by Kate Fulford
“Are they? Where did you hear that?” Gideon asked.
“I read it somewhere.” I said as I stared disconsolately out the of the passenger window, fearful that my lie would be detected. It was that bad, I was losing the will to lie.
“On the internet no doubt,” Gideon scoffed. “Really you mustn’t believe everything you read online.”
“Oh, I don’t.” Damn. “Have you seen those stories about people that have their organs stolen?” I tried another tack. “Didn’t Meg go to India once?” Hopeless, bloody hopeless. The first rule of lying is plausibility. The second is . . . well, I’m not sure exactly what the second rule is, but the first is definitely plausibility.
“Not that I know of.” Gideon laughed at the suggestion.
“I must have heard it from Helen I suppose.” This was desperate stuff, but I was desperate. We were about to learn where all the organs supposedly belonging to Meg had gone, and a missing kidney was bound to excite comment. But what could I do? I would just have to wait and see what Gideon’s reaction was.
“Twins!” I exclaimed, as if in preparation for saying something of importance.
“What about them?” Gideon asked.
“Nothing,” I said, “nothing at all.” I turned my head to stare disconsolately out the of the passenger window again. This must, I thought, be very much how people on death row feel, and I wasn’t even going to get a last meal.
“So,” said the plump, friendly looking woman in whose hands my fate lay. “I’ve got some great news for you. A donor can save up to eight lives through the donation of what we call the, um, solid organs. That’s the heart, kidneys, pancreas, lungs, liver and,” she stopped to check her notes, “intestines. Your aunt, Mr Rowe . . .”
“Professor,” Gideon interrupted her. “It’s Professor.”
“Oh. Your aunt, Mr Professor,” she resumed, “was relatively elderly but we still managed to, for want of a better word, harvest enough solid organs to save,” she checked her notes again, “four lives.” If this was what I did for a living I’m pretty sure that I would have come up with a better word than harvest for the process, but we’re all different I suppose.
“Oh, that’s great,” said Mr Professor enthusiastically.
“Yes, so there was a liver patient that had been waiting for several years, but unfortunately he is an alcoholic so, between you and me,” she looked at us conspiratorially, “I’m not sure how that one will go.”
“Oh, OK,” said Gideon, rather less enthusiastically.
“The lungs, the lungs,” she said riffling through her papers. “Oooh this is lovely,” she exclaimed, “they went to a young woman with cystic fibrosis. We couldn’t give her the heart unfortunately as it was rather atrophied.” Why didn’t that surprise me? “And then we come to the kidneys. One went to a teenage boy and other to a young mother. Oh my!” said the woman, while Gideon stared at me open mouthed. The reason for their reaction was that I had leapt from my chair and fist pumped the air while bellowing “Get in!”
Sensing that I had misjudged my response, I resumed my seat and said, rather more calmly, “Well, that is good news, I must say.”
A huge weight lifted from me. Any guilt that I had felt over Marjorie’s death, any doubts I had over whether I had misjudged her had evaporated in an instant. She had lied. She was a big fat, dead liar. She had never donated a kidney. She had not been so moved by the plight of another mother that she had put her own health at risk. She had, on the contrary, lied to her beloved son in order to exert lifelong control over him. Someone capable of such a deception was capable of anything. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief sweep through me. It was over, she was gone.
CHAPTER 33
The cold weather had hung on well into the New Year, and there was still snow falling in April. By May, however, the temperature had returned to around the seasonal average. It was a Saturday evening midway through the month and Gideon and I were lying in a very large, very comfortable bed in a very lovely room in the most expensive hotel I have ever stayed in. Luckily Malcolm was paying. The hotel, and the room we were in, was dead centre in the Royal Crescent in Bath, a hotel so discreet that it could have taught Claire a thing or two about discreetness (I looked it up and it turns out that Gideon was wrong, there is such a word. I’m just waiting for the right time to tell him). We had, that morning, married at a Register Office in Bath with two complete strangers as witnesses.
“It’s strange isn’t it?” Gideon observed. “We’re the honeymooners but it’s Mum and Dad that seem more like newlyweds. I hope we’re like that when we’ve been together as long as they have.”
