‘Which arcade was it? Is it near Tower Twenty?’ I asked Marianne.
‘Yes, near the tube station. That’s the sixth suicide from The Cinq rooftop. It’s just so awful,’ said Marianne.
I’d been hoping that it wasn’t in the same place. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I’d have to tell Sam. I prayed that it wasn’t James. But there was something else that had made me uneasy as Marianne talked. I frowned, trying to pinpoint it. Then I realised. The name of the restaurant. My head had been so full of Sam and Harry that it had only just registered. Tom had mentioned The Cinq that morning. He said he might have a meeting there. He’d mentioned anther place too but I couldn’t remember.
My stomach turned. I told myself that I was only thinking this because of my conversation with Sam. There must be almost a hundred people at The Cinq at lunchtime. Only one had jumped. I was being irrational, I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself from shivering.
I decided to text Tom, to calm myself down, but when I opened my phone, there was already a message from him.
I’m sorry.
There was nothing else.
*
I called him straight away, walking out of the office towards the corridor, but I only got voicemail. I leaned against the wall. He was fine, of course he was. He couldn’t answer his phone because he was in a meeting. Things had been so unsettled between us. It was natural for him to text me that he was sorry. Maybe he was saying that he didn’t love me after my last text?
I started to pace and texted him again.
Are you OK? Tom, darling, please text me or call me. It’s urgent.
As I waited for his reply, I thought about how strange his mood had been all weekend, and I remembered his words that morning: ‘I’d give my life for the children.’
My nails rasped against my skin and my hand became covered in red streaks. I was acting like Ami, as if my life was the plot of some Pakistani drama. I had to get a grip and push these irrational fears out of my mind. Sam was the one who had to worry. Tom was fine. Tom was solid.
As I walked back to my desk, though, the stories about the people who had jumped at platform six replayed in my head. The men, and it was almost always men, worked or had worked in the City. There were middle-aged, like Tom; they had families, like Tom – but something had gone so wrong that they’d jumped.
If I could have considered suicide, even for a moment, that day on platform six, how could I be sure that Tom wouldn’t think about it too? We had lost each other; our family was shattered. He’d said something about his life insurance when he was job hunting. I tried to remember what. We’d been trying to laugh off another job rejection and he’d jokingly said, ‘I could earn more if I dropped dead. My life insurance is £150k.’
My thoughts were like jagged pieces of a jigsaw, slotting together. Tom’s hug that morning, that felt like a goodbye; the unexpected family dinner and the way he’d held all three children; Tom had been out of work for months, we were facing financial ruin and I had kissed another man. I thought about the sudden meeting in the City and the text saying that he was sorry. It was the perfect storm. He had mentioned The Cinq that morning. I was sure he had.
I remembered the way he’d stopped getting dressed and meeting people, the out-of-character anger and apathy. I’d been so stupid. He wasn’t being unsupportive; he had been depressed. I started to call his phone repeatedly. If it was on silent, he might still feel the vibrations if I kept on calling. It might shift on the table in front of him if he had put it face down during his meeting.
I thought about a long-forgotten conversation we had years ago, about getting older. I’d said that if only it wasn’t for my beliefs, I’d love to ‘check out’ when I got to eighty-five or ninety, in a civilised way at some spa-like facility in Switzerland. Suicide was forbidden, though. It wasn’t an option for me.
Tom had smiled and said, ‘I’m not sure if that would stop me checking out!’
I shook my head. No, no! I was overreacting. The suicide could be anyone and it was more likely to be Harry. I hoped it wasn’t James, and it couldn’t be Tom, of course not. He would call me any minute.
I decided to get back to work, watching my phone screen out of the corner of my eye, waiting for Tom or Sam to call. I started typing a reply to Misha’s query about one of his funds when, without warning, an image flashed in my mind: Tom lying on the concrete, his legs and arms splayed and broken, dark red blood pooling slowly around his hair.
The worry that had been a vague ache in my chest suddenly became clear. I remembered what he said: ‘I’ve failed you.’ He told me he’d found a way to fix our money problems. What if he’d thought the same thing I had? That if I died, at least I would leave behind my life insurance.
Eighty-Eight
I ran to the lobby and waited for the lift, all the time calling Tom. I had to get to The Cinq. Once outside I didn’t take a taxi; the police might have closed off the roads nearby. I started to run towards Threadneedle Street, weaving through people, shouting, ‘Excuse me!’, when I wanted to say, ‘Get the hell out of my way!’
Outside The Cinq there were four police cars parked in the middle of the road as well as an ambulance. I stopped, panting, afraid to go forward now that I was here. A crowd was gathered around the building, police tape keeping them back. I craned my neck to look at the rooftop. Green plants dotted the Perspex railings around the edge.
Now that I had stopped, my feet hurt, and I hobbled closer. I checked my phone. Nothing. A journalist was being filmed by a TV crew. He was holding a microphone in front of an older woman whose eyes were wide as she relived what she’d seen.
‘I saw him jump. I don’t usually come into the City but my son was treating me for my sixtieth. I saw a man walk to the far end of the terrace. He was just standing, looking at the view. You know you can see the whole City from there? I saw him because my son got me a seat with the view. And then, next minute… Oh, it was awful. I saw him climb over and then he jumped.’
