True Love (and Other Lies)

by Whitney Gaskell

  “It’s gorgeous, but it’s . . .” I started to say, but then trailed off, not knowing how to complete my thought. Jack was, yet again, breaking all of the dating rules. And this one wasn’t just one of my rules; everyone knows that you don’t buy expensive gifts, and especially not jewelry, for someone you’ve just started dating. In fact, as prissy and old-fashioned a notion as it may be, I knew I shouldn’t even accept it. But I didn’t know how to tell him without hurting his feelings, and besides, I really, really wanted to keep it. Even more so after Jack helped me try it on, and I climbed out of bed to admire my newly bejeweled self in the mirror. The necklace was the perfect length—it rested right against my clavicle, and the diamonds winked and shimmered against my skin.

  “It looks beautiful on you,” Jack said, and then pulled me back into bed to cuddle with him, and the moment of opportunity to protest had passed.

  We spent the rest of the day taking a long walk through the snow-covered English countryside. Sadly, Jack wasn’t able to unearth a pair of Wellies for me to wear, and thus complete the experience, but it was picturesque nevertheless. When we returned, we camped out in front of the fire, working our way through the pile of movies Jack had brought from London and eating the prepackaged Marks & Spencer meals. Thursday, the weather turned nasty, so we took a long drive out of town and into neighboring villages, all of which were pretty and interesting, but none of which I liked as much as Dedham. Friday we stayed closer to home, and ventured into town, looking through the ancient, crumbling church, peering in the shop windows, and stopping by the pub for a glass of disgustingly warm beer, which Jack assured me I had to drink in order to capture the true spirit of things.

  “This has just been such a perfect trip. Other than the warm beer, I mean,” I sighed, as we left the pub and began the walk back to Jack’s house.

  “That wasn’t a beer, it was a lager,” Jack said, squeezing my mittened hand in his.

  “Either way, blech. But the pub itself was nice. Very woody and atmospheric, and everyone was so friendly,” I said.

  Jack snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure they’d have given me such a warm welcome if I were on my own,” he said.

  “Why? Are people upset that you bought a house here? Because you’re an American?”

  “No, I meant because I’m not a beautiful, sexy woman. I thought I was going to have to start beating off your admirers in there,” Jack said.

  “Oh, be serious. They were just being nice, that’s all. And that one guy—Bernie?—he was just an old flirt,” I said, feeling quite pleased that Jack would describe me as beautiful and sexy. Even if it was an obvious exaggeration.

  “He tried to grab your ass,” Jack said.

  “I think he was just a little clumsy,” I said.

  Jack snorted again.

  On Saturday morning, Jack and I drove back to London. In our absence, the city weather had turned bleak and gray, and the overcast sky was grimly threatening to send a downpour at the slightest provocation. I’d expected we’d spend the day—and maybe the remainder of my trip, if the forecast didn’t improve—doing something indoors, like taking in a museum, or, better yet, going to a really trashy blockbuster movie, the kind with aliens and chase scenes and inane dialogue full of the punchy one-liners that play well in the trailers.

  When I suggested the movie idea to Jack, naturally assuming that the lure of special effects and explosions would prove irresistible to him, I was surprised when he shook his head and said, “I thought that we’d take a walk through the park.”

  “But it’s going to rain,” I protested.

  “No, it’ll be fine. Come on, we’ll walk for a bit, and then I’ll take you for afternoon tea at the Orangery,” Jack said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A little restaurant. It’s right behind Kensington Palace, where Princess Di used to live.”

  I wrapped my sky blue pashmina scarf around my throat and shrugged on my fitted black wool coat, and we set off for Hyde Park on foot, winding through the South Kensington streets, past the imperious white town houses flanked by wrought iron fences. The streets were quiet and calm, until we turned onto the high street, where hordes of shoppers bustled by, weighed down with bags full of Christmas returns and post-holiday sale items. We dodged through the crowds, and a minute later we were in the park, which, except for some dog walkers marching along with upturned collars and their charges at their knees, was nearly deserted, most likely because everyone else was too smart to be out in this weather.

