Naked Truths

by Karen Botha

  She’s still processing and sits, nibbling some loose skin on the side of her thumb.

  ‘Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘I’ve never considered it, but he would be different if he’s in police custody on the night that his wife has died to where he is several years later at either a family party or with me alone,’ she points out. She tops her Pimms up as we cogitate. I listen as the ice tinkles against the glass amidst the heavy plopping of the fruit on the liquid.

  I change the subject, ‘I met Penelope in the supermarket last weekend.’

  ‘Penelope the drunk from the summer ball, his brother’s wife?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. We met for a drink,’ and I smile at her, waiting for her to show her shock.

  ‘Oh, OK, I hadn’t picked up that you got on so well,’ she raises one eyebrow.

  She’s right, but I gloss over it, ‘Yeah, but we're both at a loose end. Anyway, that’s not important, she was chatting about Steph. Said she had a different personality towards the end. The flirtatious and outgoing Steph morphed into a boring recluse.’

  ‘Giles mentioned something to that effect. I guess it could happen if she couldn’t do all the manic things he had me doing this weekend,’ and she smiles at the memory. ‘If that’s your bag, I suppose you could get depressed.’

  ‘Yeah, for sure. But combine that with her not getting better, them having less money than they ever had - they had to take in a lodger, were you aware?’

  ‘No, he’s not mentioned it… but it’s never come up. You wouldn't necessarily remark on it unless the conversation lends itself though,’ she concedes.

  ‘True, but they were skint. Must have been difficult.’

  ‘Of course, but life gets hard in that situation anyway, it may explain why he was more detached than you’d expect.’ I get the impression she’s not willing to see things from my angle if she can help it.

  ‘You’re going to say I'm paranoid because of my job again, but have you even contemplated that perhaps there may have been more involved?’ There we are, it’s said.

  ‘Please say what you mean,’ she enunciates each syllable.

  ‘Tread carefully Paula,’ I tell myself.

  ‘I'm not sure. It could be they agreed as a couple about her ending it, or that he helped her?’ I don’t say ‘or he helped her on her way.’

  She’s quiet. The bird is chirping in the tree, happy with its small feast. When finished it presses it's mute button. The silence hangs against the hum of traffic on the dual carriageway that runs parallel to her back garden. On cue, a siren rages through, eager to pass between stationary cars upping the tempo of its shrill call as it slows.

  ‘I’ve never considered it. We need more drink,’ and she tops up our glasses.

  This is not the answer I was expecting, I watch her empty the jug, gauging her thoughts before I make another move. We’re still, neither of us keen on taking this further forward yet.

  ‘Shall we weigh-up the info we have?’

  ‘OK,’ she’s cautious, but open at least.

  ‘Right. So Giles pitches up for a massage, brand new client. He was everything you want from a man and you have instant chemistry. Then what happened?’

  ‘We had a date.’

  ‘No, before that, he turned up at the country show didn’t he…’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you thought it was strange because you remembered telling him you were going, but he denied it.’

  ‘Yeah, and you found it odd he was on his own.’ She pauses, ‘I’m sure I told him I would be there.’

  ‘Exactly and then you go out and you have fun, but have you visited his place yet?’

  ‘No, but why is that important?’ she asks me, her head tilted and brow scrunched in a genuine question.

  ‘Well, it might not be, but after the Whitemore show, when he dropped you off, why didn't you invite him in?’ I brush an imaginary strand of hair from my face. ‘Because you didn’t want him in your personal space.’

  ‘But he’s still not let me in his…’ she admits.

  ‘Yes! Now his home could be messy and he’s ashamed of it,’ I argue keeping firmly on the middle ground. ‘Especially when his family are wealthy, his perspective may be off kilter. Pen certainly isn’t impressed with his lifestyle choices.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Pen now is it?’ she jibes and I chide myself for allowing her the option to lose concentration. I hold my palms up in surrender.

  ‘I don’t get it, why would I care what his place is like?’

