The Lies We Tell

by The Lies We Tell (retail) (epub)

  ‘No. If you’ve got something to tell me then you can tell me straight. Right here, right now.’ Katy notices a flicker of uncertainty flash across her opponent’s face and it stokes her confidence.

  Jude glares at her a moment before answering and when she starts to speak the peevish note in her voice suggests she feels she has been back-footed. ‘I am a bookkeeper … ’ she objects, ‘ … although it’s been hard to find work these past few years, so I’ve done all sorts. Telesales. Estate agent-ing. The job at the theatre.’

  ‘How nice for you.’

  Ignoring the interruption, Jude presses on. ‘I met your mum, although I didn’t know she was your mum, quite early on. She was always very nice.’

  ‘And Estelle?’

  ‘My middle name. I’ve used it on and off for years. I started using it again a few months ago because coming to London seemed, well, like a fresh start.’ Jude’s eyes are wandering, Katy notices, as if she’s reluctant to look her directly in the face. ‘Look, I didn’t know she was your mum, honestly. But you and I, we still need to talk – ’

  ‘No. At least not now, and certainly not here,’ Katy cries in exasperation. She cannot be doing all this now. Making sure her mum is OK and getting her home safely is all that mattered, and to do that she must make Jude leave. ‘Go away,’ she says suddenly, giving Jude a firm push towards the lift. And then another. ‘Now. Go.’

  Jude does not resist. Instead, she tightens her grip on the bag slung over her shoulder and turns to leave. But before she does she fires just one, final passing shot. ‘You pretended not to know what I was talking about earlier, but you don’t fool me,’ she says, coldly. ‘And if you really are that stupid, do one thing for me, OK? Ask your precious mum about your darling brother and your dear, departed dad. When she is feeling up to it, of course.’

  Too angry to translate her words and too eager to see her gone, Katy strides back towards the lift where she waits to watch Jude leave. To the left of the lift shaft is a balcony on which she now leans, staring down into an open void as tall as the building. On the ground floor directly below is the reception area, the main entrance and the car park beyond. Peering down, she waits for Jude to cross her line of sight heading towards the main doors which she does a few minutes later.

  Adjusting her position, Katy watches the other woman push her way through the revolving door then stop on the pavement outside where, a beat later, a car pulls up that looks just like the one Jude just used to drive them to the hospital. Leaning across the front seat, the driver opens the passenger door. Jude climbs inside then, before she has fastened her seatbelt, the car is pulling away and out of view.

  Too preoccupied with thoughts of cancelling bank cards, changing locks on doors and getting hold of Michael, however, Katy gives none of this a second thought.

  *

  The air in Maynard Ward hangs still, its muffled silence punctuated only by a sharp PVC squeak every now and then as she shifts position in the chair. The shirt she’s wearing is damp against the wipe-down covering. The backs of her legs are slick with sweat. Through the window, a concrete mountain range of slate peaks and tarmac ravines spreads eastwards towards Westminster. Above it, a passenger plane locked in a holding position hangs disconcertingly low in the vaporous sky.

  Yet Katy registers none of this. How long have I been sitting here? is all she can wonder, dully. Waiting for Mum to come round.

  They had taken Diane down to theatre some time around four to right a dislocated shoulder – a procedure Katy had been relieved to hear they would not try on a woman her age without a general anaesthetic. Now, however, as she sits by Mum’s side listening to the shallow rattle of her breath, Katy’s not so sure. She knows it won’t be long before the figure beside her stirs. Before the inanimate face with its sunken sockets and taut skin will come back to life. Yet there is something about it, the way its muscles twitch every now and then, how they flicker like a broken TV, that fills her with unease.

  It’s not the thought of how much worse it might have been; how she might have lost her. It’s the realisation of how, with the passing of time, roles are starting to reverse. The fragility of her, Katy thinks. How can she not have noticed until now how much her mother has started to age? Yet not so long ago the woman now lying before her was the stronger one, safeguarding her from danger. Providing her with refuge, protection, commitment – each part of an unspoken pact sealed with the sugary kiss of chocolate biscuit cake and homemade lemonade. None of the implications of which Katy has had to consider before.

