She puts a finger on her chin. ‘Sex? Now remind me.’ Then, smiling at Clare. ‘Remember Anna is eight.’
‘I could give you a personal briefing. You know I’m always on offer, dear Jen.’
‘Tempting, but you don’t have a willy.’
‘True, but there are very effective ways and means. Besides, who needs a willy? Isn’t that what little boys have before they grow into pricks? Like our dearest head teacher?’
Jen laughs at Clare’s pun. She’s one of the blonde, slim and pretty candidates appointed by their lack-of-personal-space head. Jen adores her for making her sexuality loudly known whenever he’s in earshot.
The word ‘willy’ reminds her of Teddy’s party. It was such a lovely day. Dan and Geri were so content with their stunning little boy. After a quiet start, Penny seemed happy too; she was back at work and was thrilled that two scientific articles she’d written were to be published in a medical journal.
‘Bloody hell, Pen, you make the most of your time, don’t you? You were meant to be resting!’
‘I know. Manic crazy woman. To be honest it’s a curse,’ she replied, but she said it easily and with a smile. So measured and calm, it was hard to believe she’d been the woman at the window.
Nick seemed tense. She asked how his chat with Patrick had gone and how he was feeling about it all, but his reply was interrupted when Lisa stepped over. Then later Seb arrived. His hair reminded her of how he’d had it in the days Yvette got up at the crack of dawn to drive him to swimming training before school. He looked a little sheepish, probably because he’d bought a ridiculously huge teddy bear from some posh toy shop in London.
The girls had stared at her with dagger eyes. ‘You’d never let us have anything so big, so plush or expensive in our bedrooms,’ their eyes said.
‘We have a small house and I’m only a poor lowly teaching assistant!’ hers replied.
Lisa was animated and chatty with everyone as usual, but Nick’s gaze followed her around the room. It looked as though he was monitoring how much she was drinking. She hopes Lisa doesn’t have a booze problem, but then again who doesn’t, to some degree? No one likes a drink as much as she does and there have been one or two times she’s wondered about her mum, when she’s phoned her late at night and Nola’s voice has been undeniably slurred and teary.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks her mum when this happens.
‘Just jumbled up inside,’ her mum replies. ‘I’ll be back to myself by tomorrow.’
‘OK, sweet dreams,’ Jen always says, knowing she should take her concern further, but ending the call nonetheless. She’s never properly broached her mum’s loneliness or her heartbreak. She feels guilty at times, but even now, even after all these years, her father’s betrayal still feels too personal.
Then of course there was Will at Dan’s house. It was lovely to see him smiling and joking, mucking around with the girls as usual. Though she knew the frostiness had been of her making, the phone call on the eve of Teddy’s birth had broken the ice. They hugged tightly at the door when he and Penny arrived, and as she milled around the party, feeling that life was again on an even keel, she tried to picture herself at a celebration to wet the head of his and Penny’s baby. ‘I can do it,’ she said positively to herself. ‘I can be happy for them both.’ But when they were saying their goodbyes and Will gave her another hug, he whispered in her ear, ‘I need to talk to you about something important. I’ll text.’
Will’s something important will be revealed when he visits this afternoon. Jen’s guess is that Penny is pregnant, and although she’s trying very hard to be happy for them both, she finds the practice of her positive words is far harder than the theory.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Penny
‘Penny?’ she hears. Then suddenly too loud. ‘Penny?’
She shakes herself back to the bright whitewashed room. ‘Sorry, miles away.’
Debbie cocks her head. ‘What are you contemplating?’
Will’s emotional absence at home. His distant gaze, lack of appetite, furrowed brow. Saying he needs time to think. Living on eggshells too. Waiting and hoping and praying when she really wants to shake him and scream: What’s to think, Will? What’s to think?
‘Nothing much. Sorry, I’m just tired. We had a busy weekend. I didn’t sleep that well.’
Debbie waits.
‘Some friends of ours had a baby recently. They had a small party to wet the baby’s head on Sunday. It was nice.’
She pictures Dan’s baby, his gorgeous little Teddy. He was passed from person to person, but Will didn’t seem interested. As ever, he larked around with Jen’s kids. That’s fine, really fine, of course it is. Some people are better with older children. He always seems drawn to Holly, but she’s musical like him, that’s all.
