A Version of the Truth

by B P Walter

  ‘Julianne, I’m here. Please talk to me. I’m here and listening. There’s obviously something wrong. You don’t have a migraine, do you?’

  I don’t move, even though my neck is now starting to ache. I just want him to go away.

  ‘Please. We’ve never been like this. We’re always able to talk. I know I maybe didn’t express myself the best I could have … the other day … when we were … that thing about the sex. I didn’t know you didn’t like what I was doing. That was my fault. I really should have allowed there to be … a more open dialogue.’

  I wince at his phrasing. A more open dialogue.

  ‘Well, I just wanted to come and say that.’ I hear him shift his weight a bit and wonder if he’s going.

  I feel like I am now dealing with two different people: the version of my husband I have known for twenty-nine years and the version I am getting to know now. The version that talks through locked doors at me while I refuse to let him in.

  ‘Julianne … can you hear me?’

  Slowly, I get up off the bed. I have no real plan, but I let my feet carry me to the door. I don’t open it – I’m not even sure I could if I wanted to. I just slump against it and talk, softly.

  ‘James, I’ve got a migraine. I’m going to go to sleep.’

  I hear his intake of breath. Slow, deep, clearly trying to decide if I’m lying or if I really am unwell. Then the door handle moves again.

  ‘Why have you locked the door?’ He doesn’t sound confrontational. In fact, he sounds genuinely concerned and ever so slightly hurt.

  ‘I … I don’t know. I did it automatically.’

  A beat’s silence. ‘But you never lock the door.’

  He’s right, but trying to come up with a reasonable excuse right now is beyond me so I don’t even try. ‘I’m going to sleep for a bit. Please tell Ally, Ernest, Louise, all of them, that I’m sorry. I’ll be down in a little while if I feel up to it. If not, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  With that I walk away from the door and back to the bed. I get in properly, the duvet engulfing me amidst its soft folds. I don’t bother taking any of my clothes off. I just burrow down and let my mind close up, hoping the man outside my door will eventually walk away.

  I don’t sleep properly. It’s like I start to souse in my own thoughts, with every bad thing in my head infecting the rest of me, seeping into my blood so I’m coated in a nauseating layer of dread and despair. I drift in and out of full lucidity and a strange, dreamlike hinterland. One moment I’m determined to pull myself together, go back downstairs, apologise to our guests and try to pretend none of this has happened. The next, I’m convinced James is in the room with me, telling me I’m stupid, that I’m sick, that I’m terrible for even thinking he would be involved in the procuring of children for sex and the very thought of it repulses him; that I’m an embarrassment to him, myself and all our guests. Eventually, I force myself to rise, slowly at first and then all at once. It’s a monumental effort, with so much of my body crying out in the process. It’s like I’ve run a marathon, both physically and mentally. After what feels like years, I’m standing in front of the large mirror opposite the bed. I’m alarmed at what I see. The thin layer of make-up I’d put on earlier in the afternoon seems to have vanished. Instead of a forty-seven-year-old woman ready to host a Christmas dinner party, the reflection that greets me bears a closer resemblance to that of a much older, troubled woman, perhaps on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe I am. Maybe this is what it feels like before you tip over the edge and surrender to the ravages of one’s own mind.

  I pull the arms of my sweater down to cover my elbows and flatten out the creases in my grey pants. James would prefer me to wear a dress, but I’ve never liked them. When I was young, I used to pretend I did, that I was one of those girls who would turn heads when they arrived at a party. When I reached thirty, I faced up to the fact that I was a lot more conservative at heart. And now I do as I please – never too scruffy or casual to cause James to openly protest, but occasionally I see him raise an eyebrow.

