‘But you’re still in touch, that’s good,’ I say.
‘We’re not,’ he whispers, and I’m glad he’s not looking at me because I’m sure my anger at being lied to flashes across my face.
‘Can we talk about something else?’ he says, turning back to face me.
‘Of course, Deacon.’ I concentrate hard to keep my voice low and level. ‘This is your session. Whatever you want to talk about is okay.’
‘Can you talk?’ he asks.
I shake my head, unsure what he means.
‘About anything,’ he adds. ‘Just talk, please. And I can just sit here and listen. Please, Susan?’
‘Okay. It’s not very professional, but . . .’
‘Screw professional,’ he snorts. ‘We were friends long before you were a professional.’
I laugh at his wiggling fingers creating air quotes. I begin talking. At first, it’s incoherent babbling, as always. I say something about the weather. Then about the traffic on the way to work this morning. I know I don’t really have his attention as he stares out the window again. I notice a tear trickle down his cheek. I don’t mention the flowers Jenny sent. I never tell Deacon about Jenny’s constant efforts to throw me an olive branch. I’ve no doubt he still loves her. Painting her in a positive light wouldn’t do me any favours, but equally I can’t lambast her and risk losing even a fraction of his trust.
I continue to ramble on about mundane things, and just as I’m losing his attention again, I add, ‘And then I bumped into Paul.’ I pause and wait.
‘Paul?’ Deacon crooks his ear, still facing away from me.
‘Yes. Paul,’ I say, so softly my breath tickles my lips. ‘Paul Warner. At a coffee shop in town.’
He turns round. His eyes are wide.
I continue, treading carefully. There’s a very fine line between making sure Deacon feels like my closest friend and sharing a detail too far. I’m not entirely sure where the balance lies just yet. I watch him carefully as I speak.
‘I spilled coffee all over him.’
‘You threw coffee at him?’ Deacon squeaks in a high pitch that really doesn’t suit him.
‘Oh no,’ I giggle, as if I’m terribly embarrassed. ‘It was an accident. I bumped into him coming out the door of the shop.’
‘Did he know who you were?’ He stands up, beginning to look uncomfortable.
‘No,’ I admit. ‘He has no idea I even exist.’
‘Good. That’s the way to keep it. It was just a freak meeting. Don’t let it upset you. I’m sure you’ll never have to see him again.’
‘It didn’t upset me,’ I smile brightly, standing up too. ‘I think I’ve finally made my peace with the past,’ I lie. The words knot in my gut, but I keep smiling until my jaw aches. ‘You’re right. Learning to forgive is the only way I can ever be truly happy.’
‘That’s great news, Susan,’ he says. ‘I’m really glad you’ve reached that point.’
‘Have you ever thought about becoming a counsellor, Deacon?’ I laugh, as he walks towards the door and I follow him. ‘You really have a gift for making people happy.’
I can’t believe I just quoted some sort of Hallmark card, but he buys into the cringey bullshit and he’s grinning as if I’ve just made his day. Bleurgh. I turn my wrist and look at my watch.
Deacon pauses on reaching the door and kisses me on the cheek. It catches me by surprise.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he says.
‘Um,’ I grin, my mind already at the coffee shop as I usher him out the door. ‘Yeah. Can’t wait.’
I close the door behind him and hurry over to the window and wait until I see him walk by on the street below before I pull out a metallic blue gift bag from under my desk. I reach both hands inside and carefully scoop out the smart white shirt I bought yesterday with money I really don’t have to spare. The lady in the shop assured me that I could return it if it didn’t fit. She didn’t say it but she seemed to assume I was buying it for a boyfriend or husband. She never would have guessed the expensive cotton shirt is a gift for the man who murdered my brother. The man I stalk as a hobby.
I slide the shirt back into the bag and place Deacon’s box of chocolates and wine on top. Beaming with excitement, I take a pen out of the top drawer of my desk and pull off a sheet of headed notepaper from the pad next to my phone. I’m tempted to circle the address or to underline my phone number printed below the company logo, but I credit Paul with enough intelligence to follow the not-so-subtle trail to find me. I click the top of my pen repeatedly as I struggle to think up something not too gushing but hopefully sweet enough to pique his interest.