‘This must have been very distressing. Can you describe him?’
‘He looked like anyone in the City. He was wearing a suit, in his forties I think, brown hair, though I didn’t see his—’
Her voice was drowned by a roar of blood in my ears. I pushed forwards through the crowd, bodies hitting against me, until I reached the cordon. A blue plastic sheet lay on the ground but it was flat. There was no body. A group of police officers stood next to it.
‘Excuse me!’
I slipped under the tape and was about to walk to the officers when they all shouted at me to stay back. One of them came over and took my arm, pushing me back under.
‘This is a police scene. You can’t come in here, madam.’
‘You don’t understand! I need to know the name of the man who jumped.’
The policeman’s face softened. I was crying.
‘I’m sorry, we can’t do that.’
Another officer came and stood beside us. The crowd had formed a circle around me. I thought I saw someone filming me on their phone.
‘Please, please can you tell me his name?’
I wrapped my arms around myself, my teeth clenched.
The officers looked at each other and one of them took my elbow, leading me away from the crowd.
‘I th-think it might have been my husband,’ I gasped.
He took a sharp breath in.
‘I’m sorry, but the man had nothing on him to identify him. No wallet, no ID.’
‘What did he look like? Did he have light brown hair, streaked with grey? Tom has light blue eyes. He was wearing a blue and pink tie. He has a small scar on his left eyebrow.’ I cried out as if in pain, ‘Please help me!’
‘Look, the best thing would be for you to go home. If, for whatever reason, we need to contact you, we will.’
I’d been expecting them to say that I shouldn’t worry and it probably wasn’t my husband, but instead he took my name and mobile number, then went back to join his coll
eagues by the blue plastic sheet.
*
I called an Uber. I couldn’t go back to the office. I’d go home and wait, in case the police contacted me. We’d just reached the Strand when I remembered that I didn’t have my keys. My bag was still on my desk. I asked the taxi to turn back and texted Ivan to bring the bag down for me.
‘You look terrible. What happened?’ said Ivan, as I took my bag through the lowered car window.
‘I’m not feeling well. Thanks, Ivan, I just need to go home.’
‘Did you hear? Harry’s been arrested,’ he said.
In the taxi, I kept checking my phone. Nothing from Tom. I tried to call him again and felt anger rip through me. Why hadn’t it been Harry? Then I closed my eyes. No one deserved that, not even Harry. I thought about Harry in jail and felt numb. I knew that’s where he belonged. He was dangerous, and now I was safe, but I couldn’t feel anything, not relief, not anger. Nothing. My chest got tighter and tighter. The more time that passed without hearing from Tom, the more I felt hope slipping away.
I started to silently recite a prayer that Ami had taught me, over and over again.
When I was almost home, my phone flashed. It was Sam.
‘He’s safe! It wasn’t him,’ she said joyfully and I started to cry with relief, and with terror.
At home I kicked off my heels and sat down on the sofa. I plugged my mobile into the charger and put the house phone next to me. Then I waited.
No news was good news, I told myself. Except they might still be trying to identify Tom. I kept praying he was OK, while trying to push away the image of Tom lying on a dirty pavement, his head cracked open, his future lost, because of what I had done.
If I hadn’t started all of this, using the money, telling my lies and destroying our marriage, none of this would have happened.
He should have answered my texts by now, or come home.
I stood in the middle of the room and started to scream, ‘Tom! Tom! Tom!’ as if it might bring him back.
I kept shouting his name over and over again, until my throat was raw.
Eighty-Nine
The children would be home soon. I couldn’t let them see me like this. Martha was picking the boys up and was going to cook supper for them. I texted her that I had a migraine and was going to bed to sleep it off.
I locked my bedroom door and climbed into bed, pulling the duvet over my head. The house phone lay next to my stomach and the light from my mobile was a flare inside my duvet tent.
I must have fallen asleep and awoke to banging on the bedroom door.
‘Open the door, Faiza!’
It was Tom. The room was dark and I ran to unlock the door. I threw myself at him, clutching his jacket, touching his cheek, running my hand down his arm. It was him. My head spun. He held me and I leaned into him then started to cry.
‘Tom…’
My knees buckled and he half-carried me back to bed.
I heard him on the landing, telling the children that I wasn’t well, then he came back into the room and locked the door again. He fetched me some water from the bathroom and sat next to me, holding it to my lips. I sank back on the pillow, my eyes darting over his forehead, his eyes, his lips. I took his hand and kissed his knuckles. He took a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed my face.
‘Martha told me you have a migraine. Have you taken some painkillers? I’m sorry, I switched my phone off during my meeting and then they took me to lunch, then drinks. I forgot to turn it back on and I’ve only just seen all your texts. Are you OK? I saw your text saying that everything went well with Sergio, so what’s wrong? Did something happen at work? Did they fire you?’
He pushed my tangled hair back from my face.
‘You don’t have to deal with all of this alone any more. We’ll sort it out together.’
He took my hand and kissed the middle of my palm, as if he still loved me.
