Seven Lies (ARC)
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member much of what I did or where I went or who I spoke to. But I
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eventually went back to work and Marnie invited me for dinner at the
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end of that first week. Charles worked late— often until after eleven,
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sometimes not returning to their apartment until the early hours of the
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morning— but he was determined never to work late on a Friday eve-
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ning. He said that his weekends were sacred. It was all about balance,
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he said. But he was always exhausted by the time he returned home at
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eight, maybe nine o’clock at the end of the week. He never wanted to
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go out, or to see friends, or to do anything much. He just wanted to be
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at home. And so my weekly visits became a recurring thing, a pattern
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that continued and was rarely interrupted.
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But I felt that their marriage might mean the natural end of that
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routine. It had been one way for years, but I knew, better than most,
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that everything ends eventually.
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At half past ten, Marnie stood, and said, “Right.”
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I remained seated. She lifted our three dessert bowls from the table,
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stacking them in the corner of her arm, balanced against her inner
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elbow. She picked up the now empty fruit bowl, the jug of cream, and
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disappeared into the kitchen. We heard her switch on the radio, the
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sound of stringed instruments purring together, and the clink of ceramic
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dishes against one another. We listened to her footsteps, her socks pad-
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ding against the floor as she moved from one side of the kitchen to the
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other, opening and closing the fridge, the dishwasher, the cupboards.
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I should have followed her, but I didn’t.
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“The wedding,” I said, and I don’t know why because I knew instinc-
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tively that it was a bad idea and yet once I had started I didn’t know how 11
to stop.
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“Such a good day,” said Charles, yawning, stretching his hands above
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his head, just like he had done that evening, the exact same movement,
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his shirt once again straining against his belt. “Just the best.”
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“The end, though,” I said.
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“The end?” he repeated. “What about it?”
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He seemed genuinely bewildered.
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Now, very quickly, just one thing before I go on. And perhaps this
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should have been explained to you earlier. It is easy to forget since you 20
have told very few lies in your lifetime. Whereas I have told a great
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many. So perhaps you can learn a little something from my experience.
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The first thing you must consider is that a lie is just a story. It is made 23
up, a fiction. The second thing is that even the strangest fiction, the most 24
ludicrous lies, can feel entirely true, entirely possible. We want to believe 25
the story. The third is that believable lies are therefore no great feat. But 26
the most important thing of all, something you must never forget, is that 27
we are not immune to our own lies. We revise our stories, altering the
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emphasis, increasing the tension, exaggerating the drama. And
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eventually— after we have told this modified story a few times, improv-
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ing it with each recital— we begin to believe it, too. Because we are revis-S31
ing not only our stories but also our memories. Our fictions— moments
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that we created, that we imagined— begin to feel real. You can see the
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situation unfolding, the revision as it might have happened, and you
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begin to question where the truth ends and the lie begins.
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“The end,” I repeated, and he shrugged his shoulders and furrowed
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his eyebrows. “The end of the evening. The end with you and me.”
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“You and me?” he asked. “Jane. Come on, really. What is this?”
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It was too late, you see. He had been granted the time to revise his
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recollection, to deliberately misremember that moment. There was no
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longer a single, solid truth. Had he replayed that story again and again?
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Had he altered his actions each time? Had he grown to believe his re-
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vised narrative, so that his incredulity, his confusion, would now seem
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authentic?
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I felt stupid, as though I was talking nonsense, and then I saw some-
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thing, a shadow sliding down Charles’s face. His forehead wrinkled and
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then again was taut. His left eyebrow twitched, just once. His cheeks
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flushed pink, perhaps with embarrassment, perhaps with rage. He
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licked his lips, and then pressed them together between his teeth so
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that the edges faded to white. He made a brief, unintentional noise and
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bit at the corner of his lip.
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I was no longer sure of anything.
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“You know what I’m talking about,” I said.
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“I don’t think I do,” he replied. He placed both palms flat on the
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table, spreading his fingers.
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“You do,” I said. And I didn’t know if he did, but I really thought
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that he might.
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“I’m sorry, Jane,” he said, and his face was stone, his features solid,
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entirely untouched. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”
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“You don’t?” I asked, hoping still that he might make a mistake and
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expose a truth.
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“What do you mean?” he asked, and he tilted his head to the left
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slightly, as though he really was curious, as though he really was bewil-
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dered by my question.
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“I think— ” But I didn’t know what I thought. “You touched me,” I
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said instead. “Do you remember that? You were drunk but . . . you
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touched me.”
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He contorted his face into a portrait of shock. It felt false. His brows
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br />
were too high on his forehead, his eyes too wide, his jaw dropping his
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lips into a sham little O.
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“Jane,” he said. “What do you mean, touched? You’re not suggesting— ”
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“You remember,” I said. “I know that you do.”
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He softened his face, adopting a strange look of concern.
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“Jane, I’m sorry, and I really don’t want to be rude, but I don’t know
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what you’re talking about at all. I want to help . . . and I’d hate for you 11
to think— Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he said. “Tell me what
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it is that you think has happened.”
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“At the end,” I said. “When we were sitting down.”
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Something felt different; something felt wrong.
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“Go on,” he said.
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“You put your arm around my shoulder,” I said.
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I could tell that it was dark outside because the red curtains looked
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black against the pale walls. The candles were fading, flickering on
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metal seats.
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“I mean, if I’m being completely up- front with you,” he began, “then
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I have to say that I don’t remember that. But I suppose, yes, I’m not
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surprised by it. I think I hugged almost everyone there at some point
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throughout the day. It was a party, a celebration. And I . . . Is that it, 24
Jane? My arm around you? Is that what’s made you so uncomfortable?
