I hurried to my car, wondering how I’d get Tom to sign the form. I’d have to pretend that it was something for school, maybe. It wouldn’t be easy though. He never signed anything without reading it twice. I stumbled, tripping on the pavement. What if he didn’t sign it? What if I signed it instead? The children always joked that his signature was so easy to copy. I shook my head, to expel that thought. No, that was forgery. It was betraying Tom.
I sped away, as if escaping a moment of madness. When I got home, I hid the form under a stack of papers in my bedside table drawer then went down to the kitchen.
Tom was standing inside the fridge door, shaking his head. ‘There are so many things here that are about to expire tomorrow. Then you’ll say they’re not safe and throw them away. It has to stop.’
He was right, but I didn’t like his tone.
He went on, ‘I’m going to make a meal plan and a daily spending limit. I’ll stick it up so everyone can see. And we’ll all eat the same meal. The children are spoilt. I’m going to make the spreadsheet now.’
I tried not to get angry about the way he had spoken. I started washing the bunch of coriander that I’d bought from Tooting, rather than the supermarket, where it would have cost three times as much. He was wrong. I was trying to be careful. The shellac on my nails had started to peel and I had left it, instead of going to the nail bar. I’d cancelled my hairdresser appointment too.
I was putting away the coriander when Sofia came into the kitchen and started eating a satsuma.
‘How was school? Are you hungry? I’ve made your favourite, lamb biryani.’
‘Thanks, Mum, I’m starving. I came top in the Spanish test and Miss Haynes has a friend who’s an artist so we’re going to his studio in Barcelona.’
‘Sounds amazing!’
‘Oh, and she needs the money for Barcelona on Monday. Sorry, I forgot to give you this.’
She passed me a crumpled letter from her backpack.
‘I thought it wasn’t due till July?’
According to the letter, the final instalment of four hundred pounds was due in four days.
‘No, Mum, I told you about this. You just didn’t listen.’
I stared at the letter. I still owed Lizzie £100, for a spa day she had organised for Sam’s birthday treat. I had to give her my share.
After dinner, Tom pinned his meal plan up in the kitchen then put his arms around me and sighed.
‘I’m sorry about earlier.’
‘I should hope so too!’ I said. ‘Not only does my husband lose his job, he seems to have lost his marbles too!’
I shook my head, but smiled to let him know that it was OK. I pulled away a little, to look at him.
‘Tom? I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we sell my car? We don’t really need two cars. We shouldn’t touch the emergency fund if we can help it. Once the cash is gone, that’s it, isn’t it?’
I tried to use his spirit of economising, to persuade him. I couldn’t sell the car unless he agreed.
He laughed.
‘Steady on darling. I was thinking more about switching supermarkets, not selling off cars!’
He pulled me close again. ‘I have plenty put aside for us. Relax.’
He dropped a kiss on my head and when he let go, I wiped my eyes.
‘Don’t cry, darling. Everyone is healthy, the children are happy, I have you, we have money in the bank.’
Tom had started filing all our outstanding paperwork. It wouldn’t be long before he wanted to do the same for the emergency fund. The next day, when he was at the budget supermarket, armed with his meal plan, I took out the bank form and sat down at the dining table. I practised his signature on a piece of paper. I did it again. It was identical to Tom’s.
I signed the form and took it to the bank. Tom was immediately locked out of our account – and I had committed fraud.
Seven
5 weeks to May 30th
The school fees were due.
Tom had printed out the invoices and asked me to pay from the emergency fund. He had a meeting with the headhunter.
I parked by Wimbledon Common. I needed space to think. School fees had always been vaguely abstract concepts to me. I didn’t even know exactly how much we paid. My role was to analyse school league tables, go to Open Days, Parents’ Evenings and uniform fittings at Peter Jones. I was shocked when I saw the sum in black and white. It was an impossible amount.
I remembered a letter saying that if the fees weren’t paid, students would have to stay at home until the accounts had been settled. I imagined Sofia or Ahmed being pulled out of class and sent home.
When Tom had lost his job, I had considered, fleetingly, moving Sofia and Ahmed to other schools. Alex was at the local state primary, so that wasn’t an issue. It seemed a cruel and short-sighted option, though. Sofia was in the middle of her A levels; she worked late into the night on her essays and talked about her history coursework with the same enthusiasm she normally reserved for K-Pop bands. She was on track for Oxbridge. More than that, though, she was happy. She had been at the school since she was seven years old. It was her world.
Ahmed’s recovery was still fragile. He was finally making friends at Clissington’s. He no longer cried every morning, begging me to let him stay home, as he had at his old prep school. Most days back then I’d find him hiding in the loos at pickup time, pale and trembling, often in tears, crouching, feet up, on the lid of a toilet. On the way home, he was sick so often that I kept a kitchen roll and extra plastic bags in the car.
He started asking why he had an Arabic name, when Sofia and Alex didn’t. I was surprised but told him I’d just always loved that name. What he didn’t tell me at the time was that a group of white boys had been taunting him, saying that his surname could not be ‘Saunders’ if his first name was ‘Ahmed’. They followed him around calling him ‘Asshead Ahmed’ and started to bully him.
