The Lies We Tell

by The Lies We Tell (retail) (epub)

  ‘I thought the door was locked,’ Diane replied, casting a glance towards the papers on the bed. Turning her head towards the door, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the inside of the lock. ‘Where’s the key?’

  ‘Um, there wasn’t one,’ Jude stuttered. ‘Honestly. OK, the door was shut but it swung open easily enough. I didn’t force it or anything.’

  ‘Oh.’ Diane appeared unconvinced. ‘But even if that is the case that’s still no excuse for you to be snooping around other people’s bedrooms.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Jude, firmly. ‘I know. It isn’t. Sorry.’

  ‘Well then,’ Kat’s mum added more lightly, seemingly disarmed by her opponent’s honesty. A crimson flush now encircled the skin around her neck, like poison ivy. ‘In that case we’ll say no more about it, then. On one condition, that is –’ Jude looked up. ‘I’ll keep your little secret if you keep mine.’ Gesturing briefly towards the papers on the bed, Diane let slip a deep sigh. ‘Nothing’s decided yet – neither Katherine nor Andrew have the faintest idea, and until we’ve sorted everything out I’d like it to stay that way.’

  Baffled for a moment, Jude stared at the bed then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  Standing to one side, Diane held the door open to let her pass by.

  An awkward first meeting, Jude concluded later that evening. But then, a week later, when she and Kat wandered down into town one Friday evening after school to do some Christmas shopping she found it had an unexpected side effect. For as she waved Kat goodbye at the bus station some time after six Jude could tell from her friend’s anxious look that she knew she’d be in trouble when she got home for being out late.

  Retracing her steps back up the high street to her own house at the top of town, Jude had an idea. She would take the blame and call Diane herself when she got home to tell her so. If the woman sounded like she might punish Kat in some way, well, didn’t she now just have the ideal trump card to play?

  Chapter 12

  London – July 2013

  Katy sits at a round metal table beneath the scant leaves of a sickly chestnut tree. To her left, two female patients dressed in cotton dressing gowns and flip-flops are talking in low voices. No-one occupies the table to her right, though a pigeon is standing on the table top brazenly picking at a half-eaten sandwich.

  Dully, she stares at the fat white china mug of coffee she’s just bought from the hospital cafe which looks more like tea than cappuccino as she replays in her mind the scene she witnessed just a few minutes earlier. How one of the nurses who’d been periodically monitoring her mother’s blood pressure had darted back behind the counter, grabbed the tribute from the chair and to stuff it beneath the desk beside it and out of view, then cursed as she quickly recoiled. The way she’d scrutinised her left hand, its thumb welling with blood from a deep puncture wound inflicted by something buried deep within the wreath. An antique hat pin inserted, upended, within the stems and leaves. When at last the woman turned back to face her there were tears of pain in her eyes.

  So sorry, the nurse had cried, grabbing a handful of tissue from a large cardboard box on the counter top. With her thumb encased she squeezed it firmly, holding upright the injured hand. You shouldn’t have seen that. Some idiot from the flower delivery people. Goodness knows how security let him in.

  A mix up, clearly, echoes Katy’s response as she tries to reassure herself once more. No-one’s fault. Not to worry. Clearly, a mistake.

  Exhaling slowly, she struggles to order her thoughts. Tries not to think anymore about the funereal wreath. Forces herself instead to focus on trying to remember what she needs to do. Reaching into her bag, she pulls out her mobile. Of the four calls she’s missed three are from Michael while the other is from a number she does not recognise. Sliding her finger down the screen, she calls up her voice messages and listens to his voice. It’s angry at first but in the second message his tone is different. Urgent. Worried.

  ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘Call me as soon as you get this, if only just to let me know you’re OK. I’m still at work but have the mobile with me, switched on. Call me back, OK?’

  Ashamed, Katy puts down the phone. How could she not have thought to call him? But so much has been happening, how could he blame her for not having time?

  She rubs her eyes, thinking back to the first time she saw him. The charcoal linen jacket he’d worn over a white T shirt and faded jeans. The tiny silver ring in his ear. A tall man approaching his late thirties with thick hair the colour of burnt sand, high flat cheekbones and dark eyes. And then, as he shook himself free of a bulky camera bag and what looked like a portfolio, that broad grin. Can you point me in the direction of the creative department? The first words he had spoken to her. Asked with a dip of his gaze to the reams of A4 she was clutching against her chest – part of that month’s stationery order.

  Tongue-tied by how attractive she found him, Katy had simply beckoned him to follow her through a set of double doors leading to a large, open-plan office. I’m Michael Ross, the new boy, he added, putting down his bag. Pleased to meet you …

  He’d recently returned to England heavily in debt following an extended round the world trip, he explained later over a beer or three at The Old Star. Emboldened by the tangible spark between them, Katy interrogated him about his past career, where he went to college, where he grew up. As a kid, he’d lived for a while with his mother and three brothers in a small town on the east coast of Scotland but thanks to his dad, an army major, was then sent away to school. Later, despite starting an MA in photography at the Royal College of Art, he switched to commercial art and design. Desperate for paying work, he would pursue his artistic ambitions later.

