The Lies We Tell

  Jude stared at her in genuine surprise. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For being …’ Jude thought for a moment, then leaned forward and grinned. ‘Look, I’m only here because Mum applied for an academic scholarship, OK? We couldn’t afford the fees. And I’ve been dreading everyone looking down their noses at me just because we can’t afford to buy the poncey school uniform new, or because we live in a modern semi.’

  ‘Well none of that bothers me,’ Katherine replied, brusquely. ‘I like people for who they are. Unlike many people here.’ She waved towards the tables of girls now finishing their meals and starting to clear their plates. Some were the daughters of upwardly mobile professionals with jobs in London, others the offspring of local businessmen made good. All basked in the smug halo of parental affluence. ‘Deb Malton, for one,’ she added, tightly.

  As Jude wondered what untold history the girl had with Gonzo, a self-conscious movement drew her gaze to the inside of Katherine’s right arm where a lattice-work of faded pink scratch marks scarred the pale crease of skin. Eczema, Jude noted. ‘Look,’ she said conspiratorially, ‘I’ll keep your family life quiet if you don’t tell anyone I’m on an assisted place. Is that a deal?’

  Katherine looked anxious for a moment then, catching the glint in Jude’s eye, nodded. Without a word, the pair then rose to their feet, scraped the debris from their plates into a large open-lidded bin before stacking the dirty utensils on a nearby trolley, then left the dining hall, arm in arm.

  Chapter 8

  London – July 2013

  Worlds collide on the bleached paving stones of the Thames-side walkway where it narrows to become the riverside path as Katy hurries towards their meeting.

  Pallid office workers with rolled up sleeves stand sipping ice-cold beers toe to toe with muscular workmen whose bronzed chests and dusty boots signal their imminent return to nearby building sites. Earnest mums compare notes over glasses of rosé as their limp wards doze in buggies huddled in the scant shade of a solitary tree. Students sprawl across the threadbare grass careless of their discarded bikes. There are dogs to negotiate, too: mongrel breeds that are over-cooked and tetchy.

  Arriving early at her destination, Katy takes up position on the far side of the seat taking care to avoid a splatter of murky white deposited by a passing pigeon. She has allowed herself a good half hour to get to the place she agreed with Jude – a solitary bench in the no-man’s land between two popular riverside pubs just before the path dog legs behind an exclusive line of waterside mansions with plastered facades like wedding cakes. But nervous energy has made her walk so fast that she’s reached the river at Hammersmith Bridge with ten minutes to spare.

  The sun’s glare has made the metal arm rest too hot to touch so she folds her hands in her lap, over-heated and self-conscious in the outfit she’s chosen to wear. ‘The fine art of defensive dressing’ Mum would call it when, as a child, Katy would spend what seemed like hours watching her carefully back brush then style her hair and make-up her face before going out for the evening. Katy knew that the clothes she chose for her meeting with Jude could magnify or undermine her. So she is wearing plimsolls, a favourite pair of navy silk trousers and a white linen shirt, its sleeves loosely rolled, which she’s left un-tucked to disguise her thickening waist.

  Shifting position on the bench, Katy shoots a glance back the way she’s just come. It is an ideal vantage point, she decides. There’s a clear view of the footpath in either direction which will provide her with ample time to prepare for Jude’s approach. But for now the path in either direction is empty. She relaxes, slightly.

  In the tiny playground behind her, a small boy standing behind the turrets of a once brightly-painted wooden pirate ship sings to himself as he stares at the world through a toy telescope the wrong way around. The Polish woman seated next to his empty pushchair speaks loudly into a mobile phone while at her feet two pigeons perform a drunken sword dance around the broken neck of a beer bottle. Katy stands up and walks over to the river wall. The slate-grey bricks that line its top have been smoothed by the years and are warm to touch.

  On the opposite side of the river, a line of trees marks the boundary of St Paul’s school playing fields. She stares for a moment at four figures in Lycra shorts and Wellingtons on the shore below readying a rowing boat for launch from the muddy bank, their tanned arms glistening in the sun. Warmed by the simple innocence of this scene, her body slackens and her gaze dips downwards to the water’s surface, brown and eddying.

