‘Tom?’ I said, looking away. ‘Would you ever stop loving me?’
‘Only time will tell.’
I heard the smile in his voice.
‘No, seriously. What if I did something bad? Would you love me whatever I did?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
Sometimes I hated his devotion to the truth.
‘Why? What bad thing have you done? Murdered someone? Robbed a bank? Had an affair with a toy boy?’
My heart was pounding. His eyes travelled over my face, and then he smiled.
‘If I’ve put up with you for twenty years, I suppose I could do twenty more. Is that OK?’
‘I’m sorry I lost the stupid job.’
‘It’s not your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
His words were drowned out by the drumming in my ears. In fifteen days, we would be facing bankruptcy. I could feel the terror, tight and sharp, under my skin.
I had no choice but to tell him about the money now. But it was Sofia’s birthday party that weekend. I’d tell him after that.
Twenty
15 days to May 30th
Sofia’s and Meg’s party was in full swing. Tom and I sat at a table in the corner, chatting with Meg’s parents, shouting over the music. The girls were dancing in the middle of the dark club as the blue and pink lights throbbed, picking out the faces of their friends. Afterwards, we all gathered around as they cut their cakes in front of the bar, where I’d put giant pink metallic balloons with the number eighteen. The girls smiled shyly, their arms around each other, as their friends started to chant ‘Speech, speech!’
Sofia was wearing my LK Bennett heels and a short black dress. Her face was dappled with excitement, as if she couldn’t wait to start this new era of being ‘an adult’. I was glad I’d raided her building society book and that we’d gone ahead with her party. This moment would not come again. Tom put his arm around me. I leaned into him.
‘Our baby, Mashallah!’ I said.
I knew that he perhaps didn’t believe the way I did, in saying ‘Mashallah’, which was to thank God and ask for his protection for this beautiful person we had somehow produced, but he smiled and said, ‘I know.’
Sofia came and gave me a hug and said that her friends thought I was ‘very cool, and very pretty’. She seemed pleased and I was relieved, though surprised, that I’d passed the hardest of litmus tests, teenage girls. I was wearing a red ‘flippy’ dress and gold heels, with thin gold hoops and red lipstick, all approved by Sofia in advance.
I had danced with Sofia and Tom, eaten birthday cake, chatted to Meg’s parents, clapped and cried at Sofia’s speech. All the while, I’d been gripped by a feeling of dread that hadn’t left me since the moment Biffy fired me. I felt it crawling under my skin, making me restless. It was a constant buzzing in my ears, and a punch in my guts. It felt like the sudden terror of coming across a stranger on a dark road, but having that moment of fear replayed over and over again. It would not let me go.
Twenty-One
14 days to May 30th
The next day was Ahmed’s school fete. I went in early to help Hannah set up the lucky dip stall, before coming back to collect Ahmed. Although Ahmed’s school, Clissington’s, and Sofia’s school, Brookwood, were next to each other, they held separate events. I was glad I wouldn’t see Julia there as she didn’t have a boy at Clissington’s.
It was the first time I was seeing Hannah after the Butterfly incident. I didn’t know her well enough to laugh it off, as I could have with Lizzie or Sam. She came forwards quickly to double-kiss me, as if we were meeting after a long time.
We chatted about the boys’ homework. Neither of us mentioned Butterfly and soon we ran out of things to say. Silence seemed dangerous, suddenly, and I was grateful when she launched into details about the new students joining our class after the summer.
‘There are a couple of Indian boys too. Won’t that be nice for Ahmed?’ she said, smiling. ‘The Head is keen to have more diversity.’
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Although I was very happy that there would be more brown faces at school, I felt uncomfortable at the way she immediately classified Ahmed into a specific box. The funny thing was, that all my British-Pakistani friends considered my children ‘white’, and all my white British friends immediately put them in the ‘brown’ category. No, I was being too sensitive. She was right. It would be great for Ahmed to see someone from his Asian culture too. At the moment Clissington’s was 95 per cent white.