‘Don’t pretend you’re like us.’
At the same time, the two Asian boys in his class said he was ‘weird’ to be called Ahmed but have an English surname and blue eyes. They didn’t bully him, but simply never accepted him into their group. For Ahmed, that was just as bad.
In the end, I decided to move him to Clissington’s six months ago, a small prep school next door to Sofia’s school. Now that my baby was happy and settled, I’d do anything to keep it that way.
I thought about the jewellery lying at the bank. Unfortunately, most of my things had been stolen in a burglary a few years ago, including my traditional Pakistani wedding ‘sets’ and gold bangles. I still had a few pieces left, though, that Tom had bought me over the years. If I sold these, I’d have enough for the fees.
At the bank, I plunged my hand inside the metal safe deposit box, feeling the pouches nestling there, like tiny velvet creatures hibernating. I took everything out – earrings, pendants and rings – and put them into my handbag.
There were two other black velvet cases lying in the safe, each with curled up, acid-yellow Post-it notes. Sofia’s name, scrawled by Diana, Tom’s late grandmother, was on one, and Ahmed’s on the other. These were family heirlooms that she herself had been presented with as a young bride by her husband in the 1940s. For Sofia, there was a gold brooch and for Ahmed, her diamond engagement ring, which she’d worn every day for sixty-two years.
I’d never had these pieces valued because I’d never measured their worth in terms of money. As things stood though, it might be good to know how much I could get for them. It would have to be the nuclear option and I realised that I might need one. I slipped them into my bag as well.
In the jewellery shop in the Village, the owner didn’t hide his surprise when I said that I was selling, not buying, and asked if I could get cash for my items, that day.
‘If the items are suitable for us. May I?’ he said.
I sat down at a small, green, felt-covered table. He sat up a little taller. The power shifted in the room. The atmosphere became more business-lik
e, for both of us.
I spread out my treasures across the table and he started examining them. The eye evaluating the stones had a contraption held up close, to help him look inside the stones. His other eye, free from examining the jewels, seemed just as adept at seeing right through me. I squirmed as his eye darted to my navy Prada handbag. I could almost hear his mind whirring as he tried to reconcile my long, highlighted hair and pale grey cashmere peacoat with my request for cash.
He put down the long diamond earrings that Tom had bought me, sat back and trained both eyes on me for the first time.
‘I’ll give you three thousand.’
‘For the earrings?’
‘For the lot.’
I started to scratch the eczema on my hand. The rasp of my nails on the skin was the only sound in the room. Despite his scrutiny I couldn’t stop. A streak of blood broke through, making my skin burn.
I did a quick tally of what Tom had paid for these things: the earrings, an anniversary gift; the pearl pendant, which he’d slipped round my neck on my fortieth birthday four years ago, flying back overnight from Kazakhstan so he was with me when I woke up; the cocktail ring which he’d put into a Burger King bag along with a Whopper, which was all I had craved the week before Ahmed was born; aquamarine earrings that he’d put on my pillow when Alex had been a week old, as I rubbed cream into my cracked nipples, tears running down my face. Each piece was a nugget from our marriage, a memento of a happy milestone. There were several other pieces too. Tom must have spent over twelve thousand.
‘But they’re worth a lot more.’
‘You must understand that you won’t get what you paid for them. If you had brought me gold, or antique pieces, perhaps I could have offered more.’
It was a sign.
I opened my bag, imagining Diana’s reaction if she saw me flogging her beloved things. At the same time, I was relieved that I still had a way out. I handed over the pieces as if they were contraband.
‘Now, this looks much more promising.’
He licked his lips, almost salivating. I was breaking my promise to Diana and losing the only link the children had to her. I silenced my doubts as I watched him finger the items. Sofia and Ahmed wouldn’t miss these things, they’d never really had them. They needed the money more.
He picked up a larger eye piece set in brass and began examining the brooch, holding it right up to the lens and turning it over to see the back as well. There was a plaster on one of his fingers, with dirty edges peeling off. The room grew hot and I shrugged off my coat.
He took a sharp breath in. Maybe this would solve all our problems in one go.
‘Fake!’ He spat out the word and pushed the pieces back towards me as if he couldn’t bear to touch them anymore.
‘What?’ I frowned. ‘That’s impossible. These belonged to my husband’s grandmother.’
My voice was shrill. This man was a crook.
‘I’m afraid it’s true. You’re welcome to take them to another jeweller but they’ll tell you the same thing.’
His voice softened as he saw me slump. A stray tear slipped out and I swatted it away quickly before it could track down my face.
‘They are beautiful pieces and I could give you a few hundred for them, but I would advise you to keep them in the family, for sentimental value.’
Why had Diana lied to me? All pretence gone, I leaned forwards.
‘Couldn’t you give me a better price for the other things? Perhaps four thousand?’ My throat was clogged. ‘Please?’
Before he could reply, a woman around my age came in and sat down. She slanted tanned legs under the table. The silver bracelets on her wrist tinkled as she pushed her blonde hair back and smiled.
I pleaded with my eyes, but he shook his head.
I dropped the jewellery into my handbag. My coat got caught in the chair legs as I stood up and it tipped to the floor with a thud.
