The Truth Club

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  I’m not surprised. The truth is, Milly’s eyes are beginning to look a bit Asian. Even her hair is coal-black.

  I sit down beside her. ‘Have you ever thought of just telling him?’ I tear off a piece from the paper-towel roll and hand it to her. ‘He knows you love him. You could tell him you thought he’d be a great father and desperately wanted to have a family with him.’

  Fiona blows her nose noisily. ‘He’d leave me.’

  ‘You keep saying that, but maybe he wouldn’t.’

  ‘He hates lies – you know that. He hates any kind of deception.’

  ‘Well… maybe you could say you’d gone for a fertility test or something, and the receptionist didn’t speak English properly.’ Fiona looks at me as if I’m a Tibetan yak. ‘You could say there was a misunderstanding and… and they snuck the sperm into you without you knowing.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sally.’ Fiona makes another honking sound as she blows her nose again. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  I hear the sound of Erika’s clattery sandals on the imported marble tiles. Fiona does too. She sniffs and dabs her eyes and is Fabulous Fiona again. You’d think she didn’t have a care in the world, if it weren’t for the slight redness of her eyelids.

  ‘Sorry for the delay, honey,’ she calls out as Erika comes in. ‘We were just wondering if you’d want Lapsang Souchong, jasmine, Earl Grey or green tea.’

  ‘I think she likes the cat!’ Erika beams. ‘She actually smiled and gurgled.’

  The main reason why we are here is to give Milly the cat Erika made – a beautiful pink kitten, with a floral T-shirt that says ‘Born to Boogie’ in orange and turquoise letters.

  ‘It’s a beautiful cat,’ Fiona says. ‘It’s… it’s an heirloom.’

  Erika sits down at the chrome and glass table and absorbs these words delightedly.

  ‘What kind of tea would you like, Erika?’ I ask.

  ‘Whatever you’re having. Milly’s so beautiful, Fiona. I just love her eyes; they’re so –’

  ‘And a biscuit,’ I interrupt sharply. ‘What about a biscuit, Erika?’

  ‘I’m completely off biscuits,’ Erika says smugly.

  ‘So am I,’ I say. ‘I haven’t eaten a biscuit in… in twenty-eight hours.’

  ‘But who’s counting?’ Fiona laughs her bright, happy laugh. I really don’t know how she keeps up the pretence. She’s already been in touch with people at work to discuss conferences and manuals and some new database that virtually cooks dinner. And she’s knackered, of course, because of feeding Milly in the wee small hours and attending to her screeches, which may happen at any time. I’m amazed that she’s sleeping so quietly in the next room while we talk. As far as I can tell, the nanny is mostly a backup who helps with the household chores.

  ‘Sally must really like Nathaniel, because when she got home she found an uneaten bar of chocolate in her pocket. She had forgotten all about it.’ Erika looks at Fiona excitedly.

  ‘And how’s Diarmuid?’ Fiona enquires. She can never entirely forget that I’m married, which of course is quite true and something I should be more aware of myself.

  ‘I don’t really know. I phoned him about his exams, and he seemed pleased enough with how they went. Then he said he had to go because he was busy. He wants to meet up tonight about something – probably to discuss a divorce.’ I get a familiar fluttery feeling in my stomach.

  ‘Oh, come on, Sally, he might just want to see you,’ Fiona tells me. ‘It’s important to keep the lines of communication open.’

  ‘But he hasn’t wanted to see me for weeks. I thought he’d call round after the exams, but he hasn’t. I think he’s found someone else, actually; he might even be back with Becky. I can’t blame him, really.’

  ‘He might just have been busy,’ Fiona says soothingly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a biscuit? These are really delicious. They’re home-cooked, from the deli.’

  ‘I don’t even want to look at them,’ I reply firmly. ‘Keep them in that jar or I’ll leave the house.’

  ‘Nathaniel sounds lovely.’ Erika has opened the biscuit jar and is sniffing it. ‘I wish I could meet him.’

  ‘He might be going back to New York.’

  ‘Oh, no! He mustn’t!’ she cries, dipping her hand into the container and extracting a thick shortbread cookie stuffed with hunks of chocolate.

  ‘He sounds like a nice…’ Fiona pauses. ‘A nice friend. And he’s really cheered you up.’

