Holly? What the hell? ‘Of course.’
‘It’s about Holly’s weight loss. Haven’t you noticed?’ The teacher doesn’t try to keep the distain from her voice. ‘To be honest, she looks half-starved in her PE kit. It’s only my opinion, but if she was my daughter, I would have her checked out by a doctor.’ She’s silent for a moment. ‘Unless, of course, that’s already in hand.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nick
Nick opens his eyes. The bedroom is dark, Lisa silent beside him. The dream has dissolved but his legs are burning with the tingling sensation he’s experienced over the past few weeks. He doesn’t look at his watch; he knows it’ll be three, his personal witching hour.
He rewinds to his Hale visit, examining Derek’s face behind his closed eyes. ‘Patrick’s twin,’ he said, but the nod was final. That was as much as he was prepared to say. It was fair enough really. It wasn’t his godfather’s place, and as much as he had wanted to know more, he’d been embarrassed too, couldn’t wait to get out of the stifling bungalow. It wasn’t the sort of conversation Nick Quinn had with anybody. Except Lisa, of course. He’d rushed home with the news, his hand trembling on the steering wheel, pleased not to return empty-handed after all.
‘Susan was Patrick’s twin,’ he blurted the moment he arrived in their bedroom.
Lisa pulled off her eye mask. He could tell from her sleepy, disorientated look that she’d had a glass or two of wine, but she shook herself awake, patted the bed and spoke, her lilting voice infused with enthusiasm. ‘Really? Susan was your sister? Wow. Jump in and tell me all about it.’
They talked for an hour, maybe more, looking at the revelation from every angle. Lisa interested, asking questions, speculating on what might have happened. A childhood illness or an accident, she concluded. Either way it was tragic. No wonder it wasn’t mentioned. And she let him rabbit on, smiling and supportive and loving, until he remembered she was on an early shift. So then he let her sleep, watching her soft face and marvelling at how lucky he was to have found her, his needle in a haystack of mugshots online.
He now turns the pillow and sighs. He’s never had this wakefulness in his life before and isn’t sure how to deal with it. Some say to get up, have a piss, read a book or make a drink, but he doesn’t want to disturb his sleeping wife. Blackout blinds, thick-lined curtains and her eye mask. And a stiff drink. He thought her bedtime routine was odd at first, but as she put it, ‘You’ve never had to work shifts, have you, Nick? You’ve never had to trick your body into sleeping when you want it to. It isn’t flipping easy.’ And she was right. He’d never worked shifts, he’d never done anything unusual; he’d had a nice, comfortable, sheltered life. Regular and safe. The most dangerous thing he’d done was the internet dating, and even there he’d fallen on his feet more or less the first time. But then he’d been cautious about what he wanted, who he wanted. He’d chatted online with several women, but Lisa was the only one he had wanted to meet.
He sighs and turns to a thin crack of light through the curtains. Perhaps that’s why he’s so obsessed about the sister he’s never met. Not that he’s described it as an obsession; that was Lisa’s word. They’d talked about it most evenings and then on Tuesday she’d suddenly snapped. ‘Can’t we talk about something other than your bloody obsession?’ He was offended and hurt, put on his jacket to go out. But where would he go? For a drink with Dan would be the obvious choice, but Dan would look at him with those dark trustful eyes and Nick wasn’t ready to talk about it, probably never would be. A family secret wasn’t the kind of thing that went on in either of their lives. They were just ordinary guys.
Of course, there was the Penny blip. That wasn’t ordinary and if he’s honest he’s avoided telephoning Will because he doesn’t know how to handle it, how he would handle it, if he’d be forgiving or understanding, or just bloody annoyed. Once the shock had worn off he’d been fine at the wedding, relaxed about it on the honeymoon, but the discovery he had a sister has thrown him, the Nick Quinn he once knew has changed. This one wakes in the night full of resentment and anger.
Time passes and he stirs again with a jolt. Lisa’s side of the bed is empty and there’s daylight through the open door. He sits up and lowers his head, feeling dizzy and gluey from the interrupted argument with both his parents in his dream. The reason why has evaporated already, but he remembers the shouting, his and Patrick’s shouting.
