‘Sweetie, c’mon,’ she says, cuddling her son and rubbing her hand up and down his back as if he’s an infant with colic. ‘Let’s go get some ice cream. Did that crazy girl scare you? Did she, huh?’
‘Let me get that for you,’ the man says, hurrying towards the door to pull it open for her.
The man, the mother and the little boy stand outside the glass door and chat. The little boy is running around again but at least I can’t hear him screaming any more. The man and the mother point back inside and shake their heads. They’re talking about me. I shouldn’t have come here. Not today. Not ever. This was a mistake.
‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ the lady behind the counter finally says, breaking the overwhelming silence. ‘The little shit, God forgive my language, and his mother come in here twice a week and he’s always running around and shouting. He’s as bold as brass, he is. I’m glad someone finally gave him a talking-to. Heaven knows his mother never would. How she puts up with that awful behaviour I’ll never know.’
‘That’s why I’m never having kids,’ I say.
The lady laughs, but I wasn’t joking. I can’t think of anything I would hate more than becoming a mother.
‘Ah, give it time,’ she smiles. ‘Someday you’ll meet a lovely fellow and babies will be all you can think about.’
I scrunch my nose in response. ‘How much for airmail?’
She places the box on a large weighing scale. Her face is expressionless as she leans forward and squints, trying to read the numbers.
‘How much?’ I ask again, twitching. I’m behind on this month’s rent and I haven’t done a food shop in a week.
The lady leaves the box and walks out from behind the counter.
‘Are you all right?’ she says, placing her hand on my shoulder.
I wince and back away. My hand reaches for my shoulder and I rub it as if she’s hurt me.
‘Sorry,’ she blushes, realising she’s made me uncomfortable. ‘It’s just . . .’ She pauses, finding the right words. ‘. . . you seem a little pale. Do you need to sit down?’
‘Is this going to take much longer?’ I say.
She walks back behind the counter and doesn’t make eye contact again. I like it better this way.
I hand over the last note in my wallet and watch as she takes the brown, square box that sums up my brother’s life and stacks it among some smaller boxes ready for collection.
‘It should arrive in Provence in two to three days,’ she says despondently.
‘Thank you,’ I say, blinking away tears.
Chapter Thirty-two
THEN
Returning home to a flat with no trace of Adam is harder than I imagined it would be. The door seems to whisper his name as it creaks open. Stepping inside, the walls shrink and wrap around me like Adam’s strong arms holding me. I flop on to the couch, exhausted. I grab a cushion and tuck it against my chest as I bring my knees up and rock back and forth. I take slow, deep breaths, trying to soothe my aching heart, but it doesn’t help. The cushion smells so distinctively like my brother, probably from all the times he fell asleep on the couch after a night out and slept with his face mashed into the fluffy fabric. Finally, the tears that I’ve been holding back all day fall heavy and fast down my cheeks, and it feels good to let them flow. I fall in and out of fitful sleep. Sometimes I topple to one side and wake up with my neck twisted in an uncomfortable direction or find my arm has gone numb for the weight of my body flopping on top of it and pinning it against the couch. Other times the cushion has fallen out of my grasp. I quickly retrieve it and inhale sharply like a junkie needing her fix.
I don’t leave my flat for two weeks after that. I run out of food after the first four days, but I don’t feel hunger for another ten. By the time I finally leave the flat I’m half a stone lighter, possibly anaemic and most certainly no longer me.
By the time my birthday rolls around I’ve gone through a few calendars. I worked as a waitress and barmaid before finally finding work in my own field as a bereavement counsellor for a small charity. My weekly calls with my mother gradually became monthly, then biannual, then they fizzled out completely last year. I’ve made new friends and lost old ones.
Losing Jenny as a friend stung more than I expected it to. We were two peas in a pod when we first met. Both so consumed with grief and so broken. But gradually Jenny began to heal; she started to say things like ‘time helps’ or ‘it gets easier’ and other equally unhelpful bullshit. She was no good to me any more. I had to move my attention to Deacon. Jenny blames me for stealing her husband away from her. It irritates me that she doesn’t see that it’s all her fault. She has no one to blame but herself.
Thankfully, one thing remained constant: my study of Paul Warner. For ages I kept note of what coffee he drank. What he ate for lunch. Who he ate lunch with. Smart girls, always. He liked to surround himself with educated, intelligent women. He had male friends too. Some very attractive in their dapper suits. But Paul still stood out among them as better-looking, and I hated him even more for it.
I took lots of photos, with the only thing of Adam’s I kept – his camera. It took me a while to figure out its multitude of buttons and settings, but the zoom lenses proved immensely useful.
Sometimes I’d follow Paul home after work. Sometimes I wouldn’t bother. Sometimes I’d sit alone in a restaurant a few tables away as he ate a romantic dinner with a date. If he took her back to his apartment, he was unknowingly bringing me and Adam’s camera too. Usually he would draw the curtains, and what he and his date got up to would be left to the confines of my imagination. Occasionally, however, he’d be so caught up in the passion of the moment that he’d forget to close the curtains, and I’d watch as he made love to some girl from his office or someone he’d met in The Sugary Spoon. Those intimate moments were when I’d study him most closely. I’d lie on my bed and scrutinise the photos for hours. I’d learn every little move that triggered a smile. How he liked nails dragged gently across his chest. Or how a tiny bite on his bottom lip almost always made him orgasm. When I was finally satisfied that I knew Paul Warner better than he knew himself, all that was left was for him to meet his perfect match. Me.