  Of course Diane was knocked sideways by Charles’ death, despite having been separated for all that time. But she had rallied. Positively bounced back after the knee-jerk shock. Embraced life to the extent that, in recent years, all who knew her had remarked on her renewed energy and vigour. Now, though, all Katy can feel is an overwhelming urge to touch her mum, hold her, protect her. Never to let her go. To make things right so that nothing can hurt her again. A bit like how Diane must have felt by her bedside, in the County, all those years ago.

  Those early hours that she had lain there in hospital, she thinks. Floating somewhere between oblivion and conscious thought, she’d heard her. Her mother. Weeping. Begging her, her daughter, to be better.

  Because we almost lost you, Mum had said.

  That same refrain, first heard down by the canal-side then, again, a decade later after what happened with Jude. Was that why Mum had been as she was, Katy wonders. So eager to re-package, to re-edit, to re-present events so as to minimise potential hurt; to smooth away the corners and edges of life? Just like the way they tried so hard for so long to conceal from her and Andrew the extent of the cracks in the foundation of their relationship.

  Like they’d hated so much her friendship with Jude.

  Jude.

  Diane always said she was a bad influence; that she would lead Katy astray. Though in reality, of course, what she’d turned out to be was a bully. It’s ironic, really, Katy now thinks, rubbing her eyes, how at the end Diane seemed so determined to keep them apart. As if she hoped that through sheer determination and force of will she could ensure the two girls had no further contact, ever. If Diane had only known, knew now, goodness, what would she say?

  Don’t play the innocent with me, says a voice. A bit of a ladies’ man. It’s Jude. The memory of what she said earlier that afternoon makes Katy shudder. Cash to make it go away.

  Why has she tracked me down? a voice inside Katy’s head now cries. Because she’s a born trouble-maker, that’s why – just like mum always used to say. And if I don’t rise to her bait, if she doesn’t respond to any further advances, Jude will lose interest and go away. Folding her arms, Katy’s left hand brushes against her belly. I, meanwhile, must look after herself and the tiny life that’s now unfurling inside.

  No regrets?

  Michael had asked her when she’d told him. And each had worked hard at persuading the other that there were none. Though she’d never wanted to start a family, not really. The one she had already had seemed trouble enough. All those years she’d spent drifting, trying to find her way. She’d had boyfriends, but none she could ever imagine staying with once the first flush began to fade. Certainly no one who made her want to settle down. No-one for whom it seemed worth letting down her guard.

  Oh, the pressure to let people in that she’d resisted. All the questions, too. Like the prying she’d endured in the specialist unit at the County during those difficult first few months when Diane had been so worried that her morose state, her pendulous mood swings, might be a lingering after-effect of concussion. If only I could turn back the clock, Katy thinks. To do things differently. To appease whatever greater power it is that needs appeasing. Anything to make sure that everything will be OK.

  The sudden sound of raised voices from the nurses’ station at the far end of the ward draws Katy back to the present. With a quick glance at her mum, whose expression and position in the bed beside her remain unchanged, she p
ulls herself upright and cranes her neck to see what’s going on to see in the distance a male nurse of rugby-playing dimensions frog-march a wiry figure in jeans and T-shirt towards the main door.

  A short, sharp pulse against her thigh distracts Katy from the scene and she extracts the mobile phone from her hip pocket. A text from Sally-Anne. Rather than read its contents, however, her gaze is drawn to the icon at the bottom of the screen that shows she now has four missed calls and at least one new answer phone message. Michael. She should have called him, of course, but what with everything that had been going on it quite slipped her mind.

  With a final glance at her mum, Katy rises to her feet and makes her way across the ward. She will buy a coffee, sit in the walled garden by the cafe for a few minutes to get some fresh air and make the call. As she draws level with the nurses’ station, however, she stops in surprise.

  On the chair behind the counter stands a floral tribute. An explosion of foliage tethered by a black, satin bow. A curious concoction, more like a wreath than a bouquet. Slim-sheathed Longi lilies nestle against foxglove. Strands of Devil’s Ivy entwine with lilies of the valley and lotus seed heads. A single peacock’s feather dyed jet-black reminds her of an Edwardian hearse. Only then does she register the sticky stamens and the leaf sap’s sour reek.