“Mmm,” I replied non-committally, knowing that in fact we had been together rather longer. It’s not that I begrudge Meg and Malcolm their happiness, but they are rather revelling in each other’s company. They are constantly laughing and joshing with each other and have about a million private little jokes. They go for long walks (in Richmond Park of all places) accompanied by Pookie, who Meg/Marjorie insisted on keeping despite his awful flatulence. They go to the theatre, the cinema and, rather more bizarrely, they have taken up clay pigeon shooting. The house has also undergone something of a change. Much of Marjorie’s ugly and uncomfortable furniture has gone and Meg has all but cleaned out OBVAC refilling it with stuff more to her taste. They are having a ball. Only the most unobservant person could fail to notice that something had changed. Gideon, it seemed, is that person.
Helen is also a much happier woman. As I had deduced from listening to her conversations with Celeste and from reading the contents of Marjorie’s folder, Celeste is Helen and Joe’s daughter. Helen (who was only fifteen at the time) fell pregnant during their teenage romance but Joe returned to Australia unawares. Marjorie shipped Helen off to France and insisted she have her baby adopted by a French couple. She then used the threat of telling Joe to ensure Helen did as she wished ever after.
Having shared what I knew with Meg she had, as Helen’s putative mother, told Helen that she was sorry and promised to never again hold this knowledge over her head. Whether or not Helen has come clean to Joe I have no idea, but they seem very happy, so one way or another it’s all good.
Even my brother and Sophie are getting on pretty well since he dropped his custody case.
“You know,” Dominic told me, “I got the results back and I decided not to even look at them. Pixie’s my daughter whatever any DNA test might say.”
He had, I’d be prepared to swear, opened that envelope and in it he saw proof that he wasn’t Pixie’s father. Except what he actually saw was proof that I’m not the daughter of Claire’s husband’s, Richard. Whatever the truth, Dominic dropped his custody case and everything has pretty much returned to normal, although he is rather less bolshie about demanding his rights now.
I even received another postcard from Sasha. On the front was a picture of two peas in a pod and on the back it said All’s well that ends well. I think she was suggesting that the ends justify the means and while I’m not sure that is really such a good thing as a general rule, I’m very glad that things have turned out as they have in this case. It’s a bit disconcerting however, to realise that Sasha seems to know exactly what happened. Perhaps Dominic isn’t so wrong to think his every move is being watched, although I don’t envy the person who has the job of watching Dominic’s every move.
“It’s great being married isn’t?” said Gideon as we lay in bed following the most delicious dinner I have had in a long time. “It might have taken us a few false starts to get here, but I’m really, really happy,” he continued, stifling a yawn. “There is one thing I’d like to know about my wife though, now we’re married.”
“And what, my darling, would that be?” I asked.
“You promise not to tell one of your daft lies?” he said.
“I solemnly promise not to tell you one of my daft lies.” I replied.
“I’d know anyway. I can always tell when you’re lying.” He laughed at the
mere suggestion that I might be able to fool him. Bless. “But I’ve never been quite sure what you do, for a living I mean,” he continued.
“No, you haven’t have you?” I replied.
“So what do you do?”
“The thing is,” I began, but looking over I could see that his eyelids were already drooping. Gideon falls asleep in an instant and that instant was almost upon us. I therefore dropped my voice to a soporific murmur. “What I actually do is . . . well I . . . how best to describe what it is . . .” As I murmured on, very much in the style of a snooker commentator, I heard Gideon’s breathing change. I was by now very familiar with the rhythmic inhale and exhale that means he has fallen asleep and so, after a little more murmuring just to be sure, I fell silent.
I knew that one day I would have to deal with his enquiry, but not now, not right now. I wanted my happy ever after to last for as long as possible and telling Gideon the entire truth, not just about my occupation but about all sorts of aspects of my life, wasn’t guaranteed to secure this outcome. I could, of course, lie (I hadn’t promised not to, only not to tell a daft lie) and that was probably what I would have to do. But I had made a promise to myself not to lie to Gideon once we were married. I knew I would break that promise at some point, but I felt that on our wedding night, at least, he should hear nothing from me that wasn’t entirely true.
“I love you,” I therefore whispered into his unhearing ear, “I would do anything not to be parted from you.” And I had never said anything I meant more, not to anyone.