Dear Paul,
I’m so sorry for spilling your coffee yesterday. Please accept this gift as a token of my sincere apology. Now it seems I need to find somewhere else to buy my coffee because I really can’t show my mortified face in The Sugary Spoon again.
Best wishes,
Susan
P.S. It was very nice bumping into you.
I dab some perfume on to the corners of the paper. The scent isn’t actually mine; a client left it behind last week, but it’s floral and fruity and will do nicely. Folding the page in the middle, I take care to make sure the perfume is dry and the ink doesn’t smudge. I squirt some perfume on to the shirt too. I want to be damn sure that the first time Paul wears his new, overpriced shirt he’s reminded of the note and my apology. I work the silky blue handles of the gift bag into a neat bow, taking care to avoid the neck of the wine bottle that protrudes annoyingly. My schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon, and if I hurry I will make it on time to drop Paul’s gift into the coffee shop before lunch.
The first of my two buses into the city arrives on time, but I get caught waiting on the second for at least ten minutes. It’s a frustrating blip in my plan and by the time I reach The Sugary Spoon I only have minutes to spare.
‘Hi there,’ I say, approaching the counter, thankful there’s no queue ahead of the lunchtime rush.
‘Hello,’ the girl from yesterday says.
She doesn’t recognise me, I can tell from her eyes.
‘I was here yesterday,’ I begin, the words getting caught up in my mouth as I become awkward and fidgety.
I think about placing the same order as always and chickening out of my plan for Paul. It is crazy, after all. But I glance over the barista’s shoulder at the day’s specials scribbled on a blackboard behind her.
Need to zap some energy into your day? Try our Lightning Bolt Americano.
Realistically, I know it’s a dubious marketing attempt to sell a double espresso and some boiled water, but I can’t seem to get past their choice of phrase. Lightning bolt. Maybe it’s a sign from Adam? It’s probably not, but either way I don’t care. I’ve made my decision. Today is the day.
The girl behind the counter is staring at me blankly and I slowly realise I haven’t spoken in a minute or so.
‘Sorry,’ I wince. ‘This is all a little awkward. As I said, I was here yesterday and, well . . .’
‘I remember you,’ she says, smiling warmly. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first person to spill a coffee.’
‘Oh gosh.’ I blush genuinely. ‘I’m so embarrassed.’
‘Don’t be. It’s cool. That guy comes in here all the time. He’s really nice, I don’t think he’ll hold it against you. Now, what can I get you?’
‘Actually,’ I say, instantly irritated that she seems to think Paul is some sort of good guy, ‘I was hoping to leave something with you.’
I produce the gift bag from behind my back. The barista’s eyes widen and her smile grows.
‘An apology,’ she says, and I’m grateful I don’t have to explain.
‘I ruined his shirt,’ I admit.
‘Okay, cool.’ She reaches her arm over the counter and I pass the bag to her. ‘This is definitely a first. I like your style. And I don’t blame you . . .’ She winks. ‘He’s hot.’
I shake my head, unc
omfortable. ‘No, really. It’s not like that. I just want him to know how sorry I am.’
‘Sure. Yeah. Sure,’ she says. ‘If you say so.’
I stare her down, but a stupid smug smile is plastered across her face.
‘He’ll be here in a few minutes,’ she grins. ‘If you wait . . .’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I have to get back to work.’
The barista shrugs.
‘Thank you,’ I add, before turning my back and walking out the door.
I curse myself for not ordering a takeaway coffee as I perch on a bench across the street and watch Paul walk into The Sugary Spoon moments later.
Chapter Twenty-six
NOW
Paul comes downstairs in jeans and a loose T-shirt that used to fit him more snugly. Jenny’s eyes crawl all over him.
‘You okay?’ I ask, as Paul pauses at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Fine.’
‘Langton called,’ I say as he makes his way into the kitchen past Jenny and me.
He pours himself a large glass of water and guzzles it in one go.
