to bring some of this up when we first got into bed. But then the minutes ticked by and James’s breathing became heavy after about half an hour. Longer than normal – he’s normally dead to the world as soon as his head hits the pillow – but he’s still able to push aside the events of the past few hours enough to allow his mind to close down and let sleep envelop him in its comfortable clutches. I, meanwhile, am left fending off the darkness alone. And it’s so, so dark in my head, I can hardly bear it. At 4.00 a.m., after hours of lying awake, I get up and go over to the walk-in wardrobe, opening the door as quietly as I can. I don’t risk turning on the light inside and I don’t need to. Feeling around along my row of coats, I quickly get to my Jaeger Cocoon with the large, smooth-knit collar and feel inside the top breast pocket. There, I feel a small rectangle of cardboard and pull it out. Keeping it clasped in my hand, I leave the wardrobe, take my phone off charge by the bedside, and make my way out of the room and downstairs, listening all the way for any stirring from James or Stephen.

  The Christmas lights are still on throughout the house – probably the first time we’ve forgotten to turn them off in years. Even though this is the second year we’ve had 100 per cent LEDs, which don’t overheat, James still gets concerned about us waking up to a burning house around us, or, even worse, not waking up at all. The twinkle of the big tree in the corner of the lounge draws me to it, like a moth to a flame, and I stare at it for a while before reaching for my phone and looking down at the card in my hand. I dial the number.

  ‘Hello, you’ve reached Myanna Thornton-Smythe. I’m not able to take your call right now, so please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  For a second or two I panic; then, when I start, the words seem to clump together as I say them. ‘Hello, my name is … Julianne Knight … I wanted to … Last year you approached me about … about my husband. You said one day I would realise and when that day happened … I should call … and.… I told myself the day wouldn’t ever come … but I kept the card, all this time. And I think I need to …’ My tears roll down my face as I try to keep the sob from my voice. I cut the call. Regret swells within me. What have I done? I stare at the phone, as if hoping there is a way I can eradicate the last couple of minutes, turn back the clock, but the screen just goes blank. And then it lights up with an incoming call.

  ‘Shit,’ I say out loud. My finger hovers over the cancel button. Then I click answer.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, my voice quiet and faint.

  ‘Julianne. It’s Myanna. I just heard your message.’

  Her voice is strong and confident, as if this were the middle of the day and I’d been put through to an office, rather than woken her up in the middle of the night.

  ‘I … I’m sorry …’

  After a few beats of silence, Myanna says, ‘It’s okay. Take your time. I’m very glad you’ve called me.’ She pauses here, perhaps hoping I will start speaking, then says, ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me what prompted you to get in touch. I’m really pleased you kept my number.’

  ‘I don’t know … I don’t know what I’m saying, really. It’s nothing. This is nothing. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Julianne, don’t apologise. And this isn’t nothing. You’ve phoned me in the middle of the night. That’s a good thing – a very, very good thing. You’re not alone. If you just talk to me, I think I can help.’

  ‘Forget … please, forget what I said. On the voice message I left you.’ My heart is beating so loudly I swear the phone will pick it up and my knees start to give way. I lower myself awkwardly so I’m sitting on the floor like a child. ‘Please just delete the message. I’m sorry … I was wrong … I’m sorry to bother you.’ I take the phone away from my ear, tears splashing onto the screen as I hit the red button. Quickly, I navigate to the call log and add Myanna’s number to the blocked list, then let the phone fall on the carpet. I sit there, crying by the Christmas tree, as time slips past me. Things filling my head. Images clawing at the sides of my consciousness. I fall in and out of sleep, curled up on the carpet, the heated flooring mitigating the discomfort. Then, eventually, when I hear the clock on the mantelpiece quietly chime 6.00 a.m., I pull myself up with an effort and get my balance. I should go back to bed. Or start doing something, something normal. James will worry if he finds me sitting on the lounge floor, spaced out and crying before dawn, like a disturbed child.