  I take a couple of minutes to get myself together. Employing a hairbrush to calm the red-brown waves that would add to my on-the-edge appearance, I manage to make myself look a little closer to normal. I glance at my watch. I’ve already been away for over an hour. As I put myself back together, I find myself getting stronger and realise I have chosen a path from the crossroads that has faced me ever since I opened that first document. I am going to go back downstairs, smile at the guests, be a dutiful host. Then, once everyone’s gone home, I’ll bring James upstairs and lay out everything before him. Including my plan of action. It has occurred to me to flee the house without speaking to anyone, but with a certain degree of shame I have to admit to myself that I don’t really have anywhere to go. There is always my mother, of course, but she’s never exactly been a great comfort in even minor crises. And I’m not sure I can face trying to articulate my current concerns to her. Then there is the question of Stephen. I can’t just leave him here, faced with the situation. As I think of him, the memory of his haunted face floats to the surface of my mind. And he’s down there now, trying to pretend everything is fine; something I’m going to attempt to do for the next few hours.

  It’s on the landing, just before the stairwell, that I have my first wobble. I reach forward and grab on to the banister, letting myself fall to my knees on the soft cream carpet. I think I may have made a thud, but nobody comes. James must be back downstairs with the others. Swivelling slightly, I look back to my bedroom, the door slightly ajar. I haven’t bothered to close it. Thinking about going back there makes me feel nauseous again. But I can’t go back downstairs. Try as I might, I can’t pretend everything is fine and just carry on with dinner. I look down the hallway, towards Stephen’s room and James’s study. Neither of them appeals to me as a place of shelter. I just need somewhere to go. To hide. To bide my time, away from the bin full of vomit in my bedroom and that terrible sliver of plastic and metal I’m still carrying in my pocket. I’m about to pull myself up, hoping a standing position will make the decision as to where to go a bit easier, when I hear a voice.

  ‘Julianne? Are you okay?’

  Louise is standing there, halfway up the stairs, on the little semi-landing in the middle. I pray she hasn’t been there for ages, watching me, and attempt a smile.

  ‘Louise. Hi. I’m … I’m just looking for an earring.’

  I cringe inwardly at the lie and realise with a pang of embarrassment that both my earrings are still intact and hanging from my ears. Louise smiles and walks slowly up the last half of the stairs, the warm light from the landing giving a flattering glow to her brown, short-cut hair and kind face.

  ‘Julianne. Are you … are you unhappy?’

  This takes me completely by surprise. I’d expected Louise to gloss over my weird behaviour, pretend she was on her way to the bathroom. At most, I thought she might ask how my migraine was. But this is probing. And I’m not sure I can take probing right now.

  ‘I’m … I’m very happy. It’s Christmas.’ I attempt a bright and cheerful grin but feel my face contort awkwardly, my muscles refusing to do what I ask of them.

  Louise sits on the top step in front of me. ‘I’ve had problems. You’d be surprised how many people do. It was when both the boys left home. One off gadding around the world, the other now boarding and only coming back for the holidays. I’m not trying to downplay your anxiety, Julianne, but please know you’re not alone. There was one year I couldn’t stomach even the most calm gathering with a bunch of old school chums. I walked out of the Starbucks in tears and I didn’t even know why. That was when I realised I needed some help. I went to a doctor on Harley Street – a Dr Rhodes – and he really did help me see things a bit better. Gave me some perspective. It’s just an adjustment period all women go through – all parents, really, in their own way. My mistake was that I didn’t trust my husband. I couldn’t look at the bigger picture, only a small part of
it. Dr Rhodes made it possible for me to step back and see the whole canvas and, when one does that, some things just pale into insignificance. They fall away.’

  I’m not quite sure what she’s going on about and am about to excuse myself, but she presses on, speaking earnestly, with a quiver in her voice. ‘I think it comes from this myth that everything needs to be so out in the open. When really, the best course of action is just to let sleeping dogs lie. Don’t feel you have to examine every feeling, every action, Julianne. Changes of all kinds can be a challenge to us, big or small, scary or seemingly trivial. And I know it will feel strange when Stephen goes off to university and you and James have different things to concern yourselves with, but you’ll find another rhythm. That’s all I’m saying. But if you feel you need help, I could put you in touch with Dr Rhodes, if you like. He’s got a waiting list, but I’m sure I could do something about that.’

  Her misreading of the situation irritates me slightly and I straighten up.

  ‘No. Thank you, but no. I have a migraine, Louise. Not depression.’