‘That will be nice,’ I said.
In her own way, I knew Hannah was trying to make me feel more welcome.
By the time we waved goodbye, all awkwardness from the ‘shoe incident’ was gone. It was a relief.
When Ahmed and I got to the fair an hour later, it was already crowded.
I’d watched him carefully all morning, praying silently as he got dressed and had breakfast. I was afraid he might say that he didn’t want to go, even though he’d been excited about it for weeks. But I was delighted to hear him grumbling in an everyday way, about too little jam on his toast and asking me if he could have extra one-pound coins for the stalls. I tried to keep my elation in check. I knew his mood could crash in an instant, but I allowed myself to be thankful that, for now, he was fine.
He ran off to find his friends. I saw clusters of women in skinny jeans and ballet pumps, wearing sunglasses and brightly coloured tops, or little sundresses, swaying like tulips as they chatted and laughed. I joined the parents from Ahmed’s class but I only caught snatches of the conversation around me, about Common Entrance exams and holiday plans for Barbados or Cornwall. As the talk turned to which classroom our boys would be using next year, I couldn’t help worrying what would happen if Ahmed had to leave…
Someone touched my arm and for a moment I lost my bearings. It was Naila.
‘Hi!’ I hugged her tight. ‘This is a lovely surprise! What are you doing here?’
She smiled, nodding towards the playing fields, where her son, Adil, was bowling to Ahmed.
‘Adil said Ahmed had told him anyone could come, so…’
‘Of course! It’s so good to see you,’ I said.
Her eye darted around the stalls. Was she worried that Adil would get corrupted in the presence of such blatant capitalism? She was frowning at the designer T-shirts and truffle oil stalls.
‘I know, it’s very OTT. Some of the stalls are really good, though. You should check out the children’s bookshop and the mini-donut machine.’
Adil came running up after a few minutes, his face red and his fringe sticking to his forehead. I gave him a hug.
‘Sorry, Faiza,’ Naila said quickly, ‘we’re late for a birthday party. We have to leave.’
As they rushed off, Hannah came up to me.
‘I saw you talking to the new mum. I was going to introduce you but you found each other! Isn’t she great?’ she said.
She was so pleased I’d found another brown friend, that I almost didn’t have the heart to correct her.
‘No, actually that was an old friend of mine. I haven’t met the new mum yet.’
Hannah frowned, looking embarrassed about her ‘brown person’ mix-up. But when she spoke again, I realised that she hadn’t been embarrassed, only confused.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean your friend. I meant that lady who just left, Naila. We thought it would be nice to invite all the new parents and pupils to the fete today…’
I heard Hannah’s words but they didn’t make sense.
‘What’s her full name? And her son’s?’
Naila wasn’t the only Naila in London.
Hannah handed me the paper she was holding.
‘This is the list of new parents. They all signed up for a class tour.’
I scanned it quickly and saw Naila and Tariq’s names, then Adil’s, their address, Naila’s email address and mobile. My hand tightened. I read it again, blinking my eyes, even though I knew it was true.
Adil must have sat the exam weeks ago.
As we drove home, I kept thinking about Naila. Why had she lied to me? She must have known I’d find out soon enough. I was furious as I thought about all the jibes she’d thrown my way about private schools, making me feel as if I was doing something morally wrong. Now she was sending Adil to a fee-paying school, the same school as my son, and she hadn’t even had the decency to tell me. She suddenly felt like a completely different person, not my friend of almost thirty years.
I might have hidden my spending from Tom, but I’d only done that to protect our family. Naila had been a hypocrite. She’d spent years judging me for making a socially deviant choice and making me feeling guilty. Now this.
Twenty-Two
13 days to May 30th
On Monday, I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to keep my eyes closed and press ‘pause’ on our lives. If this day carried on, I’d have to tell Tom about the money. I’d promised him that I would have transferred the money by now. We were careering towards the thirtieth and nothing would change in the next thirteen days. Unlucky 13.