  Overwhelmed by the smell, sickly-sweet and just beyond full-blown, Katy grips the counter’s edge to steady herself. The moment passes quickly, however, and as her head starts to clear, she sees the rectangular card carefully secured between the nettles and ivy. Its lettering carefully hand-printed, again in black.

  ‘With heartfelt condolences,’ the message reads. ‘Mrs Diane Parker. R.I.P.’

  Chapter 11

  Guildford – November 1988

  It was a brackish Tuesday afternoon in late November when Jude first met Diane Parker. Kat had invited her to tea and though excited, she was a little bit intimidated by the prospect of a visit to the Parkers’ home. ‘Mum, this is Jude. She lives with her mum in one of the houses on Station Road,’ Kat gushed as the pair tumbled through the front door, damp-haired and flush-cheeked from the run home from the bus stop.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Judith. Do come in,’ the woman replied, holding out a hand to shake which Jude ignored. For there was something in her eye, a barely-concealed look of disdain, most likely triggered by the name of her road, that made Jude bristle as her eyes quickly registered the floral-print shirt the older woman is wearing – Laura Ashley, she rightly guessed – and the denim slacks with their designer label.

  ‘Actually it’s Jude, Mrs Parker,’ she answered coolly, tossing her school bag after Kat’s onto the floor beneath the coat pegs then tearing off her raincoat. ‘I can’t stand the name Judith, but it’s a burden I must carry. A bit like Katherine, I suppose – ’ She flashed a conspiratorial grin at her friend. ‘ – and her preference for Kat.’

  ‘Kat?’ The smile congealed on Diane’s face as her eyes dipped briefly to the floor where Jude now realised a small puddle was starting to form beneath her dripping coat. Then the woman turned towards her daughter. ‘Who calls you Kat?’

  ‘Why everyone, of course – everyone at school, at least,’ Jude laughed before the other girl could speak.

  ‘Yes, everyone,’ Katy echoed, reaching for Jude’s coat then hanging it along with her own on one of the pegs behind the front door. ‘Come on, come and see my room,’ she added, tugging Jude by the sleeve.

  ‘She’s not always like that,’ she apologised in a whisper as she pushed ajar her bedroom door. ‘But Dad’s been away a lot recently – they’ve been going through a bit of a bad patch. So come on, what music shall we play?’

  Jude stood in the middle of Kat’s bedroom floor marvelling at the collection of records and home-made cassettes piled along the narrow floor to ceiling shelves to the right of the bay window. Bending down to browse the records’ cardboard spines, she quickly selected albums by The Pretenders, Lou Reed and David Bowie and tugged them free. ‘Well these will do, for a start.’

  Crouching down, Kat pulled out a wicker basket from under the bed. Inside, beneath a single, neatly-folded blanket, were a selection of glossy women’s magazines, film periodicals and out of date Smash Hits. ‘A combination of my own and Andrew’s cast offs,’ she grinned. ‘A bit like the music, really, but between us we do all right.’

  ‘So is he going to be around later?’ Jude asked, lightly. She was yet to meet Kat’s brother but was already intrigued after all that her friend had told her about him. They were close, it seemed, and though not as close as they used to be it was clear that Kat idolised him.

  ‘No.’ Kat frowned. ‘He’s got football training after tonight which is a shame as I’d have liked you to meet him.’

  Jude smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I will.’

  The pair spent an hour or so playing music and browsing magazines until Diane called them down for tea. As they entered the kitchen and Jude saw Diane already seated at the table nursing a cup of tea, her spirits dipped at the realisation that Kat’s mother was clearly intent on joining in their conversation. Taking a seat opposite Diane, she examined the contents of her plate with satisfaction. Shepherds pie was one of her favourites.

  ‘Help yourself to peas and corn,’ Diane gushed. ‘I hope you like it. I should have checked with Kat but decided it would be a good choice because everybody likes shepherd’s pie, don’t they?’