‘She said she’d call by this afternoon, if that’s okay,’ I say a little louder, so Paul can hear me over the tap he’s left running.
‘Sure,’ he nods. ‘I mean, why the hell not?’
‘She’s trying to help,’ I say.
Paul slams his glass against the granite countertop. Mercifully it doesn’t break. ‘Nah,’ he grunts, turning off the tap. ‘She’s just getting paid.’
‘I don’t think anyone goes into that profession unless they really care,’ Jenny says.
A glass smashes in the kitchen.
‘Excuse me, Jenny,’ I say, jumping off the couch to follow the noise.
I find Paul crouched on his hunkers, cleaning up broken glass with his bare hands.
‘Wow,’ I say.
Blood trickles down the knuckles on his right hand where he’s cut himself.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask softly.
Paul flops from his hunkers on to his bottom and sits among the shards of glass.
‘I don’t know, Susan.’ He swallows. ‘I just don’t bloody know any more.’
‘Show me?’ I say, turning his hand over to examine the gash on his finger.
I raise his hand to my lips and take his finger in my mouth, running my tongue gently over the cut.
‘There,’ I say, lowering his hand. ‘All better.’
Paul is still and calm and I cradle him in my arms the way I sometimes do with Amelia when she has an upset tummy or has had a bad dream.
‘Hey,’ Jenny says, standing in the space where the living area meets the kitchen, clearly uncomfortable to come any further. ‘I’m going to take off. Give you two some space. Maybe we could talk more later, Susan?’
I know by the way she looks at me that her maybe means definitely. I haven’t wriggled out of this yet.
‘No. I’ll go,’ Paul says, scrambling to his feet. ‘You two should catch up. I’ll get out of your way and go for a walk.’
‘But you’re just back from a run,’ I say.
‘A half run,’ he says. ‘Really, it’s fine. I need the fresh air anyway.’
As usual, Paul can’t seem to cope with being in our home for long without Amelia. Or with me. I’m not sure which.
I watch as Jenny and Paul seem to pass each other in slow motion as she walks into the kitchen and he walks out. He stops suddenly and turns round.
‘I do know you,’ he says, and I can see the spark of relief at finally placing Jenny, which had obviously been irritating him. ‘We were in college together. Professor Flynn’s economics class. Room 398, wasn’t it?’
‘No. Sorry.’ Jenny twitches and I can tell she’s hiding something. ‘Not me.’
‘Really, I could have sworn . . .’ Paul says, his eyes shifting to seek out mine.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention like obedient soldiers as the painfully familiar room number repeats in my mind. For three years I sat in the front row of room 396, directly across the hall. When I leaned forward in my chair I could see through the pane of glass in the door of 396 and straight into 398, where Adam would sit in the same spot and we’d pull faces at each other and try to make the other laugh to pass the time.
Paul raises his hand dismissively. ‘Sorry. I’m terrible with names and faces.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Jenny laughs sheepishly. ‘Me too.’
‘Are you going for your walk?’ I ask.
‘And that is Susan’s way of letting me know I’ve made this awkward,’ Paul says. ‘I better head on. Let you two catch up some more.’
‘Well, it was nice meeting you,’ Jenny says.
‘Okay, bye,’ I say, walking towards the door with Paul. My heart feels as though it might beat through my chest as I usher him out.
‘No, hang on,’ he says, turning as he reaches for the handle, an unfamiliar expression knotting his brow. ‘Trinity College. You came to my party. That’s where I know you from. You’ve changed a bit.’ He points at Jenny. ‘You weren’t feeling well, and I held your hair back – you’re the girl who was sick in the fountain.’
‘I most certainly am not,’ Jenny says and folds her arms.
My palms begin to sweat as I play the night of the party over in my head. The whole college was talking about it for weeks, even more than they talked about the trial. Jenny made a show of herself, and she suffered a three-day hangover from hell as a result. Her sudden fidgeting with the button on her blouse tells me she remembers it as clearly as I do.
‘Paul. Really?’ I frown, my heart beating so furiously it’s painful. ‘Don’t you think this is a little inappropriate? You’re making Jenny uncomfortable, for God’s sake.’
