‘Done!’
Sam tore out the pages and gave them to me.
‘Thank you so much!’
‘I hope you’re coming to Julia’s for the charity auction committee,’ said Sam.
I groaned.
‘Yep, the highlight of my week!’
‘What’s that? Another yummy mummy meet-up?’ said Naila, her gold hoops shaking with disapproval. ‘All these auctions and balls, dressing up for committees and lunches! It sounds exhausting.’
‘It is a bit crazy,’ I admitted.
‘I don’t understand why you bother paying for private schools at all. If a child is bright, they will do just as well at a state school.’
‘That’s true,’ I said.
This was a discussion we’d had before. I’d never told her my reasons for choosing these schools, or what had happened to me.
She’d tell me I was wrong, that things had changed, times were different and I shouldn’t let my one bad experience dictate my decision-making now. In my mind, I’d have to agree; but my heart still held that fear. I couldn’t forget. Brookwood had been my safe place and so I had sent Sofia there. For Ahmed I had always chosen tiny prep schools.
I shrugged.
‘I was at Brookwood and so was Farrah. It just didn’t occur to me to send them anywhere else. My parents were so lucky though, because they didn’t have to pay fees! We both had scholarships.’
It was what I always said when family or friends questioned our decision.
‘Besides, this committee mafia isn’t just a private school thing,’ I said.
‘That’s true. My sister’s always complaining about her sons’ state school too. The cliques, the showing-off, all those dinner parties like MasterChef,’ said Sam.
‘My kids’ schools aren’t like that,’ said Naila, unconvinced. ‘Or the ones I teach at.’
Naila was a supply teacher for Wandsworth council.
All too soon we were checking watches and phones as the to-do lists of our lives called us back to reality. We got up reluctantly, but I was also eager to get home and type up my CV. I could already feel the knots in my neck dissolving. Spending time with my friends was like exhaling deeply. If I’d told them about the money, our conversation would have been very different. I was glad I’d kept it to myself.
As I drove away, a thought dropped like a rock into my chest. This was the first time Tom had been alone at home. He’d been talking about sorting through all the old mail and papers that I tended to stuff into drawers and forget. I sped up, trying to remember if I’d left a random bank statement tucked under some papers in a hurry, instead of hiding it away in the LK Bennett bag. I hoped he hadn’t started looking through the drawers yet.
It wasn’t safe having all the papers in the house.
Five
5½ weeks to May 30th
Sam and I were at Julia’s house for the first committee meeting of the annual charity auction. I was grateful for the distraction. I hadn’t received any replies to the dozens of job applications I’d sent off but Sam said that was normal and I had to keep applying. At least Tom had an interview coming up in two weeks. There was a job and he was on the shortlist.
I’d dressed carefully, choosing colours and styles that would make me look like any of the other women there. I wore a blush-pink silk dress and high wedge heels, both from Butterfly, the go-to boutique in the Village. I had straightened my hair, which fell past my shoulders and wore a sheer pink lipstick. My clothes were like an invisibility cloak that helped me fit in with this crowd.
When Sofia was younger, the mothers in the park, or at nursery, had often mistaken me for the nanny. The brown-skinned woman pushing around a fair-skinned, light-haired child. Since then, I had learnt to wear clothes and carry bags that would immediately make them see me as one of them.
While the others milled around in the hallway, their chatter swirling up into the high ceilings and hitting the sparkling chandeliers, Sam and I sat down in the vast, sun-filled living room, interior-designed to look like a stately home in the country, even though we were a twenty-minute Uber ride from Marble Arch.
Sam dumped her bag on the floor.
‘Bloody in-laws! Or rather, bloody James! He’s rented a crazy villa in Tuscany for our summer holiday and invited not just his parents, but Rupert and his family too. He’s very pleased he found one with seven bathrooms, because the one Rupert rented in Nice last year only had five. Honestly, they’re like two-year-olds!’
‘I feel a bit sorry for poor James,’ I said. ‘Imagine your parents pitting you like that against your only brother.’