I held his hands and looked directly at him. ‘Tom, I can’t live without you, so you can’t leave me. I won’t let you. I’m begging you to forgive me.’
‘I’ll never leave you, Faiza. I’m sorry too. I texted you, didn’t you see? It wasn’t all your fault; I know that now.’
‘It was my fault. I lied to you, but I’ll never do that again.’
‘Shh, it’s OK,’
He stroked my hair.
‘You don’t hate me, do you? I mean really? I’m a terrible person. I almost destroyed everything.’
‘You’re not a terrible person and you don’t have to take all the blame. You should’ve been able to talk to me instead of worrying about what I’d say.’
He leaned forward to kiss me, but I pulled away.
‘I thought you were dead! I thought you’d killed yourself.’
‘What?’
‘You said you were going to The Cinq for lunch. Then I heard about the man who jumped and I couldn’t contact you and I thought… I ran to the restaurant but the police wouldn’t tell me anything and I couldn’t get through to you. You were so devastated by what I’d done, by the job, everything. I thought I’d lost you, Tom. I can’t, I couldn’t…’
He didn’t say a word. He stood up and took off his shoes and socks and then his trousers. He dropped his jacket and shirt on a chair and climbed into bed. He lifted me off the pillows, as if I might break, and pulled me close, resting my head on his shoulder. He turned me towards him until we were face to face then he rubbed my back and kissed my cheeks, my eyes, my tears and my lips. I saw tears in his eyes.
‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I would never leave you. All those things I said, I was just angry. And I was angry at myself too, not just at you. There’s nothing you could do that would ever stop me loving you.’
I wiped his eyes with my thumb and sat up.
‘I can’t believe I spent all that money. I just didn’t think…’
‘I had no idea what you were going through,’ said Tom. ‘I know I can be a little controlling about money. “Never touch savings.” That was our family motto, but I should have talked to you instead of just setting impossible budgets.’
‘I hated us fighting, Tom. I was scared to end up like my parents. I tried not to spend the money but I couldn’t stop myself. I was afraid that if I didn’t keep up with the other women, they wouldn’t be my friends, and then the children wouldn’t have friends. I didn’t want them to feel different, the way I had.’
Tom tipped my chin up.
‘We’re not your parents, OK? And the children will not have to go through what you did. I know you were only trying to protect them, but their experience won’t be the same as yours and, even if it is, we can help them to deal with it.’
I sighed.
‘I was trying to shield the kids but maybe I’ve done more harm than good. I suppose, in a way, it’s good you lost your job. They’ve had to wise up and, actually, they’ve been really good. I didn’t want them to feel bad about not having the same things as their friends, or not going on school trips or on holiday, the way I had. I was wrong though: they have everything and I didn’t even realise it.’
I understood now, that I hadn’t needed to reassure the children. I was only trying to reassure myself.
‘I spent money on myself too, though. It wasn’t just about the kids.’ I bit my lip. ‘I went a little crazy. Everyone was looking younger and having these anti-ageing treatments. I didn’t know if you’d still like me with wrinkles and saggy bits.’
‘Darling, wrinkles are good, getting older is good. These things are all part of life. It doesn’t mean I won’t love you anymore. I have wrinkles and my hair is turning grey. Trust me, getting older is good. It’s much better than the alternative!’
I nodded and tried to smile.
There was another reason I had been trying to look as good as I could, for as long as I could. It had been worrying me for years, probably since the day we got married, but the feeling had become stronger as I’d started to see signs of ageing. I had never been able
to ask him the question though, because I’d been too afraid of the answer. Now, it was going to burst out of me. I had to say it. I pleated the edge of the duvet between my fingers, unable to look at him.
‘It’s not just the getting older, Tom. I can’t stop thinking about your ex-girlfriends. Every single one was tall, blonde, English. I’ve always wondered if you married me just because, you know, I wouldn’t sleep with you unless we were married. Then, when the children came along, you just stayed, because you’re a good guy.’
‘Faiza! No one put a gun to my head to marry you, or to stay with you. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I love your face, I love your body, I love your craziness, I love how caring you are, I love how funny you are, and how you pretend to be tough. I love you, and I still want to grab you every time I see you. Is that clear?’
A knot loosened somewhere deep inside me at his words. I knew that he wouldn’t lie.
‘It is now! You could have bloody told me that at some point in the last twenty years, couldn’t you? It might have saved us a lot of hassle!’
‘I thought you knew,’ he said, and we both laughed.
He started to kiss me again – and this time he didn’t stop. He kissed me harder and started to undo the buttons on my shirt, then slipped it off and kissed the side of my neck. I’d missed the feel of his skin on mine and the weight of his body pushing into me. He held me tighter and I wrapped myself around him, holding on to him, until everything else faded away.
Afterwards, Tom said, ‘I forgot to tell you. I went for an interview today – and I got the job.’
Ninety
Naila, Sam and I sat in silence and stared at our drinks, partially shielded from the rest of the coffee shop, in a booth in the corner.
We were silent for a few minutes, as our updates to each other began to sink in. I had tears in my eyes and saw that both of them, even Sam, were tearful.
Would I Lie to You? Page 30