  We chill, more at ease again now. She gets up and heads inside to the kitchen, jug in hand.

  ‘More refreshments!’ she calls. I join her at the chopping board.

  She takes me by surprise. ‘After Virginia's party, when I stayed at her house, I was put in his old room. It’s all been re-decorated but I guess if that was me, I'd have still slept in there. He just wandered off to a different one across the hallway. That is actually hugely irrelevant though,’ she continues her chopping, ‘but, now you mention it, there were a load of books in there.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Penelope says he likes to read - likes reading a lot, what's the significance?’

  ‘Yeah, but they were all murder detective books, and a few about how to get away with the perfect murder.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re kidding!’

  ‘They may not even be his, but there was a whole bookcase filled with this real life stuff.’ I rap my nails on the worktop, studying the chopped fruit lying flaccid on the wet board.

  I have to be careful how I pose my next point as she can’t work out I’ve been to his senior school, at least not yet. ‘I’m sure someone said he won a chemistry award or something during his tenure. He must be able to mix a potion and lotion,’ we laugh despite ourselves.

  ‘Yeah and his Dad was a physicist I heard somewhere, so bright genes for that science thing,’ she smiles.

  ‘Penelope alluded to how intelligent their side of the family is. She was moaning that Giles underachieved, left himself financially vulnerable when things turned bad with Steph.’

  ‘Ah, I wonder if that’s what the tension was about at the party. Did you notice that? The whole spat about the reading but not learning comment she made?’

  ‘Yeah, I did.’ We’re both caught in our thoughts and try to simultaneously exit the doorway to the garden, realising too late we can’t both fit. I give way to Paula and shout Boo to come along and clean the mess from our literal spilled drinks.

  ‘Hey, I’ve got an idea,’ I say as we settle back into our patio seats.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I will rope Mo in and locate this lodger woman. Find out what she has to say. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yah, for sure,’ she replies and we both snigger as she uses the African yah, already. ‘I don’t want to get caught out with a nutter do I? If he doesn't have anything to hide, you won’t find a thing and Giles will be none the wiser.’

  Fair point. ‘What are you going to do though?’

  ‘Well, nothing, until we’ve figured this thing out.’

  ‘Huh? What happens if he is that nutter you’re trying to avoid getting involved with?’

  ‘Ah, it’s OK. We’ve not even slept together yet,’ she quips. I nod, smiling, but behind it, I’m already working out how I find Julie, and fast.

  LUCY

  ‘I get so jealous.’ Hugh is a regular client. He’s been coming since he got hit by a car whilst out riding his bike a few years ago. The impact injured his back. Originally he came every week, but now he's sorted again, he calls when he needs a top-up.

  ‘Why are you jealous?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, he has whatever he wants,’ he states about his oldest friend.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Freedom for a start,’ he announces.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He can travel wherever he wants without having to cart a whole family along. I can’t remember the last time I was spontaneous.’

 
‘OK, so would you have preferred to give children a miss?’

  ‘No, but I would like a spontaneous family,’ I hear his muffled smile through the towel on the face rest. ‘When we were growing up, I pretty much lived at my friend's house. He only had his Mum, but they didn't let that stop them. We were always off doing stuff.’

  ‘So what changed?’ I needle my elbow into his shoulder.

  ‘You’re doing that on purpose,’ his voice squeaks.

  ‘Keep breathing, this level of pressure is tough love.’

  Once I’ve lightened up on him, his attention switches to considering my question. In time, he replies. ‘It’s Jen, my wife. She’s lovely, but we married young and started our procreation young. It was great then, but we've both grown in different directions and now our only common ground is the kids. Our interests developed independently.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, I’m second place, the children are first. If we venture out, she runs round packing kids clothes, food, toys when they were younger; I get left. If it’s dinner time, we eat what the kids want.’

  ‘Isn’t it always like that?’ I want to say ‘dee-dum’ whilst pulling his cheek between my thumb and forefinger. He isn't a child, he shouldn’t need taking care of, should he? I keep my mouth shut.