The party plays on a loop in my mind now and I can’t make it stop. Jenny had heard about some popular third-year student’s party in the campus bar. She begged me to take her. I only intended to stay for a couple of drinks, but the music was good and it was the first time I’d been out since Adam died. I got drunk pretty quickly – not as quickly as Jenny, of course. Everyone was talking about the host and how he was about to go on trial for killing another student.
‘You’ve nothing to worry about, bro,’ some drunk guy said. ‘You’ve the best lawyers on your side.’
‘Yeah, man. You’ll get off. And rightly so,’ someone even drunker added.
‘Have you heard about the dead guy’s sister?’ a third, somewhat more sober guy asked. ‘Apparently she’s hot as shit. And she goes here. She’s probably looking for a shoulder to cry on.’
‘Nah. Not my type,’ Paul laughed. ‘Too much emotional baggage.’
‘Dude,’ all three of his friends chimed as if he was hysterical.
‘Here’s to freedom,’ Paul said, raising his glass like a cocky bastard. ‘Cheers.’
They all clinked glasses.
I watched them intently for ages. Listening to more of their bullshit. I was so confident they were wrong. I trusted the system. I was certain Paul would get the punishment he deserved. But you know what they say? If you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself. And here we are . . .
‘I didn’t go to Trinity,’ Jenny says, and I hold my breath. Her mother died when she was in the sixth year and she dropped out of school just weeks before she was due to sit her Leaving Certificate. It’s a sore subject for her and I hope to God she’s not going to share any of it with Paul.
‘Where did you go, then?’ he says, and I can sense his patience is running out.
‘UCD, with me,’ I lie effortlessly.
‘Oh,’ Paul nods. ‘Of course. Can’t be you then, Jenny.’
‘We were quiet girls and we didn’t go to parties. We studied hard, got our degrees, then lost touch over the years,’ she says, trying much too hard and I can see the flash of disbelief in Paul’s eyes.
Suddenly, the doorbell rings, and I’ve never been so grateful to hear it.
‘Thank you,’
I mouth towards Jenny as Paul turns away to open the door.
Jenny doesn’t answer me; she barely even looks at me, and I wonder why she’s stayed quieter now than she ever has in her life. And I know for sure she wants something. I’m just not sure what.
‘Langton . . . Connelly . . .’ Paul grunts as the door swings open.
Chapter Twenty-seven
NOW
‘I can’t believe they’ve arrested Larry,’ Paul says, pacing our living room. ‘It’ll probably make the news later. They said that, didn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘They did.’
I’m not really listening to him. I’m so agitated my chest is tight and every breath burns my lungs. Jenny excused herself shortly after Langton and Connelly’s arrival. That was more than an hour ago. She didn’t say where she was going or if she would be back, and I didn’t want to be seen to care too much and arouse Paul’s suspicion. But I haven’t stopped thinking about her. Did she go home? Or did she go back to the pub? I’ve no doubt half the village are in the pub gossiping about poor Helen’s demise over a pint or a mid-afternoon glass of wine.
It’s so sad, someone will say.
I know. Poor woman, someone else will add. Another glass of wine?
Oh yes. Please.
Jenny could end up talking to anyone. Or everyone. She’s not exactly known for keeping her mouth shut. God only knows what she’ll say about me. Or worse, about Paul. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Paul continues talking and pacing from one side of the kitchen to the other. He stops occasionally to catch his breath and shake his head, exhausted from disbelief. I barely heard a word Langton and Connelly said, and I’m relying on Paul to drip-feed their advice back to me now as I zone in and out.
‘I think I have some photos on my phone,’ he says, catching my attention with such an out of context statement. ‘I took some at the barbecue. Mostly of Amelia, obviously, but I did get some of our neighbours enjoying themselves too. I’m sure I have one or two nice ones of Helen.’
‘Photos?’ I ask. ‘Why are you thinking about this now?’
‘Well, I’m just thinking . . . reporters are going to want a photo of Helen, aren’t they?’ Paul says.
Under Lying Page 18