She looked at me, her face flushing. ‘Sorry, that was so crass. Tom’s not working and I’m…’
‘Don’t be silly. A problem is a problem. I won’t judge your obscene holiday villas!’
I couldn’t help thinking, though, that two weeks’ rent for their villa would probably cover our mortgage for several months.
‘How’s Tom? Has he had any luck?’
‘Not yet. He says there aren’t many jobs around but he has one interview with a bank…’
A cloud of Chanel No 5 descended and Julia loomed over us. She bent down to kiss Sam. I waved. She wouldn’t have stooped to kiss me anyway.
‘Who has an interview?’
I froze. I didn’t need Julia to know my business, especially as she liked to know everyone’s business.
‘Thanks for hosting us – again!’ said Sam.
Julia smiled and shook her sleek blonde bob.
‘Pleasure! You’re right, this is no time for gossip.’ She winked. ‘Let’s catch up later.’
Julia clapped her hands twice until all fifteen women on the committee were seated in a semi-circle. She stood like a conductor at the head of an orchestra, glistening with honey-blonde highlights and nude lip gloss. Her gesticulating hands were flashes of French manicure and diamond solitaires.
Julia was married to a multi-millionaire, something she saw as a personal achievement, like running a marathon or having a PhD. We had two things in common. Our daughters were in the same form and we were both friends with Sam. She and Sam had met at NCT and Sam said Julia ‘wasn’t that bad when you got to know her’. I thought that pregnancy must have dulled Sam’s usual ability to spot arrogant, self-obsessed snobs.
Julia started to assign duties. I shrank into my seat, dreading what she would lumber me with.
‘Sam, can you please ask to do something not too labour intensive? You have your hands full with your mum and I'm job hunting. Then say that I’ll help you,’ I whispered.
We were put in charge of ticket sales, which involved turning up for an hour at morning drop-off once a week till the end of term.
‘Our target this year is to break all previous records and raise £20,000!’
Everyone clapped and Julia held up her hands, her eyes shut for a second, as a shaft of sunshine fell on her like a spotlight. She was wearing a white broderie anglaise sleeveless dress that showed off the tiniest waist I had ever seen on a grown woman, and her long, tanned legs looked like she had rubbed highlighter in a line down her shins.
‘The tickets start at £200 for a regular, then £300 for silver and £400 for gold. This is per person, so just double it for couples. Harry will be at a conference in Bali, unfortunately, but we will still sponsor a golden table for eight. It’s the least we can do.’
I had never seen Julia’s husband, Harry, at any school events since they’d moved to the Village a few months ago, but we heard about Harry all the time. If Julia bought new shoes, she said how Harry loved it when she treated herself. When he missed netball matches, she told us how he took their daughters, Amber and Elle, riding on Wimbledon Common when he wasn’t travelling, and always video called them from his office when he was working late. Once, during one of our periodic coffee morning discussions about cheating husbands, Julia had announced that the key to having a faithful husband was to keep your sex life so full that your husband had neither the inclin
ation, nor the energy, to cheat.
‘We have sex every day, even when he’s travelling,’ she had said.
The other women had listened, rapt, to details about sexting, FaceTime striptease and video-sex. Some seemed to be taking mental notes, while others looked worried, probably calculating the inclination and energy levels of their own spouses. I wondered how Julia’s husband would feel if he knew she was spilling his bedroom beans? Tom would have hated it.
Lizzie sat down next to me, kissed me on both cheeks, and started chatting. She was a little older than the rest of us, in her early fifties, but her yoga-toned body and clean-eating regime defied age. Her blonde hair shimmered in gentle waves past her collar bone, a testament to the bespoke herbal shampoo that her facial reflexologist prepared for her every month. She’d offered to get some for me too, but even with the emergency fund it had been too expensive. Lizzie was eco, but eco-luxe.
In the teal and copper kitchen, we were led to a marble-topped island. Amongst the pastel cupcakes, and small glasses with chopped-up fruit salad, there was an elegant chocolate cake, decorated with tiny fresh flowers in pinks and reds, and a silver candle.