  So Kate Adie, he concluded. How about you?

  Katy’s left hand fluttered against the side of her face, her fingers skimming the skin above her left cheek bone where the cotton thread of a fine scar was visible only to the tutored eye. It felt good under the spotlight of his attention, yet though flattered by his interest, she felt self-conscious. There was something about the way he looked at her, his apparently genuine desire not just to chat her up but find out who she was. She hesitated, wondering what to answer. She was usually good at keeping people at arms length, adept at steering clear of awkward questions. But not tonight. Beneath Michael’s steady gaze it felt like there was nowhere left to hide. A thought which made her pulse race.

  Nothing special, she mumbled awkwardly, looping a stray wisp of hair behind her ear; forcing her face into a sardonic smile. Born and bred in the suburbs, seduced by the bright lights of the big city.

  But then he’d teased her by calling her a liar. As if he knew the truth. How long before she moved to London, when she had her sights set so firmly on art school, she’d yearned for how she knew the city would make her feel. Energised. Vibrant. Alive. How once she’d arrived her hopes had been so swiftly diluted by the harsh reality of it all. Failing her exams. Dropping out of sixth form. Being nudged by her parents towards secretarial college to gain a practical skill she could always fall back on. How quickly she’d come to value the ease with which you can lose yourself in the city. To be cauterised by the hustle and bustle of it all, dislocated from the natural rhythms of life.

  I’ll winkle it out of you, Kat, I’m good at that.

  Confused, she’d tried to calm her nerves with a large mouthful of wine. But this only served to make things worse. Of course he’d only meant it playfully, yet her tone was waspish when she answered back. Not Kat, Katy! Because only one person had ever called her that. Then seeing his look of surprise she’d tried to explain. I just hate the name, OK? Cat from Eastenders, Cat Deeley – such a cliché. Besides, it’s what everyone used to call me at school.

  It was a damp June that summer, Wimbledon would prove to be yet another a wash out, and it had only just stopped raining later that same evening as they skirted the edge of St James’s Park then headed across Parliament Square and down towards Victor
ia Embankment. They stopped beneath the trees and stood, side by side, staring across the river’s oily surface towards the now stationary Millennium Wheel. At the foot of the South Bank’s river wall bald patches of grey mud that emerged each low tide glistened in the light of a gibbous moon.

  Not much of a beach, is it? he murmured.

  Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose, Katy sighed before pressing on without thinking. Though I don’t really like summer.

  Because she couldn’t remember a time when it had been different. As a child, it would loom at the end of each school year like a playground bully. While classmates chattered excitedly about plans for the weeks of freedom that lay ahead, all she could think was that it was eight weeks too long. Then, after that last summer with Jude, came summers of constructed jollity while her parents were still living together. They were divided by summers when they were not, dancing on eggshells as mum careered between breathless optimism and frequent tears. And frantic summers vigorously shuttling between estranged grandparents in north Devon and Kent as if somehow this would make thing right.

  Even into her early thirties, summer remained a time associated with a vague, nostalgic yearning for life before things started to go wrong.

  Dark eyes watched her for a moment then he looked away. Everyone has their reasons, he murmured, softly. And she had loved him for that.

  It was approaching midnight and the damp air was like warm breath on their skin. They were standing close, but not near enough for any part of their bodies to touch. After a minute or two, without saying a word, he leaned towards Katy as if to whisper something in her ear. Her body tingled as his chin rubbed against the soft skin of her neck, her pulse quickening in anticipation as she waited for him to speak. Then his hand was on her cheek, gently but firmly turning her face towards his. And before she could think of any reason to resist, they kissed.

  They caught a black cab back to her flat in Bayswater because it was closer than his. Neither spoke as they rattled along empty streets that glistened in the street lamps’ orange glow. It was only when the taxi pulled away that Katy finally found her voice as she fumbled for her key. You know, she began. I don’t normally do this. Opening her hand, he took her key.

  Standing back, he let her enter first before stepping inside and softly closing the door behind them. Before placing an arm around her waist and firmly tugging her towards him. Her body trembled as he ran his hands through her hair and the warmth of his breath made the night’s edges melt into one. He kissed her hard, working his way inside her blouse with one hand while the other slipped around her waist, blindly searching for the fastening of her skirt. She reached behind to give him a hand, covering his hands with her own to release the fastening with ease. As the skirt slipped towards the ground she kicked it to one side making it fly up into the air. Which made them laugh.

  Leaning into him, she kissed him lightly before putting her mouth to his ear to give his lobe a playful bite. As he unhooked her bra she reached down to unbuckle his belt. Tranquilo, he whispered as he began unbuttoning her blouse. Relax.

  Katy checks her watch. It’s after seven – he’s working late. Did he mention that earlier? She can’t recall. That morning, the tray he brought her in bed, the writing on the door, her meeting with Jude, all of this, everything, seems to have taken place a lifetime ago. Of course he is right, she should have called. To let him know why she wasn’t at home. Not to worry, that she was OK. She will put things right, now. So she dials his mobile and he answers after just one ring.

  ‘Christ, Katy, at last! Is everything OK’?

  ‘Kind of, I’m at the hospital – ’ she begins, reassured by the sound of him even if his voice sound tight.

