“Yes, yes, I think you’re absolutely right. Well, let me see now. I suppose it’s the headaches, and the general feeling of tiredness. I just don’t feel myself, if you know what I mean. Haven’t felt myself for a while now.”
“How long exactly?” I hand Stanley his tea and he smiles gratefully. This is much more like it. I mean, I love a good chat. It certainly beats watching television on my own. To be honest, much as I like living on my own, I sort of miss having someone there at the end of the day to talk to. And Stanley seems a sweetie.
“How long?” Stanley asks. “Oh, one maybe two years.”
“Years? God, that’s awful. So what do you think is causing them?”
“My doctor says stress.”
“And are you stressed?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t work anymore. I don’t have financial worries. No, no, I wouldn’t say I’m stressed. But my doctor is quite certain. My last therapist, too. She thought I needed to relax more.”
I stir my tea. It’s funny—just asking these questions makes me feel like I’m a bona fide counselor or something. Like I actually know what I’m talking about. “So what happened one or two years ago. You know, to start your headaches off?” I ask, giving my best you-can-talk-to-me look.
“Nothing really kicked them off,” Stanley says matter-of-factly. “They started gradually, you see. I’m afraid, my dear, there have been no major events that I can blame them on. After my wife died, I picked up a routine that I very rarely change from day to day.”
“I’m sorry your wife died.”
“So was I. So am I,” Stanley corrects himself. “She was a great woman. Very feisty. I like feisty women, you know. Not those docile creatures who just smile at you. Ugh, can’t bear them. No, Bess didn’t take any prisoners. Terrified of her, I was. Whole family was. Loved her, though. Are you married?”
“No,” I say, a little too quickly. That’s another thing Pete and I used to talk about. Something else we never quite managed to save up for.
Stanley smiles at me. “Chap on the phone not the one, then?”
I blush slightly. “He’s, well, I’ve only just met . . . I mean . . .”
“I see. Well, take it from me—when you do meet the one, you make sure you work at it, won’t you? It’s so very important. I’m so happy to have had so many great years with my wife. So very happy . . .”
Stanley trails off and stares into the middle distance. He’s right, of course. Being happy . . . well, nothing beats it, does it? And I think I am happy now. Anything is better than the dissatisfaction, the insecurity mixed with simmering anger I felt with Pete.
“So when did your wife—I mean, Bess—die?”
“August 2001. Day before her seventieth birthday.”
“So that was, what, nearly two years ago.”
“Yes. Good gracious, time does go quickly, doesn’t it? It seems like just yesterday she was ordering me round the supermarket. She didn’t believe in leisure, you know. Thought it rotted the brain and the body. Spent the last five years of her life trying to get planning permission to turn our little shop downstairs into a proper one. One big enough to really move about in.”
“You have a shop downstairs?”
“Not really. Not anymore. It was her parent’s place originally. They used to sell antiques. But there’s barely room to swing a cat. Bess wanted to extend out to the back—there’s nothing really there, you see, except for a utility area that no one uses and a parking area. But we don’t have a car. Didn’t, I mean. Bess didn’t care for cars much.”
Stanley chuckles to himself.
“So maybe that’s why you’ve got headaches.”
“Because we didn’t get the planning permission? Oh, no, that was always Bess’s thing, not mine. I’d have liked her to be able to build a little business, but it’s not really me.”
“Not the planning permission,” I say gently. “Your wife passing away.”
“What? Oh, no,” says Stanley, shaking his head. “They started a while after that. A good few months. I remember, it was nearly Christmas when I got my first.”
“Hmmmm. Okay. Well, what else? What’s in this routine of yours that could be causing you stress?”
Stanley tells me everything about his day, from the housekeeper’s visit in the morning to make sure he’s got food and clean sheets, to his amble around the park and a visit to the library in the afternoon. Then, in the evening, he tends to read, or listen to the wireless.
“The ’wireless’? Stanley, it’s called the radio now! Anyway, what about television? Don’t you watch that?”
“Television? Oh, dear, no. Bess thought that television rotted the brain, too. She loathed it—wouldn’t allow one in the house.”