‘Happy birthday for next week, Sam! I baked it myself this morning,’ said Julia, putting her arm around Sam.
Julia’s smile seemed genuine and I wondered, as I sometimes did, whether I was simply being mean-spirited or over-sensitive about her. Everyone else seemed to love her and she was always at the centre of every group and the top of every guest list. People said how helpful she was, sending food if someone was unwell, and how thoughtful, giving lifts to other people’s children. I’d never warmed to her, though, and the feeling seemed mutual. But if Sam liked Julia, there must be some good in her. I would look for it a little harder.
As we ate, the conversations revolved around university choices, but I stopped listening – I was thinking of an excuse to miss the auction. I couldn’t afford the tickets now but the date was months away, in September, so I didn’t know what I could say so far in advance and committee members were expected to set an example and buy the tickets first.
‘Faiza?’ Lizzie was touching my arm.
‘Sorry?’
‘Has Sofia decided what she wants to study?’
‘She’s not at all sure, but maybe Spanish? She likes languages.’
‘Does Sofia speak your Pakistani language?’ said Julia.
‘Urdu,’ Lizzie corrected and I smiled at her.
Lizzie always had my back.
‘She understands Urdu, but she can’t speak it that well,’ I said.
‘How does she communicate with her granny? I saw her with your mum in the Village. Your mother was wearing her gorgeous eastern dress. Such vibrant colours,’ said Julia.
I frowned, unsure what Julia was asking.
‘I mean, if Sofia doesn’t speak…’ Julia paused, as if the next word required oral gymnastics or painful regurgitation, ‘Urdu, can your mother speak English?’
I wasn’t as shocked as I could have been at this question. I just sighed inwardly and smiled.
‘I hope so, seeing as she has an MA in English Literature from King’s.’
Julia beamed, as if genuinely thrilled about Ami’s academic record. I was afraid she might clap.
‘Well, isn’t that just fantastic!’
I didn’t know what to say and was grateful when Lizzie changed the subject. Despite their matching millions, Lizzie and Julia could not be more different. Lizzie wore her Botox and vintage designer clothes like a uniform, merely as something expected in her role as professional wife to a CEO. Julia, on the other hand, used her wardrobe to generate the sort of envy that she seemed to thrive on.
‘Don’t worry, Maddie still hasn’t decided on her degree either,’ said Lizzie.
‘The problem with Amber is that she has too many choices,’ said Julia.
‘What do you mean?’ said Sam, who had joined us.
‘Well, she is a very talented artist, so art school is a possibility, but she also excels at sciences and my husband is keen for her to have a “proper” degree, ideally at Oxford, following in his footsteps. Then, last week, a modelling scout stopped us at Waterloo. I checked him out and it’s all above board. He said she had exactly the sort of look the agency wanted. I just don’t know what she should do. It’s really stressful, to be honest.’
There were cries of excitement from the other committee members about the modelling scout, and commiserations about Amber’s difficult life. A couple of women, eager to talk about their own daughters’ similar struggles, compared notes with Julia.
Sam and I moved away to get some coffee.
‘Poor Amber!’ I laughed.
‘Faiza!’ said Sam, grinning back.
Some of the women asked us when we’d start selling tickets.
‘In a couple of weeks,’ said Sam.
James always bought a full ‘golden table’, inviting the most senior partners at his firm and their wives as his guests. He might miss parents’ evenings and school plays, but he was always at the head of his table at the charity auction, trying to outbid the other alpha fathers. Charity wasn’t the only aim of the charity auction, we all knew that, but at least most of the money would go to the children’s hospital, as I always reminded myself.
I had to say something to everyone, so that later, when I didn’t buy tickets, it wouldn’t seem as if I was trying to hide something.
‘I have a horrible feeling the auction is on the same night as a big party for my aunt’s golden wedding anniversary. We have relatives flying in from Dubai, Pakistan and New York.’