He turns to the clock. Oh fuck, look at the time. Hot, sweaty and slightly nauseous, he tumbles out of bed. What the hell? He has a meeting at ten. Why didn’t she wake him?
The tiny contact lenses refuse to stick to his eyes, his toothbrush falls, spreading a line of striped paste on the floor. The shower is too cold, then too hot; he still hasn’t worked out how to fix the mean temperature, the soap is soggy and the towel Lisa left on the heated rail is still damp. The team meeting’s in an hour; it’s in a fucking hour! He needs breakfast, that’s the thing. He’s hopeless without food.
His head clears and his heart slows as he spoons in the dull muesli and chews. He almost breaks a smile. He hasn’t overslept since he went to a house party with Will and Dan and woke up next to an extremely fat girl. The ribbing went on for weeks. ‘Except she had no ribs,’ one of them quipped. The team meeting will be fine. It’s his team after all. He’ll take the tram, say his car’s on the blink. He can text, rearrange. He’s not usually late. It’s not the end of the world.
‘It’s not the end of the world, Nick!’ Jen’s words, said often at school. She called him for a chat last night.
‘I know the A Team are important,’ Lisa said when he’d finished. ‘But remember I’m a team member now. Your A plus!’
‘So you are,’ he replied, not sure that he liked it.
Feeling disoriented in his glasses, he climbs the stairs and pads to the bedroom. The door handle still sticks. Though he’s not a bloody joiner, Lisa asked him to repair it, replace it, whatever.
Standing at the wardrobe, he smiles wryly. ‘You and me both,’ he says aloud, as he struggles to align the sliding door on its track. He pulls out a grey suit. He and his colleagues sit in front of computers all day, so dress code is casual, but suits are expected for meetings. Raking irritably through Lisa’s clothes, which take up most of the closet, he searches for a shirt. But a white shirt isn’t there, nor any blue ones. What the hell? He hasn’t worn a bloody shirt all week. He stalks down the stairs to the kitchen, pulls out the ironing basket, throwing to one side Lisa’s uniforms, her blouses and skirts. His shirts are at the bottom, all bloody six of them, crinkled and creased. He pictures Lisa’s easy shrug. ‘They’re your shirts, Nick. They’re not going to iron themselves.’
He immediately thinks of his mum, wonders if there’s time for her to drive over and iron them now. Dismissing the thought, he shoves them into a plastic bag. He’ll drop them off after work. His mum will be delighted. There’s his dressing gown too. That needs a wash.
He stomps back upstairs, puts on a patterned shirt, toys with the selection of ties, then decides not to bother. He’s not at St Mark’s anymore, for God’s sake. Then he sits on the bed, sends a text to work and composes one to Lisa.
‘You could’ve given me a nudge before you left,’ he types before deleting it.
He wants to mention her team member comment, the lack of cereal choice, the towel, the soap and the shirts. The bloody door handle. He wants to complain about the description ‘obsession’. But he knows he isn’t being fair. He would’ve been annoyed if Lisa had woken him at half past five. She works the same as him; why should she do the shopping and the ironing? The word obsession still rankles, but she did apologise; someone had died on her high-dependency unit that day. Said she didn’t mean to be rude, but putting it in context …
He catches himself in the mirror as he leaves the bedroom. An unshaved man wearing dodgy glasses with wet spiky hair, trying to look trendy, stares back. He quickly takes a selfie. ‘Things can only get better,’ he types,
sending it to Dan and Will.
Scooping up his keys, he heads for the door. Then turns back to the kitchen, helps himself to a handful of biscuits and empties the bag of shirts into the ironing basket.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Penny
Penny stares at the jug as Debbie pours the water. Plastic, of course, with plastic matching beakers. God, she wishes she didn’t have to do this peeling back of layers. She’s hardly a risk to herself or anyone. But she’s being dutiful, as ever. Here to convince Will she’s stable, taking the antipsychotics like a good girl, even though they make her sluggish and tired.
Drifting back to last night, she tries to block out Will’s withdrawn mood, the way he stared at his mobile as though willing it to ring, then turning it face down when he saw she was watching.