  “How far away is this tea place?” I grumbled. The wind was so frigid, it was causing my eyes to water and my ears to turn numb.

  “Are you cold?” Jack asked, looking down at me with surprise. “I thought it would seem mild here compared to New York.”

  “Mild? Not the word I would use,” I gasped, as yet another gust of wind slapped me across the face.

  “We’re almost there,” Jack promised.

  The Orangery turned out to be well worth the frosty walk. It was a glassed-in summer house, long and sufficiently opulent for an afternoon dining locale for royals, which had apparently been its original function. When we walked in, the first thing I saw was a table groaning under the weight of one fattening pastry after another, each one looking more delicious. My willpower, already lowered by the exercise and chilly weather, was done in when I saw a toothsome chocolate layer cake. I’ve been on a nonstop diet for roughly seventeen years, but I have a weakness for chocolate cake.

  Jack and I sat at one of the small, square, white-linen-covered tables, and ordered tea, sandwiches, and cake from a supercilious waiter, who, I presumed from his curt manner, seemed not to have a high opinion of American tourists. Just as our glasses of water (room temperature with no ice, naturally) were delivered to us, the skies suddenly opened up and began spitting down sheets of rain. Lightning crackled across the iron gray sky, and thunder boomed at regular intervals. The glass walls of the Orangery were instantly streaked and opaque from the streams of water, which turned the view of the back of Kensington Palace into nothing more than a blur.

  “I guess we’re stuck here for a while,” Jack said. “Which is actually not a bad thing, because I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

  He had that determined, man-on-a-mission look on his face again, the one that made my stomach turn jellylike with fear. But I was not going to start blathering like a hapless idiot this time. Instead, I’d just keep steering the conversation back to safe ground.

  “Well, if you’re going to be stuck somewhere, it might as well be a place that serves chocolate cake,” I said, eyeing the plates of goodies that the waiter was delivering to our table.

  But Jack didn’t make a move for the cake. Instead, he ran his hands through his hair, pushing back the stubborn lock that insisted on falling back down on his forehead, and then he picked up a spare paper napkin off the table and began shredding it. I knew that I should ask him what was making him so nervous, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So instead I said, “I’d really like to go to the Victoria and Albert Museum while I’m here. Do you know if it’s open on Sunday? Because if so, we could go tomorrow. Unless you had something else planned.”

  Jack didn’t answer, nor did he look up at me. Instead he finished shredding his napkin and then examined each item of cutlery lying on the table before him. I sighed. Obviously he wasn’t going to let me slide by again by distracting him or changing the subject.

  “Jack?” I said softly, resting my hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong,” he said, looking surprised. And then his face creased into the familiar smile that made it feel like my insides were melting, a sensation that I’d come to find unnervingly addicting.

  I grinned back at him and squeezed his hand. “You checked out on me for a minute,” I said.

  “I just,” he began, and then took a deep breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Claire, but . . .” And then his voice trailed off
, the thought not finished.

  What? What was he going to say? Don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . what? Whenever someone says “Don’t take this the wrong way,” they’re inevitably going to say something that either pisses you off, hurts your feelings, or worse. So what was it? And why did he drop off that way, staring into the space over my left shoulder? I didn’t want to push him to go on—certain that whatever he was going to say, I wouldn’t take it the wrong way, but in exactly whatever awful way he meant it—but it wasn’t quite a point in the conversation from which I could tack right and change the subject. In fact, I couldn’t even bear to look at him, and instead stared at the piece of cake before me, suddenly not at all hungry. What had just minutes ago been so tempting now looked a little stale and crumbly, the frosting congealed and probably far too sweet.

  “It’s Maddy,” Jack said softly.