  ‘Well, perhaps, but the woman I married isn’t around anymore, she’s a mum first. She doesn’t have the time or energy to be a wife now.’

  Oh, the amount of times I’ve heard this. Women tell the opposite side of the argument; men leave them to run the home. Wives complain guys show up as and when told, only ever doing the bare minimum. The reality of working out how to manage a happy family set-up seems elusive - amongst my clients that’s for sure.

  ‘So do you wish you’d married someone else?’ I’m joking.

  ‘Oh, if you want the truth, I wish I had married my mate’s wife. I’ve never confessed that to a soul before. That's the benefit of our doctor patient privilege so it’s OK. Plus, it's not like you know anyone.’

  ‘Guess that always helps,’ we pause as I crunch his neck into alignment.

  ‘So did the two of you have a fling?’

  ‘Nah, not really. There was something between us, but nothing ever happened, well other than a drunken night in our college years,’ he admits, ‘apart from that, she was with my mate.’ The room is still as he reflects for a moment.

  ‘Look, if I’m honest, she was the one I let slip away. I loved her for her entire life. She had spark. It didn’t matter she wasn’t mine, she was around, if you get what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ I’m not sure I do, but I’m encouraging enough for him to give me more chance to understand.

  ‘She was a part of my life, brightened it whenever it was dull, but that's all gone.’

  I sense the worst, ‘Oh, did someone find out, was there a big bust-up?’

  ‘No that would have been OK, it was worse than that, she found out she had congenital heart problems, but for some reason, it only caught up with her later,’ he explains.

  My heart ping-pongs to the pit of my stomach and then up to my throat. My head is hot and prickly as adrenalin enhances my nerves. My face flushes in the dim room. It’s just clicked. This guy is, ‘Hugh’, the same as Giles’ oldest friend. I try to slow down my breathing as I figure out how to handle this.

  There are too many similarities for them to be different people. I rummage around in my brain, trying to remember where Hugh lived when he originally completed his consultation form.

  ‘It was awful,’ he continues oblivious to my mind’s rapid considerations, ‘she changed, couldn't do the things she'd once enjoyed. And then he; my mate... her husband; kind of lost interest in her.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, it was as if his wife had already died and so she became just someone he was married to. She was worth so much more...’

  ‘Oh.’ I'm careful of passing judgement when working. I keep to myself the parallels I could draw about his earlier attitude to his own wife. Instead, I formulate another question, ‘So, how did she die?’

  ‘Her heart packed in. She’d been in for a few unsuccessful operations. Then one day whilst she was waiting for a further one, she just went. It was a shock because she had an abundance of energy before becoming sick. All her friends expected her to win the fight. But it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Could it be feasible that she’d had enough and committed suicide?’

  ‘In theory it's conceivable; but I don’t see how. She had such a lot of spirit, it had to be natural causes.' He stopped, thinking. ‘No... her heart gave out.’

  ‘Was anyone ever questioned?’

  ‘Giles was, my mate, her husband.’

  He’s still talking, but I have no idea what he is saying. My pulse is racing and I’m shaking so intensely I struggle to massage. I lean my elbow into him, in part to steady myself but also to cover up the tremor in my hands. I inhale and lean in again. He stops chattering as the pain catches his breath.

  I’ve had enough for now, I need to process this news. ‘So why didn’t you chase this girl rather than letting your friend marry her?’

  ‘She didn’t want me,’ he simpers, the mood successfully changed.

  ‘Haha, fair enough. Guess you’re stuck with the wife that would have you then, and your family that goes with it.’

  My teasing works, and he laughs, ‘Yeah guess so,’ and the topic is also now successfully changed.

  My entire afternoon is a complete write off. I can’t concentrate. I’ve tried listening to music, reading and calling Paula, but I cannot settle. I head to the fridge and pull out a fresh bottle of Frost Pocket my absolute favourite Sauvignon Blanc. That should do the trick. I knock the bitter liquid back before I’ve finished rooting for nibbles. I refill it, balance the guacamole on top of the glass which leaves my other hand free to carry the sugar snap peas. I resume my position on the sofa.