He chuckles, then looks around nervously as if worried Bess may have overheard him.
“So you’ve never watched EastEnders?”
“No, never.”
“Or Friends?”
“No, haven’t seen that, either.”
“What about Dad’s Army, or Seinfeld, or The Sound of Music?” I’m in a state of shock here. How can Stanley never watch television?
“Oh, I’ve seen The Sound of Music, at the flicks. Lovely film. Rather liked that Liesel character . . .”
Stanley drains his last cup of tea and I look up at the clock to see that it’s nearly eight P.M. Stanley’s eyes follow mine and he gets up with a start.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Dear me, is it really that late? Oh, I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you. Let me pay you for my session, please.”
He starts searching for his wallet as I clear away the cups. There’s no way I can let this sweet, lonely man pay me for an hour’s worth of conversation. I mean, we might have easily been at the bus stop or something. And actually, I really enjoyed it.
“Don’t be silly, Stanley,” I say gently, touching his arm. “Look, this one’s on me, okay? It’s not like I did any Reiki or anything.”
“Oh, no, please, let me pay you. Let me just . . .” Stanley has found his wallet now and is taking out some twenty-pound notes.
Thinking of Bess, I decide that I need to be firm. “Stanley, there is no way you are paying for this little chat. And that’s final.”
Stanley smiles. “Well, if you put it like that . . . You know, I have very much enjoyed our conversation, thank you. It’s not often these days that one really gets to talk. And be heard. I really am very grateful.”
I look at him closely.
“Stanley, EastEnders is about to start on the telly. You don’t fancy watching it with me, do you?”
His eyes light up. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose,” he says, looking over at the sofa.
“ ’Course you can. Look, I’ve got some microwave lasagnas here—I’ll put a couple on, shall I? You make yourself comfortable.”
“Well, if you’re absolutely sure?” he says cautiously, moving onto the sofa.
“Absolutely,” I say firmly, reaching for the remote control. As I watch the screen jump into life, Stanley settles onto the sofa.
“Now, that’s Ricky,” I tell him, pointing at the screen. “He’s the son of Frank, who was married to Pat. And Ricky was married to Bianca, but that was ages ago; anyway, he got together with Natalie, who was married to Pat’s other son Barry. But Barry was murdered by Ricky’s sister a couple of weeks ago. Although no one knows that she did it yet . . .”
Stanley sighs happily and frowns slightly as he tries to get to grips with the story line. I put the lasagnas in the microwave, then join him on the sofa. Two hours later we have plowed through the lasagnas along with a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits, and Stanley has been introduced not just to EastEnders, but also Selling Houses, Ground Force, and Will & Grace.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he says with a smile as he leaves my flat at ten P.M. “And I’d very much like to book another appointment.”
“Absolutely,” I say uncertainly. I mean, I suppose next time he’s going to actually expe
ct me to do some Reiki, isn’t he? “When would you like to come?”
“Well,” says Stanley thoughtfully, “when did you say the next episode of Friends was . . .”
“That’ll be tomorrow night,” I say with a grin. “And that means you can see The Osbournes, too.”
Stanley looks rather taken aback. “Friday? Oh, dear. You’ll have plans then, I’m sure. And I couldn’t possibly expect . . .”
“Tomorrow suits me perfectly,” I say with a little smile. With Simon away for the weekend and Chloe not coming down until Saturday morning, it’ll be quite nice having Stanley round. So long as I can keep him watching sitcoms, I won’t have to do any Reiki. And it looks like he could use the company. I recognize that look in his eye—he isn’t stressed, he’s lonely.
“Really?” says Stanley, his eyes lighting up. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Perfectly. Make it seven-forty-five, so we’ve got time to make some tea before it starts. And if you start going on about payment again, I’m going to chuck you out, okay?”
“I suppose so,” Stanley says excitedly, picking up his coat. “But, in that case, you’ll allow me to bring the biscuits next time, will you?”