  I felt like I’d been socked in the stomach. Whatever I’d thought was going to come next, whatever hideous revelation—I don’t have those kind of feelings for you, This just isn’t working out, When I see you naked the theme song of the Jell-O gelatin commercials starts running through my head—I hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the words to so neatly slice open my heart. But as much as it hurt—and, oh God, it hurt, along the lines of being subjected to a Brazilian bikini wax and assaulted with an Epilady at the same time, only worse—how could I be that surprised? Wasn’t this what always happened, what always would happen when a man was given the choice of being with a goddess or a mere mortal? I was clearly some kind of a transitional person, someone that he used to salve his wounded heart after learning that the love of his life was cheating on him with her boss.

  “Is this some kind of a game?” I whispered, not out of meekness, but because I was suddenly so enraged that I was afraid that if I began to use a normal tone of voice, it would come out in a high-pitched shriek that would shatter the glass windows enclosing the Orangery.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Is. This. Some. Kind. Of. A. Game. Is that why you brought me out here? Just to get revenge, or to make yourself feel better for having been cheated on?” I demanded.

  “Claire, you’re not making any sense. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just trying to say . . . Maddy is here. She’s standing over by the door. Staring at us. And from the expression on her face, I’m getting the distinct impression that you never got around to telling her about us,” Jack said.

  I turned and looked at the door, and there she was—soaking wet, completely bedraggled, and yet still somehow gorgeous. Maddy looked like a movie actress who’d been doused with water for the big storm scene, and then had her hair and makeup meticulously fixed to look fresh and dewy. I looked at her, and her gaze moved from Jack to me. As our eyes locked, I saw hers widen and her face turn ashen. She stood rooted in place, her face frozen in an expression of shock and hurt. Her mouth fell open, and I could see the questions, the accusations right there, ready to tip out, and yet still she didn’t move or speak.

  “Maddy,” I croaked, and as I stood, the metal frame chair I’d been sitting in toppled over, landing on the marble floor with such a loud clatter that everyone in the restaurant looked over at me, first with mild curiosity, and then with keener interest as they sensed the drama unfolding between Jack, Maddy, and me. I didn’t care, in fact it barely registered with me that a hush had fallen over the room and that dozens of pairs of eyes were taking us in, probably assuming that Jack was an adulterous husband, Maddy was the wronged wife, and that I was the brazen hussy elbowing my way into the marriage. All I cared about was that in all of the years I’d known Maddy, with everything that we’d been through together, I’d never seen her look so completely lost.

  “Maddy,” I said again, and I could feel, rather than see, Jack stand up behind me, and seeing us together, the vision of a close and united front, probably just served to drive in the reality of our treachery even deeper. Maddy’s eyes were flashing with hurt and confusion as she looked first at me and then at Jack. I wanted more than anything to go to her, to comfort her, to try to explain or apologize, and I tried to make my legs, which seemed rooted into the ground, start moving.

  But Maddy didn’t give me the chance. She turned and fled out into the rain, and through the streaked glass windows she became just another blurred outline as she ran down toward the gate into Hyde Park and disappeared out of sight.

  Chapter 18

  “I have to go after her,” I said to Jack. He righted my chair and motioned for me to sit

  down. I suddenly became aware of the hush that had fallen over the Orangery, and that everyone was staring at Jack and me, clearly delighting in the scene they’d just witnessed. I shrank down in the chair, putting a hand up to one side of my face to shield myself from their avid attention.

  “Everyone’s staring at us,” I hissed.

  “So?” Jack shrugged. “Let them stare. We haven’t done anything wrong, Claire. It wasn’t like Maddy and I were dating anymore, much less married or engaged. I can see whomever I want.”

  “Yes, you’re free to do that, but what about me? Maddy’s my friend—or at least she was my friend, I have no idea how she’s going to feel now. Oh no, this is terrible,” I said. Why hadn’t I told Maddy everything in the beginning? Why had I let things get this far with Jack without talking to her about it? At least that way, I could have broken it to her gently, rather than having her find out this way.