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Because I wouldn’t have thought . . . But if it did . . . I really didn’t mean 26
to cause any offense.”
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“No,” I said. “No, that’s not it, not at all. Not your arm around my
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shoulder. That’s not what I’m talking about. Your hand,” I said. “You
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were touching me.”
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And then I noticed that he wasn’t quite looking at me anymore. He
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was instead looking over my head, beyond where I was sitting, to
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something— someone— behind me. And I realized that the radio wasn’t
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on and that I couldn’t hear Marnie’s feet padding against the kitchen
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floor or the clinking of china or the seal of the fridge unsticking and
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then sucking itself closed. All I could hear was the quiet hum of the
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dishwasher.
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I had no way to know how long Marnie had been standing there
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listening to our conversation; I didn’t know how much she had heard.
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But I was absolutely sure that Charles had been manipulating the inter-
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action for her benefit, performing a version of it that he wanted her to
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see, rather than the equivalent, the truth, that might have played out
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had it been just him and me.
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He shrugged— he didn’t need to use words to convey his meaning: I
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have no idea what the hell she’s talking about— and I looked at her over 14
my shoulder.
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She was still wearing her apron. It was gray with white detailing and
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white rope tied around her waist and around her neck. She had a dish-
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cloth in her hand, damp, ready to wipe the place mats. Her head was
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tilted to the left and her eyes were pinched, squinting at me over the
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dining table.
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“What’s going on?” she asked. She was looking right at me.
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But before I could reply, she turned to Charles. “Are you all right?”
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she asked.
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He shrugged.
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“Jane?” she said. “What is this?”
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It was too late.
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“He touched you. That’s what you said, isn’t it? When exactly did he
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touch you?”
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I knew that she was angry but I was too stupid to realize that she
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wasn’t angry on my behalf. My heart was thundering in my chest. I
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know that if I looked down I would see it trembling beneath my cloth-
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ing and my skin. My palms were clenched, clammy.
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I wanted to say, Oh, nothing, but Charles had puppeteered me into 01
a corner and it was too late to pretend that I had said anything other
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than what it was that I had actually said. He was smart. And he was a
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very good liar. Perhaps he was so good that he believed his own non-
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sense or maybe he was just incredibly convincing, but either way he was
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cunning enough to trap me in my own truth.
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He’d maneuvered me into the edge of the web and I couldn’t escape
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with a lie.
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“What exactly are you accusing my husband of?”
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I had hoped that the truth might be greeted with some semblance
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of compassion, that she might choose to trust me, to fix this problem
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with me. But I knew then where her favor lay and I knew that it wasn’t
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with me. And— frankly— I had been ridiculous to hope otherwise.
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Emma had found the space in which to doubt me. And so of course
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Marnie would, too. Maybe you will as well.
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Her fingers quivered as she lowered the cloth to the table. Her pale
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face was flushed. Red blotches were flowering on her neck and mush-
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rooming toward her chest.
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“Well?” she insisted.
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“He assaulted me,” I said. “At your wedding. I’m really sorry, Mar-
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nie, but— ”
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“Assaulted?” she said, and her voice was steady, deeper than normal.
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Her eyes darted between us.
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I looked at Charles and he was flawless, so clever and so much better
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prepared than I was. His face was the perfect blend of apprehension—
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his eyes said, She needs help— and frustration— his tight jaw insisting, 26
You can’t possibly believe this nonsense, can you?— and his posture 27
screaming, I haven’t got a fucking clue what the hell is going on.
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“Yes,” I said, and I looked down at my hands clasped in my lap. “As-
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saulted.”
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“An arm around your shoulder? That’s what this is. A shoulder?”
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She was shouting by then, the pitch of her voice unsteady, as though
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she might cry. “Seriously, Jane. Is that what you’re on about? Is that all 03
this is? Because, seriously, then you need to— ”
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“No,” I interrupted. “Not just that. Not at all. He groped me,” I said.
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The words felt uncomfortable in my mouth. “He put his hand over my
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top, the top of my dress. And I didn’t say anything then; it didn’t seem
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right, not on your wedding day. But I had to say something. Can’t you
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see that I had to say something?”
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She tilted her head and looked at Charles and raised her eyebrow,
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asking a quiet question. I couldn’t interpret it and so I just continued.
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“I think he would have gone further,” I said, “if you hadn’t come
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over. I think he was . . . What were you thinking?” I turned to Charles.
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“If I’d encouraged you. Would you? Or was it just to make me feel
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small? It’s always that, isn’t it? Because you like to feel bigger and better 15
than everyone else.”
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“ Jane . . .” he said. “I’m not sure . . . I don’t know what’s happening 17
here, but I wasn’t looking for anything.”
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He stood up and went to stand beside Marnie, slipping his arm
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around her waist, coiling his hand into the rope waistband of her apron
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and rubbing the fabric between his fingers. I felt like a child, caught in 21
a row on the other side of my parents, they towering above me, dictat-
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ing the facts, I withering in the face of confrontation.
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And then his tone changed and he was angry.
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“Jesus, Jane!” he shouted. Marnie flinched. “It was my wedding day.
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And you’re my wife’s best friend. I don’t know what you think hap-
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pened but . . . for fuck’s sake. My God. No.”
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Marnie nodded slowly and it didn’t really matter if he believed his
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own story because she certainly did. Her face was thunderous, her eyes
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lit like candles on a birthday cake, flickering with rage.
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He thought he had trapped me, but there is always another lie, a
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better lie.
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