I want to give him a little hug, but he’s not the sort of man you hug. At least I don’t think he is. And I’m not sure Reiki healers go in for that sort of thing, so I just nod, and smile brightly as I show him out. I could really get into this Reiki lark.
11
Chloe looks nonplussed.
“Um, hello!” she says cheerfully, but I can see she’s confused.
“Oh, right, yes,” I say, as if having an elderly gentleman in my flat watching Friends is completely normal. “This is Stanley. Stanley, this is my best friend Chloe. Who I thought wasn’t coming until Saturday!”
“Yeah, sorry for the short notice.” Chloe shrugs. “I managed to get away from work early, and thought, what the hell . . .”
Stanley stands up to shake Chloe’s hand. “Delighted to meet you. Are you a fan also?”
Chloe looks at me and raises her eyebrows.
“Friends,” I explain. “Stanley came round to watch it.”
“Oh, I see! Oh, right, well, of course I am. I mean, I wouldn’t say I watch it religiously, but . . .”
Stanley moves up the sofa to make room for her, and she takes off her coat and joins him just as the music starts. I take her bags into my bedroom, then take the pizzas I bought earlier out of the oven and place them on the coffee table. Stanley pulls a bottle of wine out of his bag and signals for me to open it.
The thing is, Chloe only rang me an hour ago to tell me she was coming down, and I didn’t have the heart to tell Stanley not to come. Luckily she isn’t the sort of person to get freaked out very easily—she just sort of accepts things and makes the most of them. Like the time I was meant to get us tickets to see the Stone Roses and I got a bit confused and got us tickets for Guns N’ Roses instead—she just got really into the gig and ended up snogging some biker.
So instead of making an excuse to usher her into my bedroom to tell her what’s going on, I figure it’ll probably be okay if I don’t say anything. After all, I don’t want to make Stanley feel awkward. When I told him Chloe was coming over, he immediately said he would leave, and I had to spend ages convincing him to stay.
I pour the wine, and squeeze in next to Chloe on the sofa.
“So, Stanley, tell me,” says Chloe, “what do you like apart from Friends?”
“Oh, Cressida introduced me to EastEnders and I also like Ground Force,” Stanley says heartily.
“Who’s Cressida?” Chloe asks.
Shit.
Stanley stares at her uncertainly. “Cressida?” he says, looking at me.
“Uh—okay,” says Chloe, giving me a strange look.
I pretend to have spilled some wine on my top to cause a commotion. Stanley gets up and I rush into the bathroom trying to work out what I’m going to say. Luckily Chloe comes after me.
“Natalie, is everything okay?” she asks me as I pretend to rinse out my top.
“Yes, of course,” I tell her, feeling absolutely the opposite. Then I drop my voice to hushed tones. “Look, that whole Cressida thing . . . It’s just a name Stanley likes to call me, okay? I don’t know why. I think he might have a daughter called Cressida or something.”
I blush as I lie. It feels terrible. But what choice do I have?
“Oh God, sorry,” Chloe gushes. “I had no idea. Look, I won’t mention it again, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully.
Ten minutes later, when she pops to the loo, Stanley leans over.
“Bit backwards, is she?” he says sympathetically.
I stare at him. “What do you mean?”
“Your friend, Chloe. Not even remembering your name! Oh, it’s so sad—so pretty, and so young, too!”
I shuffle about in my seat for a few seconds. This is really wrong. I can’t have Stanley thinking my best friend is stupid.
I take a deep breath.
“It’s true,” I find myself saying. “But look, she’s really sensitive, so don’t mention it, will you? She . . . er . . . likes to call me Natalie . . .”
Okay, now I’ve really stooped about as low as you can go. Telling Stanley Chloe is retarded? Jesus, is this going to be my life from now on, terrified about any of my friends ever meeting each other in case they find out what a barefaced liar I really am?
To my relief, Stanley decides he’s not quite ready for the Osbournes and leaves after Friends.
“Sorry about that, but he’s sweet, don’t you think?” I say as we hear the door downstairs bang and hear Stanley walking off down the street.
“Very. So how did you adopt him?”
I hadn’t thought of that. I can hardly tell Chloe the truth, can I?