  The current at this particular point of the river runs deceptively fast and, though uninviting as she lowers her face to inhale the compelling cocktail of mud, diesel and salt she remembers how much she loves living by the river. How it almost feels like living by the sea. The light is different, somehow; the sense of powerlessness in the face of a superior force sharper. Just the previous week a thirteen year-old boy had jumped into the water not far from here – whether as a reckless act of bravado, an act of desperation or to cool off from the sun, it’s still not clear. He drowned, becoming merely another statistic – one of a hundred or so people to be smothered each year by the city’s watery pulse – when his body, bloated and bruised, washed up three days later by Greenwich pier.

  Resuming her position on the bench, Katy registers the footpath is still empty in either direction. Oblivious to the heat, she shivers as a memory of the day before she last saw Jude stirs.

  *

  It was later on in the day of their dawn swim that it happened. On the return walk to Gallows Hill from Coulters Copse. They’d been sunbathing. Then when it was time to leave Jude, first to the clearing’s edge, was irritated Kat was taking too long. So she had waited, but only long enough for Kat to reach her side before setting off once more at a brisker pace.

  With her head now pounding, Kat stumbled along a few steps behind until the edge of the copse where shade gave way to solar glare and the track grew more overgrown. Dizzy, her pace slowed further as she tried to sidestep the thorny gorse tails lashing backwards in Jude’s wake. And it was while waiting for the foliage to re-settle that a backward glance towards the copse shook her to the core. Because there was a dark shape standing at its edge in a space she was sure had been empty just a minute before. A solitary figure, observing their retreat.

  Just a gap in the foliage – an upright sliver of darkness between the trees, she’d reassured herself. Or the shaded trunk of a tree. Yet they’d walked just a little bit too far for her to be sure.

  Spinning around, back towards Jude, Kat noticed with a jolt of panic that her friend was almost out of view. Checking the copse once more she could see the figure was still there, though now it appeared to be standing in partial sunlight. No longer a shadow. Definitely a person, watching. As she broke into a run to close the gap between them, Kat begged her friend to wait. But Jude wouldn’t listen as she tried to tell her what she’d seen. Quit whining, she’d snapped, turning away. Always whining, you tedious child. As Kat’s eyes welled, Jude moved on.

  Ahead lay a dusty sea of heather and gorse punctuated by dazzling explosions of yellow. And as the distance between them widened Kat’s gaze skimmed the Punch Bowl’s tree-lined rim, its outline sharpened by the afternoon sun. Above her head against a blameless sky drifted two specks buoyed by an imperceptible zephyr. She watched for a moment, waiting in vain for the dive-bombing of some unknown earthbound prey. Looking back the copse, now empty, seemed a shimmering dream. Looking forward, Jude was gone.

  Struggling to rearrange her cotton dress to tug free the damp fabric from her heat-swollen body, Kat’s attention was drawn to a cloud of something swarming upwards a short distance ahead. Curious, she crept a few paces forwards – close enough to identify them as flying ants without stumbling into the fray.

  Repelled and intrigued, she stared in awe at their swollen bodies. Their wings glistening slick like oil. The nuptial flight, Kat knew from books she’d read. The single day each summer when ordina
ry ants magically take to the skies on wings of gossamer specially grown for the occasion. Having mated in flight the young queens, once fertilised, bite off their own wings before resuming their normal pedestrian guise ready to start nests of their own – capable of laying eggs for up to fifteen years. The males, though, would be consigned to an earthly death soon after mating. Proof there is such a thing as justice in this world, Jude had said, which had made Kat laugh. But now she was awed by the magical brutality at her feet.

  Silent and unmoving, she watched an ant scale the rubber toe cap of her plimsoll stirring a distant memory of another long, hot summer’s day and a pair of strawberry-patterned sandals. How hard she’d concentrated that sun baked afternoon years before on the lining up of each shoe – gently nudging one forward then the other, side by side, to face the grey slab of stone at the canal side’s edge. A shake of her foot was all it took to toss the ant off her shoe and Kat watched with a curious sense of satisfaction as it darted in frantic circles before finding its bearings and scuttling away. A bit like her friendship with Jude.