  I decide to heat up a pain au chocolat and take it back into the lounge to eat on the sofa. Turning on the TV, I navigate to Sky’s Christmas movies section, select Home Alone, and enjoy the first ten minutes of the McCallister family trying to get themselves organised for a family trip to Paris over the holiday period. As the film goes on, I gather up some of the shopping bags of gifts I’ve had stashed away and spend an hour or so doing some wrapping. Though sitting on the sofa, hunched over the coffee table, is unkind to my back, the simple activity is therapeutic and I feel the tension leaving my body as I snip and cut and stick down the paper over socks, books and, for my mother, a new KitchenAid stand food mixer. I am just folding down the last bit of paper over the box when I hear a noise on the stairs. Moments later, James walks in.

  ‘You’re up early,’ he says, coming over to rub my shoulder. ‘You’re watching Home Alone?’ He sounds slightly amused.

  ‘It was just on,’ I say, not entirely truthfully. I finish wrapping the big box surrounding the mixer and set it on the coffee table.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  The question hangs there, waiting for me to answer. Although the air around me is comfortably warm, I feel slightly chilly.

  ‘Julianne? Is everything okay?’

  I turn round and look at him, taking in the whole man: his messy bed hair, his muscled torso underneath his navy-blue t-shirt, the long outline of his penis, clearly visible against the tight cotton of his white boxer briefs. And his face. That kind, handsome face I’ve known all these years, and the pleading look filling his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, giving a small nod. ‘Everything is okay.’

  Chapter 12

  Holly

  Wickford, Essex, 1990

  It didn’t take me long to unpack. As my journey back for Christmas was to be by train rather than car, I’d only brought some essentials. There were enough clothes at home for me to wear – especially if I was going to be sitting round the house for a month – and the local library was only ten minutes’ walk away if I needed any further light reading. The only books I’d brought back were the novels I knew I was going to write about for homework over the holidays, along with a few academic texts I’d borrowed from one of the university libraries. I was cross with myself for not going back to buy Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa – a novel of over a thousand pages would have set me up very well. I had been tempted by a new volume of Penguin English short stories at the small station bookshop, but didn’t have the correct change and had to run for the train before I could find a cashpoint.

  Once I’d got all my clothes in the drawers in my room and the books on my desk, I set about vacuuming. The rest of the house was scrupulously clean and tidy – ever since Mum had gone part-time on reception at the dental practice she had filled her time with exceptional levels of house
care. What had once been a cluttered, ever-so-slightly dusty house had suddenly become as beautifully kept as a showroom property, albeit one on a limited budget in a not very affluent part of Essex. Clear surfaces stretched before me as I wandered through the rooms. The tables, nightstands and bedroom floors were all free from dust and clutter and I got a strange sense of pleasure thinking where I’d spread out my lecture notes and essay plans while I worked on my assignments throughout December.

  The Christmas tree in the lounge looked fuller and more expensive than usual and underneath there was an overflowing sack of presents and a stocking hanging by the chimney loaded with gifts. Most of the presents in the Santa sack appeared to be book-shaped. I suspected Mum had gone on a bit of a spree in the WHSmith in the high street. Maybe she did feel a little guilty about abandoning her only child over the Christmas holidays. Dad’s most overt input, meanwhile, was a bag of Bassett’s Liquorice Allsorts – a bumper pack – on the mantelpiece next to the hanging stocking. They were our favourite, and when I was young he’d come home from work with a bag of them every Friday, which we’d share while watching a film on the telly, while Mum did the ironing. I felt sad, thinking about this now, so left the lounge and went into the kitchen. The fridge was packed with a range of long-life microwavable ready meals. Apparently my parents presumed this was what a student lived on while away from home and would naturally expect upon their return. Though the pictures on the front looked appetising, the glistening grey-brown mass behind the clear cellophane that greeted me when I closely inspected the ‘Ultra-Quick Sausage and Mash’ brought to mind some graphic scenes of decomposing bodies in a made-for-television forensic crime drama I’d watched earlier in the year. I decided I wasn’t hungry just yet.

  The days of December went by at an excruciatingly slow pace. I finished my essay assignments within six days, working long into the night on many occasions, kept going by coffee and Lucozade. I knew as I was doing them that I should space them out, that I’d miss the work once it was gone, but I’d always worked this way. Once I was in the zone, I found it hard to break away and do something else.