  ‘Actually, I try to avoid red meat.’ The words were out before Jude could start to think where they had come from, or why. It’s just there was something about Kat’s mum, a vague sense of superiority in her look and tone, that made the child within Jude want to thumb her nose and back foot her, somehow. Diane’s face tightened as she gathered her thoughts but before she could speak Jude had leaped back in. ‘But don’t worry,’ she added, guiltily. ‘It doesn’t upset me, or anything.’

  ‘Good,’ Diane replied. And for the first time Jude wondered if she had misread the woman’s expression.

  All of a sudden she looked smaller, somehow. Deflated. Probably as a result of that bad patch with her husband, Charles, that Kat’s been talking about, Jude thought. What was he like, she wondered. Kat so rarely talked about him, but from what she has said he sounded distant and aloof. He worked in finance, she remembered. Travelled, too – a lot. She wondered if he and Diane’s marriage had ever been truly happy.

  ‘So, um, Jude. How are you finding St Mary’s?’

  ‘It’s OK, Mrs Parker,’ Jude replied, grateful now for the chance of conversation. ‘I mean it’s smaller than my last school which is nice. It’s a bit strange not having any boys, though.’

  Kat stifled a giggle and the pair exchanged a cryptic look which Diane clearly registered but tried to ignore before pressing on. ‘Where was your last school, then?’

  ‘On the south coast. Portsmouth. It was a bit of a dump. So when Mum decided she wanted to move here I thought let’s hope it’s a change for the better. Then I got into St Mary’s and, well, here I am.’

  ‘And is it?’ asked Diane, pouring herself a second cup of tea.

  ‘Is it what?’

  ‘A change for the better.’

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ Jude replied, helping herself to more peas without asking. She glanced towards Kat. ‘Time will tell.’

  Once they finished eating but before being excused, Jude rose from the table. She needed the toilet, and the woman’s pained expression as she politely gave directions, made her almost wet her pants. Stifling a smile, Jude retraced her steps back upstairs to find the bathroom. From the kitchen below came the sound of Kat clearing away the plates; her mum stacking the dishwasher.

  The bathroom was straight ahead of where she was now standing, but her attention was snagged by an open door to its right. Unsure quite why, Jude stepped into this open doorway and peeped inside. She expected to find Kat’s parents’ bedroom, but the space she found herself staring at appeared to be used by just one person.

  Scann
ing the interior she could find no evidence of Charles’s presence, even his existence, just female accessories. A patchwork quilt across the double bed in shades of pink and pastel blue. An army of perfumes and cosmetics arranged along the top of the chest of drawers. A pile of Georgette Heyer novels on the bedside table. A mahogany dressing table stands by the window and on its top arcs an assortment of framed pictures of children including a recent studio portrait of a stiff-lipped Kat and a boy with dark, messy hair and an easy grin who looks a couple of years older. The older brother, she noted, and good looking, too. But where, she wondered, did Kat’s father sleep?

  Retracing her steps back along the landing, Jude passed a closed door on her right and hesitated. A beat later she had given into the devil inside as her hand turned the porcelain doorknob and she peeped inside.

  It was a small room, smaller than Kat’s, and the air hung heavy with an unfamiliar tang. There was a single bed, a large oak wardrobe and an antique chest of drawers. A row of men’s shoes stretched along the floor beneath the window. Through the half open cupboard door she could see neatly-hung suits and shirts. Along the window sill stood a row of pictures – mainly of children, but also Diane standing next to a tall, dark-haired man with a severe hair cut and military stance. He looked at least ten years older than Kat’s mum, and in a number of the more recent-looking pictures he was wearing a distant expression. On the bed were spread a selection of official-looking papers.

  Intrigued, Jude crept towards the bed to take a closer look at the papers. Beneath a notepad and some business letters was a buff folder containing a legal-looking document concerning someone’s divorce.

  ‘Can I help you?’ As Jude span around she was struck by the sharpness of Mrs Parker’s voice. Unsure where to look, she felt as if her cheeks would burst into flames any minute. ‘I said …’ The woman took two steps towards her. ‘… can I help you?’

  ‘Sorry Mrs P,’ Jude replied in a voice as light as she could muster. ‘The door was open and I couldn’t resist a look inside.’ How pathetic was that? But she felt tongue-tied and foolish under the spotlight of the woman’s angry glare.