That morning, I had another stint selling tickets for the auction after drop-off, but I’d be back by ten. I would tell him then.
Tom was still asleep, and I was staring at a tiny spider on the ceiling when my mobile rang. It was 7 a.m. I shot up, worried it might be Ami. Tom also woke.
It was Dr Keane. My heart started to thud. She never called unless something was wrong.
‘Is there a problem with Ahmed?’ I said, not letting her speak.
Tom leaned towards me, hearing Ahmed’s name.
‘No, things are improving. Sometimes the anxiety does spike like this so I’d still like to continue with extra sessions for now. I’m calling about something else.’
I puffed a huge sigh of relief, feeling suddenly drained. I gave a thumbs up to Tom, who started scrolling through his phone. I lay back against the headboard, waiting for her to continue.
‘I’m sorry… This is a rather delicate matter,’ said Dr Keane.
I frowned, confused.
‘Your direct debit payments have been rejected.’
I jumped out of bed, afraid Tom had heard, but his eyes were on his phone screen. I went downstairs as Dr Keane continued.
‘I know you’ve just paid the outstanding bill for last month but three invoices are still unpaid. As you know, we need to take advance payments from now on. I’m afraid the practice has an automatic policy to send unpaid invoices to a debt-collection agency. We also pause sessions. Since I know you, I wanted to tell you myself, rather than have the secretary call. Once it goes to a debt agency it can cause all sorts of ramifications on your credit score and…’
‘I’m so sorry, Dr Keane. I can’t think what’s happened, but I’ll sort it out.’
‘I’ve asked the office to give you another ten days before takings things further. That’s the most I could request.’
My forehead was tight as I drove to Sofia’s school. For once, I was glad she was silent, absorbed in her headphones and Snapchat in the car.
Normally, I would have put on make-up and decent clothes to sell the tickets, but I had no energy for any of that. I just brushed my hair and pulled on one of Tom’s sweatshirts over leggings.
As I handed over ticket after ticket, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d only need a few of the crisp fifty-pound notes I was collecting, to pay Dr Keane’s bill. I rubbed a note between my fingertips. The debt collectors would not be put off.
I sighed at the ridiculous thought. I may as well go and rob a bank.
I took the money to the office safe. I’d collected twelve hundred pounds, which I put in the safe.
As I was about to lock it, I glanced at Mrs West. She sat at her desk, with her back to me, glancing from the papers on her desk to a spreadsheet on the computer. If I took a little money, just a thousand, perhaps, no one would see me. I knew there were CCTV cameras out in the hallway, but I saw nothing in the office. I could say that I sold fewer tickets than I had. My heart was thumping and I stood still, not moving, not daring to breathe.
I couldn’t do it. I slammed the safe door and locked it, dropping the key into my bag. I was frightened that the idea had even entered my head. This was charity money, for sick children in hospital.
I rushed to my car, my panic subsiding the further away I got from the school. It had been a moment of madness, I consoled myself. I wasn’t a thief, even if I was a liar. I put on the radio, grateful for the pounding music. Everything would’ve changed if I’d taken that money.
My thoughts churned inside my head. They had nowhere else to go. If this had been any other problem, I could’ve told Tom. He’d have held me and said, ‘Let’s see how we can fix this.’ I wanted to confide in Sam. She’d have listened and given me practical advice, then fed me cake and made me laugh somehow, despite everything. I longed to sit with my head in Ami’s lap and tell her while she stroked my hair. I wished Baba could hug me into his tweed jacket, where it always felt safe.
I couldn’t tell them about the emergency fund, though. My guilt had been festering inside me since the day Tom lost his job, growing more rancid, and now, seeping its poison straight into my mind. It was as if my whole being had malfunctioned. I had almost stolen money. Everything I had been all my life had mutated, even if only for a few seconds, into something so ugly that it had left me feeling afraid of what I might do next.