Normal behaviour or secretive? Normal, Penny, normal. Don’t go there again. Paranoia, that’s all. Just stupid paranoia!
‘Penny?’ No clipboard today, Debbie leans her head on her fist. ‘The panic attack you described. The psychiatrist called it a psychotic episode. I know you’re a scientist. Do you think that’s fair?’
A curveball question; where is this going? The usual spread of goosebumps. ‘It’s an umbrella term, I suppose, for various mental health problems …’
Debbie gazes. ‘An umbrella term. Any similar episodes or issues?’
‘No.’
‘None at all?’
Penny shifts in her seat. ‘Exam time at uni, maybe.’ Then she smiles. ‘But everyone gets stressed then, don’t they?’
Debbie nods and waits. Then eventually: ‘OK. Can we go back to the wedding, Penny?’ The therapist picks up her notes. ‘You mentioned your anxiety about the dress and your need to change it because it was stained. Can you tell me more about it?’
Still picturing Will’s frown, Penny sips her water. On a high yesterday morning, a low when he got home. Work pressures, probably. Oh God, she hopes so.
‘Penny? Why were you anxious about your dress at the wedding?’
She comes back to Debbie’s soft eyes and her question. The query makes her angry and hot, but it’s one she can’t parry. A baby, a child, the intense need for Will’s baby. She’s played it down with him as usual, but he might talk about it in the family session, if one goes ahead. Then it would look odd.
She clears her throat. ‘I had just been to the ladies’ and discovered my period had started. The stain wasn’t blood, just the water from washing my hands, but I got it all out of proportion, I suppose. Tried to focus on other things …’
‘Like?’
Penny smiles wryly, hears the tune, but from a distance right now, thank God. ‘The rain.’
‘How did you feel about getting your period?’
She takes a breath, willing the words to come out normally. ‘I was disappointed. Will and I had been trying for a baby since we got married.’
Debbie stays silent.
‘Of course I couldn’t show it, but I was …’ Devastated, bloody devastated. Again. Watching other people’s kids laugh, hug and run. Envious, deeply jealous. Wanting to scream. ‘Disappointed. I thought I might be pregnant.’ She shakes her head. ‘Stupid, really. I think that every time.’
‘You thought you might be pregnant but you weren’t. How did that make you feel?’
Terrified she’ll lose Will. But she doesn’t say that. She tells another truth, relieved to let it out. ‘A failure. A complete failure.’
Seconds pass without words. ‘Penny? What are you thinking?’
Not thinking, but hearing, right now in her head.
‘Penny?’
She tries not to cover her ears. To be honest or not? Would Debbie tell Will? She’s never mentioned the voices to him. But she’s scared, really scared. It mustn’t happen again.
‘There’s a rhyme in my head now. Another nursery rhyme.’
‘Like at the wedding?’
Penny’s heart starts to slow. No, not an actual voice like the wedding, not really. ‘No, just a tune.’
‘Which is it?’
‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word.’
‘When do you hear these tunes or rhymes?’
‘When I’m anxious, I suppose.’
‘Do they help?’
Penny thinks. ‘They’re soothing, I guess. And safe.’
‘Why soothing and safe?’
Penny nods; it makes sense. ‘Takes me back …’
Takes her back to the time before she went bad. But, of course, she won’t say that. Will mustn’t know. He must never, never know.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dan
Feeling ridiculously light-hearted at Saturday breakfast, Dan takes the last bite of his bacon and egg bap and scrapes back his chair. Tensing as usual, he checks his mobile for new messages. The texts between him and Seb have been frequent over the past few days and he’s bobbed over to the Red Lion each evening for a quick beer with him, but the tight knot in his gut is still there. Of brotherly concern, of course. Fucking terror, if he’s honest. But everything’s fine, thank God. Seb is pretty much back to normal.
Well, as normal as life can be in such astonishing circumstances.
After the surprise call from Yvette on Tuesday, Dan didn’t know what to expect, and then when he got there and found Seb in that terrible state, he found he had reserves of strength and wise words he hadn’t known he possessed. He sent Mrs Taylor to bed with a reassuring smile and sat Seb in the kitchen, plying him with strong coffee and questions. What exactly had he taken? How many? Had this happened before? Did Will and his mum know?