I arranged my face in a suitable grimace.
‘That’s such a shame,’ said Lizzie, who had joined the group, along with Julia. ‘We’ll miss you.’
Lizzie’s baby-pink maxi dress was as soft and gentle as her. Her eyes would have crinkled when she smiled, if her laughter lines hadn’t been zapped into oblivion at the Botox clinic. That was her one concession to unnatural practices on her body.
‘Don’t worry, Faiza,’ said Julia, ‘this year, the committee members will donate the price of the tickets even if they can’t attend. That way you can still contribute.’
‘That’s a great idea. It is for charity after all, and we can all afford it,’ said Lizzie.
I gripped my cup tight. If I didn’t buy a ticket or make a donation, questions would be asked – and I would have no answers.
Six
‘Can you please give me the statements for the emergency fund when you get back? I need the account details,’ Tom called out, just as I was leaving to pick up Alex and Ahmed from school.
My heart started pounding.
‘I’m sorry, darling, I still can’t remember where I put them. You know what I’m like!’
‘Yes, I do know.’ His voice was terse, without a hint of indulgence.
Normally, he would have faux-frowned at my lack of organisation, before smiling and telling me I was lucky to have a husband who was so devoted to filing. I’d have teased him back, mocking his obsession with paperwork. This time, he just snapped, ‘It’s fine. The next statement should be coming soon. Or I’ll just go to the bank myself.’
‘No! Don’t waste your time doing that. I know the papers are here somewhere. There’s no urgency, is there? You have your interview coming up. Just focus on that.’
I left and drove to the Village, going too fast, hoping the speed cameras had no film. I couldn’t find parking so I left my car in a ‘permit holders only’ bay, and ran to the bank.
I smiled at the cashier; a friendly woman called Linda.
‘I’m afraid we’ve had some problems with our post. Would you please hold on to my statements, so I can collect them from the branch myself? You hear such awful stories about identity theft these days.’
Usually, I was alone when the statements came, and hid them before Tom got home. Now, this would be impossible. She agreed to keep them for me and confirmed that none had been posted out yet for t
hat month.
‘Why don’t you go online? I can set it up now?’ said Linda. She tapped her keyboard and it was done.
Just as I was about to leave, I stopped. It was a joint account. Even if Tom didn’t have the online passwords, he could still walk in and ask for a statement. I retraced my steps, as if walking a tightrope, and popped a smile on my face.
‘I almost forgot! My husband wants to remove his name from this account so can you please change it to my name only, Linda?’
She frowned and looked at her colleague in the next window. I swallowed. Did she suspect something? They might call Tom and tell him that I was trying to take his name off the account. I twisted the leather strap on my bag around my palm.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
She hadn’t even heard me.
‘My husband wants to take his name off this account. He doesn’t really use it and keeps getting marketing emails.’
‘Certainly. He just needs to come in and sign a form.’
I clutched my keys. The sharp edges bit into my palm.
‘Right.’ I frowned. ‘The problem is, he’s always at work and he can never get to the bank.’
I shook my head as if exasperated by his hours.
‘We don’t usually allow it, but as I know you, I’ll just give you the form to take home. Please ask him to sign it, then you can drop it back,’ said Linda.
I felt relieved, but also ashamed because of her trust in me. We always chatted when I came in to the bank. At least there were some advantages to being an identikit Wimbledon Village mother: women who occupied themselves with benign activities, like after-school ballet, cheering at rugby matches, Friday night dinner parties and mid-morning coffee dates, although of course, this was never the whole story. I knew people saw me like that too. That was my ‘subcategory’ anyway. The initial classification was, of course, always, brown, Muslim, and of Pakistani origin.
As I came out, I saw these women, like me, running errands in skinny jeans and blow-dried hair, making sure that family lives ticked along to the meticulous standards their spouses and offspring had become accustomed to. Harmless women, conducting harmless lives. No wonder the cashier had bent the rules for me.
Would I Lie to You? Page 4