Debbie clears her throat. ‘Did you talk to your doctor, Penny? Are you still on the meds?’
God, it’s bright in the room. Pulling up her handbag, she fishes for sunglasses. ‘Yes, still on them for now.’ That’s what she told her dad; that’s what she’s told Will. And she’s fine, really fine. No one needs to know. And pills are most definitely not always the answer. They can make things a whole lot worse. She knows that better than anyone.
‘If you did decide not to take your medication, you’d need to show you were managing well. If you weren’t, there could be intervention. Forced intervention. You do understand that, don’t you, Penny?’
She hears Debbie’s voice, but doesn’t reply. She’s back at Dan’s party, watching her husband. It’s her imagination, it really is. That same stupid paranoia from the wedding. Loads of people look similar. It would’ve been well before she and Will met, so he would have told her. He would most definitely have told her. He’s not just her husband, he’s also her best friend.
Friends don’t lie. Do they?
And they’re going to escape; they have to escape.
She comes back to Debbie’s question. ‘Yes, of course I understand.’
Gazing through the sunglasses, she smiles a reassuring smile. Everything’s fine, absolutely. She’s coping perfectly. And anyway, she convinced them she was ‘managing well’ last time. They let her out, didn’t they?
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Nick
All fingers and thumbs, Nick texts his mother to say he’s on his way, then meets her at the hospital entrance to hand over the insurance envelope. She looks over his shoulder, her eyes showing surprise. ‘Is that my car, love? Should you be driving it? I can ask your father, but I don’t think you’re insured.’
He explains it’ll be fine, that a work emergency has cropped up, that he’ll be back to the hospital as soon as he’s free. He tells Dora to keep in touch about the medical insurance and to think of anything she wants him to bring later. Food, newspaper, clothes, he says, but he’s finding it hard to concentrate as he gazes at her soft quizzical face. This woman isn’t his mother. This woman is his grandmother! He has a desperate need to know more and the only person he can think of asking is his godfather. And he can do that right now; Derek is retired, he’s bound to be home.
Swallowing down the fiery combination of bile and prawns, he drives back the way he’s just come, to tree-lined central Hale this time. Alert to his mum’s disappointment if he was caught speeding or scratched her beloved car, he consciously stops his foot pressing down hard on the accelerator.
God, not his mum. She isn’t his mum! The words pump through his veins. Not his mum, not his mum. Unbelievable. Bloody unbelievable.
Then another breathless thought, almost gripping his windpipe: Harry Quinn’s not his dad. Then who the hell is?
The Dillons’ crazy-paved driveway is lit by the sun. The front door of the bungalow immediately opens and Iris steps out. ‘Hello, Harry,’ she says brightly, her blue eyes shining. ‘I saw you through the kitchen window. I thought it was your mum. It’s her car, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I’m just borrowing it,’ Nick replies, not likin
g to correct his name. ‘Is Uncle Derek in?’
‘Sorry, lovey. He’s just popped out to do a bit of shopping, but he’ll be back soon. Come on in. I’ll put on the kettle.’
He follows her into the bungalow, noticing she’s missed a pink curler at the back of her head. It’s like a furnace inside and yet she’s wearing a thick knitted cardigan over a floral summery dress and smart patent shoes.
Iris busies herself at the kettle, pouring boiling water in the teapot, swilling it around, then pouring it out again several times. He watches silently, fluffing his hair, fingering the scar on his cowlick, tapping his foot.
Dora isn’t his mum, not his mum. Bloody hell, what the fuck? Does Iris know? Does everyone know? For God’s sake, where’s Derek?
He takes a deep breath. ‘You look nice. Are you going out?’ he asks.
She blinks, baffled. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Then sits down at the table opposite him without finishing her chore. ‘Now tell me what you’ve been up to, young man,’ she says with her neat warm smile. ‘You’re working now, aren’t you? No more late nights at university and lying in bed until noon! Nice to earn a few pounds here and there, but still …’ She reaches for her handbag and brings out her purse, fumbling for a few moments with her knobbly fingers. ‘Never hurts to have a little extra, does it?’