  ‘He’s more than a friend,’ Erika protests. ‘He wanted to kiss Sally.’

  ‘But he didn’t, did he?’ Fiona says loftily. ‘He didn’t kiss her because she’s married to Diarmuid and he’s dating Eloise. He knows there is such a thing as loyalty.’

  ‘But… but Diarmuid wasn’t loyal to Sally,’ Erika protests. ‘He was unfaithful with the mice. He left Sally alone for hours and hours every evening.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Erika!’ Fiona splutters. ‘You can’t have an affair with a mouse.’

  ‘You can have an emotional affair with a mouse,’ Erika says heatedly. ‘If a husband is getting more intimate with his mice than his wife, I think it’s a perfectly good reason to leave a marriage. Especially if he also loves a woman called Becky.’

  ‘Diarmuid never said that.’ I feel a need to defend him. ‘He never said he was in love with Becky.’

  ‘But you said he was.’ Erika glares at me.

  ‘Look, there are hundreds of reasons to leave a marriage,’ Fiona says with great authority. ‘But there are more reasons to stay.’

  ‘Such as?’ Erika demands. She is clearly thinking of Alex.

  ‘You make a marriage,’ Fiona declares. ‘That first passionate bit is only the start of it.’

  ‘But Diarmuid and Sally didn’t even have that,’ Erika interrupts. ‘They were more like friends… you said it yourself. There was none of that glowy stuff. They didn’t even hold hands when they went for a walk.’

  It’s sort of fascinating to be discussed as if I am not present, but I’m not sure I like it. ‘Diarmuid is shy about that kind of thing,’ I interject. ‘He’s not very physically demonstrative in public.’

  ‘Look, it’s all right for you, Fiona. You’ve found yourself your perfect partner,’ Erika mumbles rebelliously.

  ‘Zak is not a perfect partner. There are loads of things about him that annoy me.’

  ‘Why do you stay with him, then?’ Erika demands.

  ‘Because I like being married to him. I actually like working things out together. It’s like a journey you take with someone.’

  ‘But… but what if the other person is off doing yoga three nights a week and then going for herbal tea afterwards with the teacher?’ Erika demands.

  Fiona raises her eyes to heaven. ‘Look, I’m not going to discuss Alex with you, Erika. Whatever he and Whatsher-name–’

  ‘Ingrid.’

  ‘Whatever he and Ingrid are getting up to is their own business.’

  ‘So…’ I begin hesitantly. ‘So you think anyone could marry anyone else and be happy, if they worked at it?’

  ‘Of course not. Some people just aren’t suited – but they should try to discover that before they get married, not afterwards.’ She looks at me a little reproachfully. ‘People go on about finding the right partner, but it’s also about being the right partner. Being prepared to grow together.’

  She is, of course, right. Sometimes I get tired of Fiona being right. Erika is shifting restively in her chair.

  ‘Some people keep moving on to the next partner, thinking everything will be different.’ She’s getting into her stride. ‘But they don’t realise that, for things to be different, they need to be different too.’

  Erika grabs another biscuit and stares moodily out the kitchen window. We remain silent for a while. Fiona’s pronouncements have been rather sobering.

  ‘Alex’s wife has got suspicious now. He says we shouldn’t see each other for a while.’ Erika turns sharply towards Fiona. ‘
I bet you’re glad, aren’t you? Every decent man is married. I’ve been left behind on the sideboard.’

  I assume Erika means ‘shelf’. Fiona and I manage not to smile. ‘That’s nonsense,’ Fiona says. ‘I bet you’ve got all sorts of men lusting after you secretly.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’re so pretty, and… and you make such beautiful cats.’

  Any compliment about her cats comforts Erika. Her eyes brighten slightly. ‘Milly really does seem to like this one.’

  ‘Of course she does,’ Fiona says.

  ‘Yes, it’s an heirloom,’ I add. ‘Fiona said it herself.’

  ‘Maybe I should make some singleton cats,’ Erika says dreamily. ‘Singleton cats with attitude.’ She picks up one of Fiona’s gorgeous hand-painted mugs and stares at the intricate motifs.

  Fiona fills the teapot and glances over at me. ‘Did you get that notebook back from Nathaniel?’