“Oh, we, um, just kind of got talking one day. At the bus stop.”
“I see,” says Chloe thoughtfully. “Strange that.”
I look up sharply. “Strange? No, not really. I’m always talking to strangers in the street. London’s actually much more friendly once you start talking to people,” I say quickly.
“Just random people in the street?” Chloe asks persistently.
“Absolutely. The more random the better.”
“He also said something about you being his healer,” she says pointedly.
“His healer?” I try to sound astonished, and instead overdo it and end up sounding really guilty.
“His Reiki healer, to be precise,” she says, taking a large swig of wine. “Natalie, just what is your job down here? I didn’t even know you were that into alternative stuff—when we went to that spa in Bath, you said it was all a load of rubbish. You can tell me, you know, if you’ve had a change of career. I think it’s really exciting!”
“Exciting?” I say faintly. It doesn’t feel exciting. It feels bloody ridiculous.
“God, yes. So are you like a proper healer person? Could you do me? Did you have exams and stuff?”
“No . . .” I say, trying to think fast. A couple more white lies can’t harm, can they? “I haven’t actually done my exams yet. I’m, you know, still studying. And Stanley . . . well, he lets me practice on him.”
“God, you’re a dark horse,” breathes Chloe. She seems really excited, but it could just be shock. I am so not the sort of person to become a healer. “I just had no idea,” she continues. “I thought you were being a bit cagey about your job, but I never suspected this. So when are you going to jack in your advertising job and do this full-time?”
I smile weakly. “Oh, that’s quite a long way off yet. I mean, there’s loads of studying, exams, workshops, you know. I’m just going to wait and see how it goes, y’know?”
“Absolutely. So is there anything else you’re keeping up your sleeve? What’s going on with that guy you were seeing?”
I reluctantly grin. “He bought me a very pretty dress.”
“Ooh! Show me, show me!” squeals Chloe.
“No, wait, let’s open some more wine first. I want to hear every detail. And don’t you dare leave anything out—I want the truth, the whole truth, so help you God.”
As I take a bottle of wine out of the fridge, I can’t help but wonder whether I’m ever going to be able to tell the whole truth to anyone ever again.
We decide against going out with Alistair and Michael on Saturday night. Mainly because Alistair doesn’t appear to be in and Michael doesn’t say, “So, do you fancy coming out with Alistair and me tonight?” when we go and see him in Joseph. Although he does find Chloe some amazing trousers that make her legs look about six feet tall, and gives her his staff discount to boot, so it wasn’t a wasted trip.
To be honest, I tell Chloe as we get ourselves dolled up, it’s probably better going out on our own. You know, like old times.
She agrees enthusiastically. “So where are we going to go?” she asks, perfecting her black eyeliner in front of the bathroom mirror. “Shall we go out dancing?”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I say, nipping into my bedroom to have another look in Time Out. I don’t want to confess that I’ve only ever been to Canvas and Woody’s—I’ve made out like I know London inside out and back to front. I find a club called Notting Hill Arts Club in the listings page, and mentally note down its address. Or there’s Subterranea—but I’m not sure the music’s quite what we’re after. I mean, break-beat sounds all very well, but I have no idea how you’d dance to it . . .
Chloe is still rummaging around in her makeup bag, so I decide to have a quick tidy-up—my flat has become a bit of a dumping ground in recent days, and not in a cool way like Julie’s flat—more in a Men Behaving Badly way.
As I pick up a load of papers and flyers for low-rate credit cards from the coffee table, I look hesitantly at the new pile of post that has accumulated for Cressida. Nothing much—just a couple of brown envelopes. But I’ve promised myself I’m not going to open them—not this time. I mean, to open someone else’s post a couple of times could be understandable—forgivable, even. But to do it again is just asking for trouble.
Although they do look pretty boring, really. Innocuous. And if I want Simon to think that I am actually Cressida, I should probably have some letters addressed to Cressida lying around, shouldn’t I? Plus, surely I should know what sort of letters she gets, if I’m going to sound convincing?
Little White Lies Page 15