Her small eyes are bright and her hand slightly shakes as she hands him a crisp ten-pound note. Nick takes a deep breath, knowing it’s wrong, but needing to use her apparent confusion.
‘Thanks, Auntie Iris,’ he says, his heart pelting. ‘I was talking to Patrick about Susan the other day …’
Iris chuckles. ‘A right pair those two. She bossed him around like billy-o. No wonder he never smiled. He’d have these tantrums and there was nothing anyone could do to stop them except your Susan. “Stop it, Patrick!” she’d bark crossly and he’d stop misbehaving, just like that. He adored that girl.’ She sighs. ‘But then, so did my two.’ She stands up abruptly, a small frown on her face. ‘Did you say you’d like tea, lovey? Or perhaps a nice hot chocolate? I might have some cream and marshmallows.’
‘When will Derek be back?’ Nick asks. The bitterness is stuck in his throat and he’s thirsty, but the urgent need is to extract information while he can.
‘Oh, golf takes time, love. It’ll be a while.’ She looks doubtful for a moment. ‘Eight holes? Is that right? Or did he say nine?’
Nick nods, glancing around the bright kitchen as he loosens his thin tie. His eyes rest on a glass-fronted unit displaying ornate china plates for every month of the year and some framed photographs of small children. ‘Are those the grandchildren?’ he asks. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any photos of your boys from when they were little? With Patrick and Susan, maybe?’
He follows Iris into the lounge where she kneels on the floor and extracts box after box from the low sideboard cupboard. She opens the lids, but her photographs aren’t labelled or in packets like his mum’s, so she tips the contents of each box onto the mustard and brown carpet swirls, spreading them out with her arthritic hands and peering at each photograph in turn. As she pushes the rejects away, Nick collects them and puts them back in their boxes. He feels sweaty and nervous, aware that he’s somehow taking advantage of her.
‘Here’s one,’ she says after some time and passes it to him. It’s a snap of a thick-haired blonde girl and a boy holding hands. They’re standing next to two taller boys who are both looking away from the camera and towards her. Iris taps the photograph. ‘See what I mean? She was probably only eight or nine here but she was the boss of them all. My two adored her, especially our Jamie.’ She plays with the beads around her neck and chuckles, her eyes bright. ‘They had that little spark going on, I could see it. When she grew into a beauty, he couldn’t drag his eyes away. I caught them having a cuddle once or twice, but he went on to marry …’ She looks blank for a moment. ‘What’s she called? Our Jamie’s wife? Not the one now. The one who took him away?’ Her eyes cloud with tears. ‘She kept him from us, you know. He never came home. Well, not really.’
She abruptly recovers herself, pulls out a few more photographs and hands them to Nick, but time is passing and he wants to study them properly. ‘Could I borrow these?’ he asks.
The photographs are cleared away and they’re back in the sweltering kitchen when Derek returns with shopping bags. He looks surprised to see Nick.
Nick covers his agitation with a smile. ‘I know, Mum’s car. I just popped round to let you and Iris know that Dad’s in hospital with his hip. It sounds pretty painful, so I’m feeling guilty for all that chivvying! Better get back with the items Mum’s asked me to buy from the supermarket. No news yet of when they’re operating, but I’ll keep you posted.’
Keeping his hand in his pocket, he makes for the door, anxious that Iris might mention the photographs or ask for them back, fearful that he’ll somehow lose the treasure that’s hiding there.
‘It’s like an oven in here. What have you been doing with the bloody heating, Iris?’ he hears Derek say as he closes the front door.
‘Little Harry Quinn wasn’t complaining,’ comes the reply. ‘When on earth did he learn how to drive?’
After returning to the hospital with the shopping and settling his parents, Nick returns his mum’s car to her garage and waits for a bus home. It isn’t just to avoid the expense of another taxi fare. He needs the thinking time, and weirdly, the privacy and the anonymity to study the photographs. Like a nettle sting, they smart and itch in his pocket. He feels strangely guilty; perhaps it’s Patrick’s comment from the road trip, or perhaps it’s his feeling of duplicity having taken them from Iris. Or maybe it’s the surge of secret and fearful excitement, the sort that made you want to pee as a kid.