  ‘Katy, are you alright? I mean the baby, is everything – ’ Words tumble in a rush now, like a dam has burst.

  ‘No, no. Not that. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not me. I’m alright but Mum – ’

  ‘Thank god,’ he declared. ‘I thought you meant – ’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. But no, it’s not that. Mum – she was attacked earlier. Mugged, in the street. She’s unconscious. Well, she was conscious earlier, but they had to give her a general anaesthetic to re-position her arm.’ Katy rubs her eyes, overwhelmed by tiredness.

  ‘That’s terrible. And you, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, Michael,’ she sighs. ‘Honestly. Just upset, OK? It’s terrible seeing her, you know, like this – ’

  ‘I know,’ he soothes.

  ‘ – and knowing there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do – she’s in the right place.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  She looks around her. Stares at the pigeon which has almost devoured what’s left of the sandwich. Notices the puddle of white it has let slip on the neighbouring table. Feels the contents of her own stomach curdle. ‘In the hospital cafe.’

  ‘No, I mean which hospital. Great Western?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I leave now I can be there in half an hour – ’

  ‘No, no Michael. Please, you don’t have to.’

  ‘I can pick you up. Drive you home. You must be exhausted – ’

  ‘No. I think I’d better stay. They said I can – ’

  ‘Katy. There’s nothing more you can do. She’s in the best place. You need to look after yourself, take care of you. Let me drive you home. We can get a takeaway for dinner. That way you can be sure of getting a good night’s sleep. Really, Katy, I do think it’s the best – ’

  ‘Listen to me, Michael. I feel I should stay – be here, you know, when she wakes up? You’re right, I’m sure, but I’ll be fine here, honest. As you say, we’re in the best place. Besides, it will give you a chance to finish off whatever you’re up to without having to dash off then, tomorrow, when I’m back, we can do everything you’ve just said, OK? Which reminds me, could you call Sally-Anne for me in the morning – tell her what’s happened and why I won’t be in?’

  ‘Katy – ’ Now there’s an edge of steel in his tone, and an impatient insistence that she is wrong and he is right which she has heard before. Tightening her grip on her mobile, she braces for what will come next. ‘Please don’t do this again?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. I mean, don’t push me away.’

  ‘But that’s not what I’m doing, honestly. I just need you to understand – ’

  ‘Remember what I said before – about letting me in. Seriously Katy, don’t shut me out. This is a big deal for me, really, if any of this is going to work it’s got to be because we are together, you and me. Being open and honest with each other. No hiding, no secrets, no running away …’

  ‘Of course I remember what you said before,’ she replies, a bit too quickly.

  How could she forget?

  The argument had been sparked by such a trivial thing. A light-hearted after dinner conversation at his friend Spike’s one evening when the group around the table had began a round robin confessional with each obliged to offer up a guilty secret. But when the spotlight fell on her she’d felt so awkward and tongue-tied she hastily excused herself and retreated to an upstairs bathroom where Michael had found her, a good half hour later, red-faced and damp-eyed.

  He’d had the decency not to quiz her until they got home. Then, when he did as they were getting into bed, he’d reacted with hurt and anger at her unwillingness to explain. Like unpeeling an onion, he’d said. A gradual process of mutual exposure, mutual acceptance. A building of intimacy and trust as two people get closer. Without that, what the hell’s the point of any relationship?

  They’d split the morning after and separated for almost four months – a period during which she’d had ample time to analyse her inaction. Her inability to talk to him about things that really mattered. To confide. But how could she do any of this if she wasn’t able to come to terms with what had happened herself? If she wasn’t able to remember exac
tly what occurred when, when she tried to save her friend but only ended up making things worse?

  She hated herself for what she’d done and, if he knew the truth, so would he.

  Soon after, Michael moved to New York to work out of Janssens’ US office on a three month project for a major new client. It was a relief not to see him at work, of course. But as the days became weeks Katy felt worse, not better. Though they’d not been living together at the time of their split, she had been spending more time at his place than her own – a rented studio flat in the end of the North End Road. Now, left to her own devices, she began to appreciate for the first time the extent of how much she missed him.

  What a fool she’d been for not letting Michael all the way in. Yet alone, Katy convinced herself she’d left it too late to make things better. Besides, in a way she felt maybe she didn’t deserve him – not really. That in the greater scheme of things, the loss of him was some kind of payback. A re-balancing, or getting even. Until, coming out of the tube station on her way to work one morning, she’d seen a familiar figure queuing to exit via the ticket barrier a short distance ahead. He was back.

  Before she could panic about how she looked or what to say, how he was or with whom he’d been, she was weaving in and out of the commuters ahead. Darting a few steps to the right then to the left. Desperate to close the gulf between them. Michael, she’d called out impetuously. Breathlessly.

  Turning towards her his expression was wary for a moment until, sensing the mix of awkwardness and hope behind the boldness of her greeting, his features softened. And then he grinned. There’d been no-one else while he was away, he told her later. Just plenty of work and, in between, time to take stock. He was sorry if he’d pushed her too hard, but she should know the hurt the distance she’d maintained between them had caused.