Change was never going to be easy. I’d spent twenty-one years sure of who I was and where I belonged. I was a twin sister. A loving daughter. A good friend. A confident tomboy. And I loved being me. When I was little I’d climb trees with my brother for hours on end. Sometimes we’d fall and there would be tears. Adam’s. Never mine. I wasn’t a crier. My mother would tend to his grazed knees and elbows lovingly, and then tell me to be more careful. She’d warn me that my brother wasn’t as tough as me and that I needed to take care of him. I would nod and promise that I would. Then she’d smile and gather us into her arms, hug us tight and tell us that she loved us equally, no matter what. I would later learn that statement wasn’t entirely true, but at the time I loved to hear the happiness in her voice and I loved her warm hugs.
Adam’s death brought uncertainty and strain to my relationship with my mother. Maybe it was inevitable that I would change. But not like this. Reinventing myself to fit a certain mould was undeniably more difficult than I’d anticipated. But I was determined to become someone Paul Warner would notice.
However, I slowly embraced the new me. It turned out I quite liked her. Smart, tailored clothes that aren’t as expensive as they look suited me. They showed off my petite frame and didn’t swamp me the way baggy jeans and black T-shirts with the name of my favourite heavy metal band printed across the front used to. It broke my heart to cut my long, straight hair into a sensible bob, but it instantly made me look smarter. Older too, but that wasn’t really a negative. My drastic makeover piqued interest from some friends, but it wasn’t unreasonable to think that it was the right time in my life to put my formative years behind me and embrace a new, more mature look. I even received the odd compliment, which was nice – but unnecessary.
Trying to match the confiden
ce of my look with my personality took a little more work. And taking an interest in boring stuff like politics, current affairs and cookery nearly killed me. But I knew it was all necessary. Looking the part would only get me so far. When I managed to catch Paul’s attention I would need something to talk to him about.
It was obvious early on that he was a perfectionist. His choice of career as an accountant was my first clue. And his impeccable manners. His pleases and thank yous were always on point ordering his coffee, and he’d never miss an opportunity to hold the door open for an elderly lady or a mother pushing a buggy. He was sporty too. I could tell. His suits hugged his body perfectly. His car was the only deviation I could find from his sensible lifestyle. He drove a grossly overpriced coupé. Complete with a flashy grid, loud exhaust and leather interior. On the days when I had doubts, the days when I felt my plan was too extreme or too cruel, I would look at his flashy car parked outside his apartment or office or the coffee shop and I would think about how unfair it is that not only is Paul behind the wheel of a car again, but he is living a life of luxury that most people can only dream of. And I would decide that my plan wasn’t nearly cruel enough.
Although I spent years wishing Paul Warner dead, I’m never going to kill him. He doesn’t deserve the peace that comes with death – that’s far too lenient a sentence for what he’s done. Paul needs to go to hell for his sins. No judge in a courtroom will send him there, but I will.
I know hell, I’ve been there. I’m still there. Hell is waking up in the middle of the night exhausted but unable to sleep because the pain of your broken heart keeps you awake. Hell is profound loneliness in a room full of people because the only person you want there is dead. Hell is no more hugs, no more giggles, no more anything. Hell is what Paul Warner inflicted upon me when he ran my brother over. Hell is missing the person you love most in the world and knowing they will never come back. Paul needs to lose the most important person in his life. And that person needs to be me.
Chapter Thirty-three
NOW
The village is pretty today. The heavy rain has eased off and the sky is clearing. The wet road shimmers under the shining sun like a beautiful watercolour painting. It would make a stunning postcard, and I think if Adam was here he would jump out of the car with his camera and happily snap panoramic shots.
People are starting to emerge from the shelter of houses and the pub. It’s fascinating to watch the little village come to life again after the rain.
‘Just let me out anywhere along here,’ Jenny says, tapping her nail against the window to point at the footpath.
One of my elderly neighbours passes by. Her boisterous dog drags her forward as she struggles to keep hold of his lead.
‘Afternoon, Paul,’ I hear her shout as she passes.
Jenny laughs. ‘Did that old lady just think you were Paul?’
I smile, delighted. ‘I guess so.’
‘Susan, you really need to get some decent running gear,’ Jenny says. ‘You and Paul are like twins.’
My smile flatlines.
‘Oh Susan.’ Jenny twists in her seat to turn towards me. ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to mention twins. I just wasn’t thinking.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I know it was just a joke.’
She blushes. ‘But it wasn’t funny.’
‘It’s fine, honestly, Jenny. Just because Adam and I were twins doesn’t mean you can’t make a harmless joke.’
‘Okay,’ she nods, unsure.
‘As I told you earlier, I’ve changed. Grown up. I still miss Adam. Every day. But I’m not as sensitive as I used to be.’