As the bus trundles towards home, he carefully takes out the photographs. There are only three snaps, each time of Susan and Patrick Quinn, Matt and Jamie Dillon, but they seem to span the years. Five years of age, nine and fourteen or fifteen he guesses, but it’s the last one he studies with great care, trying to see if there’s any resemblance, not between him and Susan, that’s a given, but between him and Iris’s younger son Jamie.
The blend of sweat and goosebumps stays the length of the journey. What had happened back then? Susan was fifteen when she gave birth. Did Jamie Dillon know? Did Dora decide to pass off the baby as her own from the moment she discovered her daughter’s pregnancy? It wasn’t unknown in strict Catholic families to cover up the shame, but this was the nineteen eighties, not the fifties. Had Susan died in childbirth? Or was it something more sinister, as Patrick implied?
The bus drops him near Tesco, half a mile away from home. He walks briskly up Kingsway with resolve. After a sure and stable existence until his marriage, life has become uncertain, unsteady, downright precarious. Perhaps he is boring, perhaps he’s a predictable slogger, but he needs to restore some certainty in his life and Lisa is the start. She’s either with him or against him, it’s as simple as that.
The bedroom curtains are drawn when he arrives at the semi. He’d forgotten about Lisa being paged in the night, so lets himself in, sits on the sofa, then stands; paces the carpet, glances at Lisa’s novels on the bookcase, her pictures on the walls. Spots a small glint of missed glass, remembers the cut, looks in the mirror, sees Mouse’s face. Shaking his head, he leaves the room, considers walking out, but heads towards the bathroom for a pee.
Finally settling at the kitchen table, he stares through the window. The daffodils have appeared in bud, not yet opened, but the rest of the small patch is a mass of overgrown grass and weeds. He idly thinks about going out there at the weekend and imposing some order, but suddenly realises he doesn’t want to. It isn’t his bloody garden. He looks around the kitchen. The cups aren’t his, the plates aren’t his, the washing machine, the scrubbing brush, the flipping chair that he’s sitting on isn’t his either.
Wearing her slippers and a fluffy dressing gown, Lisa shuffles in, looking sapped. ‘I heard
the toilet flush. You should be at work. How come you’re here, Nick? Is everything all right?’
The mutinous resolve he felt on the bus starts to fade as he studies her features, sleepy and concerned. He puts his hand to his chin, his fingers finding the small scab.
The words burst out. ‘I don’t think we’re going to make it, Lisa.’
As though he’s slapped her, she jolts back. Seconds later, her face crumbles. ‘Don’t say that, Nick. Why would you say that?’
There’s no going back. He takes a few moments to work out his anger. ‘This house for a start. It isn’t my home, it’s yours. I feel like I’m a guest, having to ask for permission to have a bath or change the towels—’
‘When have I ever asked for permission?’
‘You haven’t, but that’s how it feels …’ He tries a different tack. ‘My parents. You’ve completely distanced yourself from them. You’re not even friendly when Mum calls …’
She sits opposite him, her face pale and stunned. ‘That isn’t true. We chatted the other day. But your dad … He shouted me down and threw me out of his house. There has never been an apology. That isn’t nice, Nick.’
Slipping his hand in his pocket, he touches the photographs with his fingertips, not ready to share, still bewildered about his discovery this afternoon.
‘Then the Susan episode,’ he says, feeling another surge of heat. ‘It matters to me, but you haven’t even bothered to hide the fact that you’re bored of the whole thing, then when someone else takes an interest, when Jen takes an interest, you fly into a temper and throw a glass.’
‘You know I didn’t aim it at you. We have bouncy walls …’ She takes a deep breath. ‘OK, I get a bit touchy about Jen, and I apologised about the glass, but you’re not being fair, Nick. I was interested, I am interested about Susan, but you made me feel left out. You’ve been incredibly moody and when I’ve tried to be friendly, you’ve pushed me away. You know that’s true.’ She stops talking, wiping away the large tears on her cheeks. ‘Being pushed away and rejected by someone you love really hurts. How would you feel?’ she says quietly.
My Husband's Lies Page 24