  ‘Yes, I was going to bring it round to Aggie tonight. I want her advice about some of the recipes. The chocolate cake sounds very nice – though I’d only make it if I was having at least five people to tea; I wouldn’t want to be alone in the house with it.’ Fiona laughs. ‘But I’ll have to visit Aggie tomorrow instead, because Diarmuid suddenly wants to see me.’ I look at my watch. ‘In fact, I’ll have to leave soon. He’s calling round to me.’

  ‘Sally and I are going horse-riding any day now,’ Erika suddenly announces. ‘We’re going to be women who run with the horses… or who let the horses run while we’re on them.’

  ‘Just trotting,’ I say firmly.

  ‘That’s great,’ Fiona says. ‘I must go riding myself, but not just yet. I’m still a bit – you know…’ Erika and I nod. Fiona has already told us in detail about the gruelling process of labour. ‘But we’ll have to go hill-walking one of these days.’

  I think of Fiona’s seemingly interminable hikes through the hills, and Erika probably does too, because she swiftly moves on to another topic.

  ‘Lionel’s got me helping bloody refugees. Can you believe that? He’s actually bullied me into teaching a bunch of them how to speak English.’ She sighs dramatically and crunches her cookie.

  ‘Bloody refugees’? I can’t believe Erika just said that. Her love for Alex has made her terribly heartless.

  ‘Lionel doesn’t sound like someone who’d bully you,’ I say. ‘Unless his loosened ankles have radically altered his personality.’

  ‘He said he’d help me market the cats if I helped with the refugees,’ Erika mutters.

  ‘Why don’t you bring him round here one day?’ Fiona says eagerly.

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t want to meet him,’ Erika says dismissively. ‘He’s terribly boring and bashful. He has hardly any personality.’

  Fiona and I exchange meaningful glances. Lionel sounds much nicer than Alex.

  Erika cocks her head sideways. ‘Was that Milly?’

  I didn’t hear anything, but Fiona scurries away to check. Erika and I put the tea things onto a tray and carry it out to the magnificent bog-oak coffee table. Milly is gurgling happily, and Fiona is staring at her, besotted, as though she can’t believe she exists. I wish I could stay here all evening. I wish I could curl up on one of Fiona’s big cushions and watch some soppy black-and-white film on the telly.

  I also wish Nathaniel had kissed me, but he didn’t. And soon I have to face my husband in my sitting room, even though I suspect I already know what he wants to tell me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t visit you tonight, Aggie.’ I pause and gaze out the window at the sea. I need to give some excuse, but I can’t say Diarmuid is coming round, since she thinks I still live with him. ‘I’ve… I’ve got a meeting.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, dear.’ Aggie sounds bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. ‘I’ve already had a visitor today – a lovely old woman who wanted to see what the place was like. Her relatives think she shouldn’t live on her own for too much longer.’ Aggie frequently calls people her age ‘old’, but she also calls people like me ‘young’, which is rather comforting. ‘She was a bit brash – dyed blonde hair in a big bun and layers of make-up, and expensive-looking knitwear that flapped around as she talked – but we had a great chat. I told her to stay in her own house for as long as possible and stop listening to people telling her how old people should behave.’ There is a new, authoritative tone in Aggie’s voice, as if she sees herself as something of a rebel now. ‘Her name is Fabrice. She’s a real character, and very posh – she mentioned something about being a countess. Her family comes from Germany.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I say. ‘She sounds interesting.’

  ‘Yes. She just came into my room because the door was open. She’d fibbed to the staff about visiting a relative. She said she knew they wouldn’t tell her the real facts about the place; she needed to hear the truth, from a resident. So I told her about the overdone roast beef and the bossiness, and how they’ve changed the lock on the front door because of me.’ Aggie starts chuckling – a deep, satisfied, almost roguish chuckle. ‘She was very impressed by my silly bid for freedom. I told her all about how you and Diarmuid found me.’

  I’m not surprised by this statement. Aggie has started to believe Nathaniel is Diarmuid; she has also told me that marriage clearly suits him, because he’s so much more ‘open’ and ‘light-hearted’ now.

  ‘It turns out Fabrice knew DeeDee when they were in their twenties.’

  ‘But I thought she was German.’ The journalist side of me likes to sort out these inconsistencies, but the minute I’ve said it I wish I hadn’t. It’s not fair to expect Aggie to have a firm grasp on the details. Only the other day she told me Marie was thinking of being a country singer in Nashville.