  “What do you want to do?” Jack asked. He put an arm around me, one hand gently stroking my back, and for some reason the gesture made my eyes water up with tears. I didn’t deserve to have someone be so nice to me, and especially not someone as wonderful as Jack.

  “I have to go see her,” I said. “Right now.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with you,” Jack said. “Let me just pay the check, and we’ll leave now.”

  “No, I have to go by myself. I think it will be easier for her, and I just . . . it’s the right thing to do,” I said.

  “But if I go with you, I can absorb some of her anger, keep it from being directed entirely at you,” Jack said.

  I smiled at him and reached out to touch his cheek lightly. “Thanks, I appreciate that. But I think I have this coming to me,” I said.

  It was one thing to act brave about facing Maddy while I was safely tucked away in a cozy restaurant with Jack stroking my back and being supportive. It was quite another thing to be standing on her doorstep, staring up at the door and trying to work up the nerve to push the bell. I wasn’t even sure if she would see me. She might just shout through the door for me to go to hell, and then what would I do? Camp out on her steps? Go back to Jack’s and try to call her? And what if she wouldn’t take my phone calls, what then?

  Between the rain that was still pelting me, soaking through my wool coat, and the knowledge that time was not going to make this confrontation any easier, I finally took a deep breath and rapped sharply on the door. I listened for footsteps, didn’t hear any, and raised my hand to knock again, when the door suddenly swung open. Maddy stood on the opposite side of the doorjamb, staring at me with a strange glow in her wide blue eyes. She looked almost malevolent, like a character in a horror movie who suddenly snaps and starts decapitating everyone with a scythe. I took a step back.

  “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show up here. But I suppose you’d better come in,” Maddy said.

  Other than the creepy-eye thing, she sounded—and looked—strangely calm. It unnerved me. I was prepared to deal with her crying, or yelling at me, but not with this eerie detachment. I almost didn’t want to follow her, but since she turned and walked back into her apartment, leaving the door open, I supposed I had no choice but to let myself in, closing the door behind me.

  The first thing I noticed was that her apartment was shockingly messy. When I’d last been there, it had been immaculate. Now it was cluttered with empty pizza boxes, newspapers, magazines, cans of Diet Coke, overflowin
g ashtrays, and piles of crumpled clothing. The white slipcover on the sofa was grimy, and a fine layer of dust covered the end tables. Even the shaggy white carpet, the one that reminded me of a skinned sheepdog, looked to be in dire need of a grooming. I’d never seen Maddy live in such filth before. When we were roommates, she used to get angry at me if I left my shoes by the front door, right where I kicked them off, rather than immediately trotting them back to our shared closet.

  “Let me explain,” I said weakly.

  “Yes, I think you should do that,” Maddy said coldly. She flopped down on her sofa and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. She withdrew one, lit it, and inhaled deeply, before glancing over at me. “Want one?”

  “Okay,” I said. I sat down on her other couch and took the cigarette and lighter from her. Once I’d got it lit, I inhaled deeply, amazed at how even after eight years of abstinence the first puff of smoke caused my body to melt with pleasure. God, how I’d missed this—the smell, the taste, the way the cigarette felt in my hand.

  “So. Talk,” Maddy said, raising her eyebrows with interest. “Because I’m dying to know the reason why my best friend is in a foreign country with my boyfriend.”

  “I thought you were in Boston,” I said stupidly. Probably not the best explanation, but I was also pretty sure that getting into an argument over just whose boyfriend Jack really was, was probably an even worse opening.

  Maddy snorted. “I was. But the private investigator I hired called me at my mom’s and told me that he’d taken some snapshots of Jack with a tall, attractive blonde woman who was apparently staying with him over the holidays, so I flew back to see her for myself. You want to know something funny? When he faxed me the photo—it was of you two kissing at the airport—I even thought the woman looked a little like you. But then I said, no, that’s impossible,” Maddy said, her voice dripping with anger.