  Her eyes widen in alarm. ‘Oh no, sorry, I didn’t mean to presume … And I’m aware it’s not as simple as depression. I wouldn’t say I was depressed. Just stretched too thinly, if you know what I mean. It’s just important to know that nobody has to feel like that these days. Nobody is obliged to feel lost or hopeless or upset. There are drugs that can make it all so much easier. Honestly, I was a sceptic myself at first, but then I tried these SSRIs Dr Rhodes prescribed, fluoxetine and then Seroxat, and they worked wonders.’

  I don’t say anything. I can’t be bothered to tell her again.

  ‘I just wanted you to know you’re not the only one. James need never know.’

  The mention of James’s name makes me start. ‘What do you mean?’

  Louise glances down at the stairs as if worried about being overheard and lowers her already quiet voice. ‘I mean that all marriages have difficult patches. If you’re in one now, just hold on tight and sail through it. It will pass. You just need to know that you don’t have to be holding on tight alone. There is help, you know. Ernest and I … well, we had a bad patch. A very bad patch a couple of years ago. I really thought it was all over. I think you learn a lot about yourself during times like that. What sort of person you are. How strong you can be. That sort of thing. I was naïve – I see that now. Naïve to think marriage is all just chocolates and roses. But with time I’ve found it’s important to remember that whatever dark clouds crowd your horizon, you still have your horizon, Julianne. The horizon will still be there.’

  On other days, I would have found it hard not to roll my eyes. I have a pretty low tolerance level for corny mantras and inspirational quotes at the best of times – something Stephen has always said is very ‘un-American’ of me. I consider telling Louise that whatever dark clouds she’s had to deal with – probably something about Ernest leaving his coffee mugs out or spending too much money on his extensive collection of Savile Row suits – they are nothing compared to mine. Her face, however, makes that impossible. Sweet, good-natured concern stares back at me, mingled with a little too much understanding. She enjoys being the caregiver, the mother hen, the one to provide help and comfort. She is good at it. I can’t criticise her for that. I take a tissue out of my pocket and blow my nose, giving me a few seconds’ thinking time.

  ‘I think … I think we should go downstairs,’ I say slowly. ‘I should probably get back … the food …’

  ‘You don’t have to. Honestly, Julianne, nobody minds at all. The food is delicious as always and Cassie has it all under control. Do you want me to help you back to your bedroom?’ She puts out her hand to touch my arm, but I pull it away.

  ‘No. No, thank you. I just think we should go back downstairs. I don’t want to go back in there. Hate being cooped up. I’m probably just hungry.’

  Louise nods. ‘Okay then. Shall we go down now? Or do you want to sit for a bit?’

  I hold on to the banister and rise to my feet. ‘I’m fine. Let’s just go down. Honestly, you don’t need to worry.’

  We walk down the stairs in silence, Louise a couple of steps behind me. The hum of voices, and Ally’s raucous laugh, get me as I arrive in the hallway.

  ‘Once more into the fray,’ says Louise, giving my shoulder a squeeze of encouragement. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t stay late. And if you need to go back upstairs at any time, just do it, Julianne. You don’t owe us a thing.’

  I give a small murmur as a response and then slowly walk through the doorway into the dining room.

  Chapter 20

  Holly

  Wickford, Essex, 1991

  My conversation with Julianne, lying in my bed, my body a mass of aches and pains as she held my hand, was the last I ever had with a student at the university. After she had left, I managed to sit myself up and take a few tester steps over to my chest of drawers. I could walk, but it didn’t feel like the type of walking I was used to. I tried to avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror as I pulled on some clothes and put some others into a bag. It was 7.30 a.m. when I reached the train station. I didn’t know what time I’d left, but I imagined it had taken me double the usual amount of time to walk there, wincing and crying and at one point pausing to throw up in a bin. If anyone saw me, they didn’t bother to stop. Probably just another drunk student, they thought.

  At the station I bought a one-way ticket to Wickford and sat next to a family on the train. They had travel bags and suitcases, obviously on their way to London and then onwards, perhaps to an airport, the children clearly excited. One of them, the little girl, looked over at me at one point and beamed and I smiled back. She looked slightly scared, as if my smile was an unnatural contortion. As if I was a creature she didn’t quite know how to deal with.