  For there were times when she knew Jude was toying with her – a truth that made her face burn with shame. Because theirs wasn’t a friendship, was it? She was welcome in Jude’s orbit only on Jude’s terms for as long as she served a useful purpose. A thought that made Kat loathe herself more than she hated Jude and despise how over-awed she’d been by her so-called best friend; intimidated, too. Sometimes, even, a little bit scared. Though her friendship with Jude wasn’t just one-way, was it? Hadn’t Jude given her the confidence she needed to carry on? Wouldn’t being without her be like losing a limb? Jude did care, and Kat needed Jude – for now, at least.

  It was getting late but blocking Kat’s way was the swarm. With dense clumps of gorse either side of the footpath, she had no choice but to run through it. So taking a deep breath and covering her mouth and nose with her hand she counted – three, two, one – then charged full pelt into the ants’ midst with eyes screwed shut, stopping only once she was a good ten paces the other side. One or two ants clung to her arms and the skirt of her sun dress but she was otherwise unscathed.

  With a shake of her head, she brushed herself down before completing the rest of her walk back to Gallows Hill fuelled by a curious sense of triumph.

  *

  ‘Bench, wall, bench – got ants in our pants, have we?’

  The voice is familiar yet different, weathered by the passing years. The laugh a dry, humourless sound. Both make Katy spin round on the bench with a start to see a slim woman dressed in a dark silk skirt and scarlet, sleeveless top. Freckles betray the coarsening texture of Jude’s sun-tanned skin. Her hair, once long and jet black, is lightly flecked with grey and cropped short. Her mouth is carefully painted the same colour as her top and toe nails. But when she takes off her sunglasses, a pair of over-sized ovals that dwarf her face, the familiar stare is piercing like sunshine on wet slate.

  How long she’s dreaded this moment, Katy thinks. And yet she is flushed by a fleeting stab of smugness. For though they are the same age a stranger observing she and Jude would surely put them at least five years apart, if not more – in Katy’s favour. The moment of triumph quickly evaporates, however, as she registers the other woman’s gaze deftly frisk her own body. The barely perceptible shift in Jude’s expression. Yet it is enough to produce in Katy, even twenty years on, that familiar feeling of discomfort as she feels as unsophisticated and gauche as the child she was when they first met.

  Without thinking, she raises her hand then brushes with her lips the barely perceptible knot of scar tissue.

  ‘I thought we agreed the bench at three,’ Jude observes coolly as she sits down in the position Katy has just vacated. Then she pats the empty space to her left hand side with an immaculately manicured hand, as if she owns the space.

  ‘We did!’ Katy lets slip a nervous laugh. Jude looks OK, doesn’t she? Whatever happened … she was – is – OK.

  ‘Well I’ve been waiting a quarter of an hour and when you did finally come you acted all antsy. And yes,’ Jude adds before Katy can ask. ‘I‘ve been watching you, Kat Parker.’

  Katy’s throat tightens. ‘It’s only just three now, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She hopes she sounds calm despite the volcanic forces now stirring deep inside. ‘Look.’ Holding out her watch, Katy notices that the second hand is still. As if her world stopped at one minute to three.

  ‘No matter,’ Jude cries with a magnanimous wave of a manicured hand. Square-tipped nails the colour of burnt rose petals glisten in the afternoon sun. ‘Come on. Sit down. Take the weight off your feet!’

  Katy does as she is told, inwardly cursing her decision to concede her position on the bench. Where she now has to sit, the sun shines straight into her eyes. In her rush to leave the flat she forgot her sunglasses, too, so now she’s no choice but to use her hand for shade.

  Jude sits in silence for a few minutes gazing out across the river. Katy stares ahead trying not to look at her but finds the temptation impossible to resist.

  Pretending to follow the path of a river cruiser, she turns her head just far enough towards Jude to scrutinise her profile. Before she can help herself, however, her eyes are mapping the rounded contours of her companion’s breasts. The absence of any formal support beneath the spaghetti straps of Jude’s top. The unmistakeable outline of the nipples rubbing against silk. Observations that make Katy’s pulse race and she hates herself for it. Despises the sudden, unwanted memory of the creamy softness her friend’s skin once had. The soft, floral smell of her hair. The smooth firmness of her lips.