  When Paula returns my call, I'm loquacious. This could be the effect of the wine, but I also have lots to say. When I pause Paula is quiet.

  ‘It doesn’t tell us anything new,’ she says.

  ‘It does!’ I gasp, incredulous.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It confirms Mo’s suspicion that Giles wasn't bothered about the sudden death of his wife. But, don't you think it’s way weird you've massaged his best friend all these years..?’

  ‘Yeah, I wonder if he recommended me to Giles?’

  ‘Possibly, but other than that, what did he say that's a surprise?’

  I stop, calm for the first time since Hugh made his revelations. I speak slowly, transposing my thoughts directly into words, ‘You’re right. It's coincidence I'm acquainted with Hugh, but what he said was old news, this may mean there's nothing else to learn.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Paula agrees, ‘but we should check it out. Giles’ behaviour after Steph died is unusual. Between Mo and I, we've seen countless grieving relatives. They tend to behave in a similar way. Often they can’t accept that the person has gone, but Giles seems, from what we’re hearing, to have been totally accepting.’

  ‘I see what you’re saying, but maybe he prepared himself.’

  ‘It could be that, but remember that Hugh said everyone thought she'd beat it,’ Paula falls quiet. ‘How about you, me and Giles, go for dinner or drinks one night? We’ve not all been together since you first met him, we can catch up - it’s been too long?’

  What a fabulous idea, far better than us both jumping to conclusions behind his back. We leave it that I’ll organise a date.

  GILES

  ‘Do you like cheese?’ she asked me last week after I’d spent the entire day testing a new engine. The sound can be intolerable sometimes as parts scream complaints at being pushed past their natural limits. Although it had been quite a success with an engine designed for a small hatchback pulling a transit up a steep incline for one hundred thousand miles, the constant reverberation still leaves your head fuzzy. I’m therefore a little unsure whether
she means nightclub cheese which is possible when you listen to her music collection, or the fromage type. Fortunately, she meant the food variety and so we’re good to go.

  ‘Excellent, then do you fancy a tasting session, cheese and wine?’ I specifically remember this, at no point did Lucy mention Paula coming along as a third wheel. That would have made an impact.

  ‘Giles; hi again,’ Paula beams, standing to kiss my cheek. Lucy and I walk into the tiny front room of a restaurant in one of those beautiful old markets London retains so well. I dodge the people crammed amongst too many tables. Good wine fills racks, floor to ceiling. I guess the cheese will turn up.

  ‘Hi Paula, I didn’t realise you were coming too?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t I say?’ asks Lucy, ‘I’m sure I did?’

  ‘No, but it doesn’t matter,’ I reply, when actually I’m deflated. I was looking forward to an evening chatting about the subtleties of flavour. Now it will be chitchat the entire night, I’ll be lucky if I even hear what cheese we’re sampling.

  We do the niceties, but something is stilted. I’m guessing that Paula isn’t overjoyed to see me, but as I’m assuming she at least has had warning about my attendance, I’m not sure why. I’m always pleasant to her, in fact I make a point of being so despite the way her know-it-all attitude grates on me.

  A man dressed in authentic French waiter attire takes the stage, or rather, the small space on the floor to the right of our tiny bistro table. He explains how the evening will work. They bring the cheese and we choose whether we would prefer the red or a white wine option, each chosen to accompany said cheese. Lucy and Paula chime a moan together that they’d rather have red and white and giggle. I struggle not to roll my eyes and instead smile at them patting Lucy's knee, resting my hand there.

  ‘I saw Penelope the other day,’ Paula announces out of nowhere as they deliver our first sampler. This is a traditional style of English cheese. It's white and quite a solid texture which has matured for at least two months. I cogitate what the cave must smell like when they’re all maturing together. Probably something you’d get used to. Then with a shot through the heart I catch what Paula said.