‘Good,’ Jenny says. ‘That’s good. Time heals, I suppose.’
I want to open the door and shove her out face first. But instead I nod and drive on, mumbling something about maturity.
Within a minute or so we’ve passed through the village and come out the other side on to a road as winding and narrow as the one I live on.
‘Oh Susan,’ Jenny says, staring out the window at the vast green fields and tall trees. ‘I think we’ve gone too far. I needed to get out back there. I’ll never hail a taxi out here.’
‘I told you I’d take care of you,’ I say.
Her breath quickens and for a moment I think she’s afraid of me. I ease my foot off the accelerator and allow the car to slow a little.
‘You do want me to take care of you, don’t you?’ I ask.
She nods.
I press down on the accelerator again and we pick up speed. Jenny is unusually quiet, and I think it’s slowly dawning on her that she really doesn’t know me any more. I think she’s realising that maybe she never knew me at all.
Minutes of silence later we come to a crossroads and merge with a main road. Jenny seems to relax as cars whizz by and we’re not as isolated and alone.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you remembered Paul from that party?’ I ask, as a huge truck rattles past us in the outside lane.
Jenny squirms. ‘I didn’t think I did, not really.’
I snort and my grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles whiten. ‘Well, it certainly seemed to ring a bell earlier. Your cheeks were bright red when he mentioned the fountain,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘You told me you were so drunk you couldn’t remember a thing from that night.’
‘I was drunk.’ She shrugs.
‘In all the time I confided in you about how much I hated him, how much he ruined my life, it never once came into your head to say, “Oh, remember that time I was his vomit buddy at a party?”’
‘It was a chance encounter, Susan,’ Jenny says. ‘You know that. I didn’t know the terrible things he’d been saying about Adam. About you, until you told me. I didn’t even remember what he looked like until I saw him at the courthouse on the day of his conviction.’
‘Well, he remembers you,’ I snap. ‘Great. That’s just fucking great.’
‘Susan, I’m sorry. I should have told you,’ Jenny says.
‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘You should have.’
‘But I didn’t know he’d be a constant in your life. You have to admit it’s strange how it worked out. You ending up married to a guy you despised a few years back. It’s fascinating, really,’ Jenny snorts, and I’m almost certain she’s being sarcastic. ‘I mean, I forgot him, but you vowed to spend the rest of your life with him.’
Silence falls over us and the only sound is the purr of the engine as Paul’s car glides along the motorway.
‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t do any digging and discover how we really met,’ I say, the past playing over in my mind. ‘And Deacon too. Fuck, this is such a mess.’
‘Deacon?’ Jenny’s voice is shrill and hurts my already aching brain. ‘What does Deacon have to do with anything?’
‘Nothing,’ I back-pedal, cursing myself for thinking out loud. ‘He has nothing to do with anything. Just that we all used to be friends because Adam died, that’s all.’
‘Susan?’ Jenny says, turning to glare at me.
I can sense her disapproving expression from the corner of my eye but I don’t take my concentration off the road.
‘Susan.’ Jenny’s voice wobbles as a slow, creeping realisation obviously dawns on her. ‘Susan, what have you done?’
Chapter Thirty-four
NOW
Jenny is worryingly pensive for the rest of the journey, and by the time we reach the city half an hour later I suspect she’s twitchy and no doubt riddled with questions. There’s ample parking outside the train station, but I can’t pull in and risk being spotted by a security camera. All my good work dressing up as Paul and being noticed by my neighbours would be undone by my face getting caught on camera now. I pass the station and head for a narrow side street. I leave the engine running as I pull up next to the footpath.
‘We’re here,’ I say firmly, demanding Jenny’s attention.
‘Why have we stopped here?’ she asks, staring out the window.
‘So
you can get out. Goodbye, Jenny.’
‘But the train station is way back there.’ She looks confused.
‘I’m going this way,’ I lie. ‘I told you I had somewhere I need to be.’
She reaches for the door handle.
‘Susan . . . I just . . .’ she begins, her voice cracking and laced with emotion. ‘I really did just want to help.’
‘I know,’ I say, believing her.
‘But so much has changed,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Especially you. Your house, this car, your life, it just doesn’t seem to fit the person I knew.’
My phone begins ringing again. I reach forward but my seatbelt objects. Jenny’s fingers get there first, and I hold my breath as she glances at the screen. A sparkle of recognition dances in her eyes. She knows it’s Deacon’s number. Dammit.
‘Please,’ I say, stretching out my hand.
Jenny inhales sharply and places the phone in my hand.
I hit the reject button and throw the phone into the door pocket on my side of the car. Jenny watches me with her jaw gaping.
‘There’s a train in ten minutes,’ I say. ‘I checked the timetable.’
‘Who was calling you?’ she asks.
‘There isn’t another train for over an hour. If you miss this one you’ll have to wait around on the platform.’
‘Is it Deacon?’ she asks.
‘Why bother asking a question you already know the answer to?’
‘Are you sleeping with him?’ Jenny says, her voice cracking as she tries to assert herself.
Under Lying Page 21