There was a ball of anxiety in his stomach as he examined Seb’s broken face. He knew then that Seb wasn’t attention- seeking; his mental state was real and devastating. His heart lurching with compassion, he knew he had to do something, but what? Call an ambulance? Drive Seb to a hospital? Make him be sick? He’d left Geri asleep and alone. She had high blood pressure. Was she OK? But eventually Seb’s eyes seemed to clear. ‘You sound like the fucking Gestapo,’ he said. He began to talk then and Dan was reprieved from having to decide.
Coming back to Geri’s gaze, he kisses her cheek. ‘Will you be all right on your own? I don’t know how long I’ll be or how much stuff Seb has to move.’
‘I’m pregnant, not ill, Dan. Besides, I’ll be glad to get rid of you and all your hovering. Not to mention the smell of fried eggs!’
‘Hovering? Harsh word. I was thinking more domestic goddess. Who knew I was such a star. Cleaning, shopping, washing, great conversationalist—’
‘Thank goodness Jen has taken control of the cooking tonight is all I can say. It isn’t kind to give one’s friends constipation through lack of fibre, scurvy through lack of fruit, diabetes through excessive—’
He gives Geri a peck on her cheek. ‘You love me really.’
She puts her hand on her stomach and looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘I do love you. Very much. And I’m glad you’ve cheered up. You seemed really down a few weeks ago. It wasn’t like you.’
Dan shelves the comment. ‘That’s because I’m looking forward to the get-together tonight. Are you certain you’re up to it? I’m sure everyone would understand if—’
Geri throws a toast crust in his direction. ‘Go!’ she says. ‘You’re driving me bonkers.’
Absently listening to the radio, he drives to Withington through light rain which might just be snowfall, then he parks on the cobbles and looks up. In the light of day the three Georgian houses are huge. He hears Salim’s voice saying that if these houses were in Wilmslow they would be worth a ‘fucking fortune’. Yet even in Withington they are impressive, stunning and stately and still proper family homes; he certainly wouldn’t pass up the chance if one came on the market.
‘Morning, Mrs Taylor,’ he says brightly at her front door. ‘Chilly weather. Wrap up warmly if you’re going out today. Sounds crazy for February but I think it might snow.’
She takes him by the hand, holding it firmly. Sh
e’s a graceful lady, her angular face hollow now, but it’s clear where Seb gets his looks from. ‘Please call me Yvette.’ She looks at him intently, the focus for once in her eyes. ‘You will look after him, won’t you? He doesn’t like me to ask about it, but I know he goes through low phases. Bipolar, I expect. He won’t let me tell William. But he’s entitled to his privacy, we all are.’
‘Of course,’ Dan replies. He isn’t surprised at her words. He can remember the glazed look on her beautiful face when the A Team came for sleepovers and parties. She rarely smiled or fussed like his own mum. She’d silently detach herself and go upstairs to her room, leaving Mr Taylor in charge, gregarious, fun and loud.
She meanders to the kitchen, leaving him in the large breezy hall, tapping his foot on the parquet for several minutes. He considers calling Seb’s name, but something makes him look up and he’s there in the shadows of the first-floor landing, staring silently down.
Averting his gaze, Dan clears his throat and turns to a battered suitcase by the door. ‘Yours, I assume.’
‘Yup. Apart from the boxes, that’s pretty much it,’ Seb replies, walking down.
‘Three boxes and an eighteenth-century suitcase. The sum total of your worldly possessions?’ Dan asks. He wasn’t aware of holding his breath, but feels a warm spread of release as he exhales: Seb’s face looks healthy and fresh, the only evidence of dysfunction being the gauzy bandage on his right hand.
Seb shrugs. ‘Everything’s in France.’ Then he smiles. ‘Or was. Thrown out or sold by now, I should think.’ He walks to his mum who has silently appeared behind Dan. ‘You didn’t really like her, did you, Ma? But too polite to say anything.’ He pulls her into a hug. ‘I’m only down the road. Not as far as France this time. OK?’
My Husband's Lies Page 10