I drove around for ages, wracking my brains to see how else I could pay the doctor’s bill. I thought about the seascape painting hanging behind the sofa. That was it! I’d ask the gallery to buy it back.
I bought the painting for five thousand pounds, using the emergency fund, just before it was my turn to host the end-of-term party for the first time at my house, when Sofia had been doing GCSEs. Twenty mothers were expected, some of whom I didn’t know at all. When I saw how people reacted to the oversized painting with its muted blues and greens, I didn’t feel guilty for spending so much, or for telling Tom that I’d bought it for a couple of hundred pounds from a graduate art show.
The painting, the colour of my walls, the type of flooring in our house, the wine I served, the clothes I wore – they were all a shorthand for anyone coming to my house, to reassure them that I was just like them.
People relaxed when they saw the seascape painting hanging in my minimalist décor. They didn’t ask me where I was ‘really from’, nor did they question my right to exist in that particular gilded enclave they had constructed for themselves. Not as much as they had before, anyway.
Now, the painting, and everything else, felt like a mistake. Had it been worth risking everything, just so a particular group of people believed that I was just like them? I knew the answer to that. I just hoped I could put things right.
When I got to the gallery, the assistant told me the owner was away for two weeks. She said that even if he agreed, they’d only pay me once someone else had bought the painting from them, however long that took.
I walked out, feeling numb.
I was late to pick up Alex, but even though I wanted to rush, my feet dragged. I felt as if I was walking in the sea, heavy waves up to my face, pushing me back, as if the whole of the high street and all the shops, the cafés, the hairdressers, were submerged. Every step seemed to take all my energy and it felt as if, at any moment, I’d lose my grip and be swept away.
Twenty-Three
When I got to Clissington’s with Alex, Ahmed wasn’t at the gates. I waited as other parents and children drifted away. Alex was tugging my hand, saying he was hungry and wanted to go home.
Something started to twist inside me. Ahmed was never late.
I went inside the school, pulling Alex behind me, shushing his stream of complaints and questions as I tried to stop myself running through the corridors towards Ahmed’s classroom.
It was empty, the chairs neatly pushed under the desks. I ran to the boys’ toilets and then the playing fields at the back. Alex started cry
ing.
‘I want to go home!’
I went back out to the gate in case we’d crossed each other. The area was now deserted.
I was panting now, almost in tears. I kissed Alex, saying we had to find Ahmed and maybe he was sick.
I called Daniel’s mother, then Hannah, then the parents of his other friends. Had I forgotten a playdate or an after-school match? I heard the women turn to their boys, asking quickly, urgently, if they’d seen Ahmed, but they couldn’t remember seeing him after the last lesson. I heard my own panic in the women’s voices too.
I called Tom as I walked back towards the school office. No reply. Then Sofia. Was Ahmed home? He wasn’t.
The school secretary gave Alex some biscuits as he sat in my lap and I buried my face in his little back. Then she called the porter to check the grounds and the swimming pool area. An image of Ahmed, lying face down in the pool burst into my mind. I started to shiver and feel sick. I prayed to God to let Ahmed be safe. I didn’t care what happened with the money, with the house, even with Tom. Please, just let my baby be OK.
They couldn’t find him and he still wasn’t home; the secretary called the police for me, giving them all the details when my sobs wouldn’t let me speak.
As I drove home, Alex was silent, a look of fear I’d never seen before on his six-year-old face. Tom had called, saying he was going to drive around to search for Ahmed.
The look in Ahmed’s eyes when he’d asked me if he would have to leave his school had frightened me. Clissington’s was the first time he’d been happy and had close friends. What if he thought that he’d be taken away from it all? He hadn’t been himself the night before. Why hadn’t I stayed with him and tried to talk to him? My chest got tighter as I got closer to home, knowing that Ahmed wouldn’t be there. For the first time since he was born, I didn’t know where he was or if he was OK.
Would I Lie to You? Page 10