  When I finally reached Wickford a few hours later, my bag was hurting my shoulders and my lower back was driving me crazy with the pain. Without even thinking much about it, I threw my bag into a hedge near my local off-licence. I couldn’t face carrying it any longer, not even for another ten minutes. What did it matter, anyway? At the front door I almost started crying again as I realised I’d left my keys in my desk drawer, but it opened a few seconds later and I was greeted by the sight of my father in a dressing gown holding a mug of something. He stared at me, clearly shocked, first, by seeing another human facing him and then by the realisation that it was his daughter. When the power of speech returned he said, ‘Blimey, love, what you doing here?’

  I fell on him and he caught me, hugging me close to him. I sobbed and sobbed and he rocked me gently in his arms just as he’d done when I was a child. I heard noises on the stairs and Mum’s voice, telling Dad to close the door as he was letting all the cold air in. When she saw me she stopped talking. I looked up from his shoulder and murmured, ‘Hi, Mum.’

  She looked as shocked as Dad had, then went into the full-on level of questioning I had expected. ‘What on earth are you doing here? Why aren’t you at uni? Why’s your face all blotchy? What are you crying for?’

  Eventually they got me into the lounge and settled me on the sofa. A hot drink and slice of toast were offered to me and I took them gratefully, realising I was dehydrated and feeling vaguely hungry. They kept asking me what was wrong – I could hear the kindness, the concern, in their voices, and then, when I kept shaking my head, an edge of slight impatience in my mother’s tone. ‘Well, if you can’t tell us what it is, Holly, maybe you should go and have a shower and get yourself sorted, then maybe you’ll feel more up to talking properly.’

  I did what she suggested, dully aware I was probably doing the worst thing: ridding myself of any evidence that still clung to my body. I knew I was making it harder for myself, limiting my options, but as I washed and gently caressed myself clean with shower gel, I realised I knew something emphatically: I wasn’t going to go to the police. I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I couldn’t tell anyone. This was so plain to me I couldn’t face entertaining any thou
ghts to the contrary. It would be hard, I knew that. But the other option would be harder. The option of intrusive examinations, photographs, interviews, statements, questions. Then, since it had occurred at the most famous university in the world, the inevitable media attention, made all the more sensational by the fact that one of the accused was the son of a member of parliament. I thought of the newspaper headlines, the column inches devoted to what I had been through. The neighbours in my street would look at me differently. I would be ‘the raped girl’. And then there would be the doubters. The people who would say I’d brought it on myself. I was drinking. I had consensual sex with the others watching. I’d happily performed sex acts as part of a game with a young man who had a girlfriend. I’d be a loose woman. A whore. A slut. A slag. The problem with young women today. I’d be the poster girl for those who felt women should be shamed for their sex lives while the boys went scot-free. All of this, of course – every last miserable minute of it – would be nothing compared to the way I’d be treated when called to give evidence in court. I’d recount my experience and I’d be ripped to shreds by one of the best and most highly paid defence lawyers in the country. Strings would be pulled. People would be bought off, I was fairly certain of that. Something would be done and the boys would almost definitely walk from the courtroom and back into their lives, allowing the cushion of privilege to catch them as they fell. They would dust themselves off and carry on. Perhaps they would have wounded reputations. Perhaps girls would think twice before dating them or marrying them. But they would get there eventually. I, on the other hand, would be damaged goods. And branded a liar for life. You’d think you couldn’t have it both ways – surely a girl who made up a rape couldn’t also be damaged by one – but I had a feeling others wouldn’t see it that way. I’d be both repulsive victim and conniving bitch. And it would linger about me until I died.

  With all this swimming around my head, I stepped out of the shower and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. There were bruises on my shoulders and arms and, when I looked down, I could see some around my thighs, too. My stomach and torso were free from any marks. I’d been putting off looking at my stomach for some weeks now, terrified I’d see it growing at an impossible rate. Although it still felt relatively flat to my touch, there’d been a change. Slight, but it was there.