  Unbearably hot all of a sudden, Katy scoops her hair from her face, shakes her head then lets it fall loose once more. Clearing her throat, she stares down at the ground where the battalion of ants is working to transport a discarded crust of bread to a destination unknown. A beat later, the other woman turns towards Katy with a wry smile.

  ‘So here we are then,’ Jude declares, stretching out her legs to slip off her sandals and brown her feet in the sun. ‘Thrown together by fate!’

  Perched stiffly on the edge of the bench with legs crossed, Katy’s face pricks with sweat. Why am I here? What does she want from me? They are sitting side by side looking straight ahead towards the river, but as time opens up like a giant fissure between them her breath starts to quicken. Stay calm, she tells herself, forcefully. Don’t be the first to break. But then, at last, before she can stop herself the stand-off is over. ‘Well then. Jude. So. What do you want?’

  ‘That’s not very friendly, is it, when you’ve not seen someone for – oh, what must it be …?’ Jude pauses, as if struggling with the maths before turning back towards Katy. ‘Feels like a lifetime, right? Look, I just wanted to get back in touch, OK? So come on, you first. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, you know …’ Katy mumbles. Struggling to find the right words feels like speaking a foreign a language.

  ‘Well you seem to have done alright for yourself.’ There’s a hint of sarcasm in Jude’s voice. With another broad sweep of her hand she gestures towards the iced facades of the five storey houses nearby, then sweeps her hand towards the distant floodlights of Craven Cottage just visible at the point where the river bends out of site to the east. ‘Fulham’s a pleasant part of the world to be in, I’d imagine. If you can afford it.’

  Fulham? But this is Hammersmith, Katy thinks. Chiswick, almost. How can Jude know where she lives? ‘Well, yes. Although I share with a friend.’ Oh for Christ’s sake, girl, Katy silently chides. Why are you making excuses? What’s wrong with admitting to Jude that yes, by many people’s standards I am doing OK?

  ‘And your boyfriend – is he … nice?’ Jude reaches into her tan shoulder bag and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Come on, now, don’t be coy. As I said: I’ve been watching you, Kat Parker.’ Katy struggles for breath for a moment as she tries to suppress a sudden and overwhelming desire to cry out as if in pain. What the hell can Jud
e know about her and Michael? How can she know what he looks like? ‘Because it’s obvious,’ Jude presses on, seemingly oblivious to Katy’s distress. ‘You look so loved up. And who can blame you – he’s certainly a looker, your man, isn’t he? But enough of love. Tell me more. About you and the rest of your life. Like those dreams you always had to go to art school and become a graphic artist. How did that one turn out?’

  Sweat snakes down the left side of Katy’s face, momentarily criss-crossing the tell-tale scar beneath her left eye. But she doesn’t dare wipe it away. Because even something like that could be seen as a sign of weakness. Be strong, she tells herself. She’s doing this on purpose, just like she always did. To control my feelings. But I am older and wiser, now, the voice inside her urges as she forces herself to regulate her breath. So no, I won’t give in. Though I must respond. I can’t leave the gaping void between us unfilled.

  ‘You found out my work number so you must know what I do,’ she blurts. Too petulant, she silently curses. Childish.

  ‘Now, now. Don’t get tetchy,’ Jude chuckles. ‘I’m genuinely interested. So come on, tell me. Are you a designer?’

  ‘Kind of.’ Too late, the words are out.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m in design,’ Katy corrects herself, quickly wiping the dampness from her face with the back of her hand. ‘Design management,’ she adds, needlessly.

  Jude snorts. ‘You don’t sound too sure – ’

  ‘So go on: thrill me,’ Katy snaps, angry before she can control it. ‘How’s the acting – that’s what you always wanted to do, wasn’t it? And were more than well enough qualified for, too. Been on The Bill, yet? Or is am’ dram’ more your level?’

  Despite the harshness of these words, Jude laughs. ‘Come on. I’m not having a go, honest. It’s just ironic, isn’t it. How things turn out? Me?’ She lights a cigarette then inhales, deeply. ‘I’m a bookkeeper. Come on Kat, why the sad face? It suits me fine. I’d have been hopeless at learning lines. Anyway, I needed something I could train for part-time when James was small.’