‘Sorry!’
As I bent down to pick up my coat, my bag slipped out of my hands, scattering my keys, purse and the jewellery on the floor. A ten-pence coin rolled into the corner of the room and spun noisily on the floorboards on one spot. Tears sprang to my eyes. I straightened the chair, aware they were both watching. I bent my head low and scooped everything back into my handbag. Clutching my coat to my chest, I fled.
To anyone watching, I would seem like someone who had just treated herself to a purchase. If they looked closely, though, they would see that my shoulders were slumped and my head bent as I searched for answers in the dirty grey slabs of the pavement.
As I passed my bank, I happened to look up. A brightly coloured poster shouted at me in capital letters: ‘PERSONAL LOANS’. It urged me to come in and ‘see if we can help’. I followed its command.
Eight
The manager, Roberto, first name only, trendy glasses and a Scottish accent, led me to his office.
‘I’d like to take out a small loan, please.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Saunders,’ he said, as if I was ordering a cappuccino.
‘Please call me Faiza.’
He smiled.
‘Let’s start by looking at your transaction history,’ he said, and started scrolling through his computer screen.
I fidgeted in my chair, unable to sit still, unable to do anything but watch on in horror. My transaction history was my walk of shame. My life was being strip-searched. Everything I’d hidden from Tom, my parents, even from my friends, was being examined in intimate detail by a stranger sitting right in front of me. I had never been able to look at these gory details. I always threw away receipts and never checked statements or downloaded banking apps.
He could see the freefall of our savings and how I had haemorrhaged thousands of pounds, bleeding my family dry. It was all there, exposed to his scrutiny.
I had thought that using the emergency fund was the perfect solution. Tom didn’t have to worry about money and I could make sure that the children didn’t feel left out and different from their friends, the way I had growing up. It also meant Tom and I never fought about money, the way my parents had.
I had always planned to put the money back.
I waited for the manager’s disgust at what he’d seen but when he spoke, it was only to murmur, ‘Hmm. How much were you looking to borrow, Faiza?’
Relieved we were still on track, I smiled and sat back.
‘We have a temporary cash-flow problem. My husband’s between jobs and I’m interviewing as well. I need to borrow money for the school fees, please.’
His expression didn’t change at the thousands of pounds that I was asking for. He tapped it into his computer.
‘So, reason for loan, school fees for the year,’ he said.
‘No, that would just cover the fees for one term,’ I said.
At this, his eyebrows shot up. I rubbed my neck, which was beginning to itch.
‘I know, it’s expensive, isn’t it?’
It was a lot, but we weren’t the only ones paying it. Besides, I had my own reasons to keep my children inside the hermetically sealed bubbles of Brookwood High and Clissington’s. I had never forgotten what I had been through before my parents moved me to Brookwood. The boys at my old school spitting at me as I walked home, the whole class laughing that my mother wore pyjamas when she picked me up from school wearing her salwar kameez, and the girls who wouldn’t sit next to me because I ‘smelled like a dirty Paki’.
The minute I’d won a scholarship to Brookwood, everything had changed. I hadn’t had a single racist comment thrown at me for the seven years I was there. So, when it was time to choose a school for Sofia, I made an emotional decision and decided on Brookwood. We’d been able to afford it back then.
‘The problem is, Faiza, that one of you needs to be in employment for the loan to be sanctioned.’
I tried to slow my breathing, and not to sound as if I were explaining something to a three-year-old.
‘That’s a bit tricky, Roberto. You see, the reason we nee
d a loan is because neither of us has a job.’
I smiled and shook my head as if amused at the trick life had played on us.
‘I’m afraid, unless there’s a mechanism for repayment, we can’t proceed.’
Easy-going Roberto had somehow transformed into jobsworth Roberto, without me noticing.
I leaned forwards, and gripped the edge of his desk.
‘Roberto, I’ve been a customer here for over twenty years. I opened this account when I was at university. Look at our spending – we earn a lot of money. Can’t you help me out? Please?’
The last word shot out in a whisper.
‘As a goodwill gesture for your long association with the bank, I can lend you five thousand pounds. It will be at a higher interest rate, though.’
All I heard was that he’d give me five thousand pounds. I signed whatever he put in front of me and didn’t probe him about the higher interest rate.
‘Once you have your job, we can discuss other options like credit cards or further loans,’ he said.
I felt as if Roberto had removed a knife from my chest. I could breathe again.
When I came out of the bank, it was pouring. I leaned forwards, fighting against the wind as it pushed me back. Icy spurts of water blinded me. With the three thousand I could get from the jeweller, I had eight thousand for the schools. I’d tell them I’d pay the rest in a month. Tom’s job should have come through by then.
I didn’t have an umbrella and started to run towards the jewellers. The owner opened the door for me.
‘I’ll take the money, please,’ I said.
‘Hey you! Wait your turn!’
A sing-song voice teased me. I spun around. Julia was smiling at me. She had scooped her blonde bob up in one hand, and was stroking a string of diamonds encircling her smooth neck. I swallowed, wondering if she’d heard what I’d said.
Would I Lie to You? Page 5