  ‘Yes, she is, but her family came over here shortly after the First World War.’ Aggie’s voice sounds dreamy. ‘Fabrice was only a young girl. Her mother was afraid the family jewellery would get pilfered on the ship, so she kept the best pieces in her bra. It was stuffed with gold and pearls and diamonds… DeeDee would have loved that story.’

  ‘How did she meet DeeDee?’

  ‘They met in the shop where DeeDee was working. It was just off Grafton Street and sold hats.’ I hear a sucking noise; Aggie is on the mints again. ‘It was quite famous; so, because Fabrice is so posh, I asked her if she had ever been in the place. And she had! She said DeeDee helped her to choose a lovely hat; Fabrice said it was the nicest one she ever owned.’

  Aggie is so excited that I haven’t the heart to tell her my ‘meeting’ may start at any minute. Diarmuid is usually pretty punctual.

  ‘They sometimes met for lunch after that. Sometimes they just had cream cakes and coffee; they both found sandwiches boring.’ I find myself smiling.

  ‘Fabrice is an unusual name for a German, but she says part of her family is French. Some of her relatives have big castles in the Loire Valley.’ Aggie gives a contented sigh; then her voice grows solemn. ‘I asked her if she knew where DeeDee is now, but she doesn’t. They lost touch when DeeDee left Dublin.’

  ‘Oh, well – it’s lovely that you had such a nice chat,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ Aggie agrees. ‘Fabrice has lived in this area for years, but even so, it’s quite a coincidence that she knew DeeDee.’

  I agree, though in Dublin there are loads of such unexpected connections. In fact, meeting someone who isn’t already acquainted with a number of your friends can be quite a relief.

  ‘I think the angels were involved,’ Aggie adds. ‘Fabrice did too. She saw them flying about the place.’

  ‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘How nice.’

  ‘She said she senses that what the angels want me to know, most of all, is that DeeDee still loves me.’ Aggie’s voice wobbles. ‘She said that DeeDee often talked about her sister Aggie. She even told Fabrice she would always love me, no matter what. It was shortly before she disappeared.’

  ‘Well, how lovely,’ I exclaim. I do not, of course, add that I�
��m pretty sure Fabrice saw that she was desperate for reassurance and simply said whatever she wanted to hear. ‘Are you going to see her again?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she says she’ll come visit me as often as she can, but it might not be for a few days. She says she has to visit London for a while; she’s got some business to do there. And she’s involved in the peace movement; she goes on marches to stop various wars. She’s very sprightly. Her relatives think she shouldn’t gallivant around so much.’

  After Aggie and I have said our goodbyes, I sit on the orange sofa. The biscuits are on the plate and the kettle is full; the mugs are on a tray, and so is the jug of milk and the bowl of sugar. So this is how you find out you are about to get divorced, I think. Over tea and almond biscuits on a bright summer evening. I reach for my wedding ring – I’ve got used to twisting it round and round my finger – but of course it’s not there. It’s got lost.

  I remember Fiona’s pronouncements. When my marriage got lost, I really didn’t hunt hard enough for it. I was half-hearted about it from the start, but that was because I didn’t know what I really wanted. But I knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want the nights alone while Diarmuid was with the mice, I didn’t want a baby nine months later, I didn’t want all the silences. And I became so obsessed with what I didn’t want that I stopped seeing the good things I had. No wonder Diarmuid didn’t want to talk to me; I kept complaining. We should have talked about the good things between us and helped them to grow. If I’d given him some compliments, I bet we could have negotiated instead of just arguing.

  I throw a cushion at the floor. Feck it, why am I only realising all this now?

  And then I know. It’s because of Nathaniel. Because I was closed, too, just like Diarmuid; but Nathaniel has somehow opened me up, made me see the bigger picture.

  I try to cheer myself up. There are plenty of advantages to being single again, of course. I can spend more time in the country. I could develop a rugged, outdoorsy side, like Fiona. That would sound good at Marie’s family gathering. ‘I cycled round Ireland last week. No, I didn’t mind the rain; I had waterproof clothing. Yes, I know I’ve lost weight. I haven’t eaten a biscuit for a month…’ I need to relax. I’m all antsy and itchy and worried. I wish Erika were here to loosen me up with one of her massages.