The Lies We Tell

  Following Katy’s gaze, the paramedic clicks her tongue. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much time and money is wasted by false emergency call outs,’ she complains. ‘Not to mention the risk to life. Wasted trips like this mean we’re not on call for people in real need of help.’ She refolds the piece of paper and puts it into her back pocket then stares hard at Katy for a moment. ‘Tony?’ she shouts to the ambulance’s driver who’s still seated at the wheel. ‘We’d better get back to work.’

  Katy watches as the ambulance pulls away and the street re-settles. Every now and then a passing car passes slows to navigate the sleeping policeman outside the house three doors down. From somewhere close by comes the sound of an electric lawn mover. The tang of barbecue smoke. The normality of this is soothing.

  Upstairs she finds a note from Michael propped against the TV screen. ‘Gone for a run,’ it reads, ‘back … whenever’. Resisting the temptation to analyse the tone of this, she opens the fridge and extracts a can of Pepsi from behind dishes containing two tuna steaks gently soaking up a marinade of ginger, garlic and coriander and a freshly prepared salad. She glances up. It’s almost six. How soon will he return?

  Katy takes a seat in the kitchen, usually the coolest room in the house at this time of the day. There is a newspaper on the counter which she idly flicks through, though takes in little. Turning on the radio, a fractious debate on the drive-time phone-in jangles her nerves. She opens the fridge door again and peers inside. But the fish smell makes her want to gag. And besides, she isn’t hungry.

  Instead, she runs herself a bath. But before she is done she hears a loud rapping on the inside front door. Assuming Michael has forgotten his key, she clambers out of the bath and wraps a towel around her. Only as she stands on the bottom stair, staring at the door that separates Michael’s flat from the communal hallway beyond does she think to call out.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Katy, is that you?’

  Her pulse quickens. This is a stranger’s voice, not Michael’s. Tightening her grip on the damp towel around her, she struggles for a moment with what best to say and when she finally speaks, her mouth is dry.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘It’s Kev, from the flat downstairs – Phil’s brother?’

  The tentative, upward inflection which punctuates every couple of words of this brief explanation feels reassuring. ‘Kevin,’ she exclaims. ‘Sorry, I’m just having a bath. Is it urgent, or can it wait?’

  ‘Actually, it is pretty urgent,’ he ruefully replies. ‘I’m running late for my shift at The Boatman where I work the bar, and there’ll be all hell to pay if I don’t get going. Only there’s a problem with the French windows which don’t seem to lock properly. I just wonder if I go round into the garden at the back to give them a good push from outside if you can turn the key from inside – I’ve let it in the door.’

  ‘The French windows, right. Well, OK, I guess so,’ she replies, glancing up at the wet foot prints she’s left on the stairs. ‘Hang on while I get my keys. I’ll only be a minute.’

  Katy emerges from the flat a couple of minutes later tousle-haired in shorts, a T-shirt and flip flops to find the communal hallway empty. Softly pulling to the door to Michael’s flat behind her, she pockets her door key then slips down the short flight of stairs leading to Phil’s front door which, as Kevin said, has been left ajar.

  About to step into Phil’s flat Katy hesitates, flushed by the awkward memory of the last time she’d been inside. It was New Year the year before and the night had culminated in a furious argument with Michael. The party had gone on late and some time around three, with Michael enmeshed in an intense discussion with a picture editor from the Telegraph, Katy made her excuses to leave. Unlike the others, she’d been working that day and now all she craved was sleep.

  It was in the hallway that it happened, just a drunken fumble – what Mum would have called ‘a fleeting pass’. But though unlooked for, it was not entirely unwelcome. For Katy had always liked their downstairs neighbour, a no-nonsense straight talker from Durham whose easy charm and quick wit won him a steady stream of female companions, despite his irrational fear of what he called ‘the C word’: commitment. This had given Phil’s attentions that evening added piquancy. Which was how, as they pecked cheeks goodbye in the open doorway, their bodies momentarily slipped into something more intimate.

  Suddenly his hands were cupping her breasts beneath her shirt while hers slid below his waistband as, open-mouthed, their faces locked. And in that instant she saw herself in a different place leading a different life, without Michael. Which took her by surprise. They’d been living together a couple of years by that point, and despite that one brief period apart following that dreadful evening at Spike’s, life together had been going well. With hindsight, a little too well, she now observes, thinking of the pressure he’d put her under around that particular time to commit.

  For Michael had begun talking about marriage, albeit in general terms, a good few months before she felt comfortable with the idea that perhaps she would soon be approaching the same point. She loved Michael, yes. But could she see herself spending the rest of her life with him? She wasn’t sure, not hand on heart; not yet, at least. Which made the momentary appeal of a more care-free existence so seductive. She did not want an affair. Yet nor did she want to close the door too soon on that as a hypothetical possibility.

  Her body had shuddered beneath Phil’s touch, she now guiltily recalls, and worse was his look of triumph as he registered it. Until, a beat later, it was over, their bubble pierced by Michael’s presence in the open doorway. By Phil’s guffaw, too, as he pulled away. It was drunken and therefore totally and utterly meaningless, they had both reassured him, separately, over the days that followed. Though Michael took a good deal longer to forgive her for the indiscretion than he did his friend.

  Taking a deep breath, Katy steps inside to make her way towards the open plan kitchen-diner at the flat’s rear where French windows lead into the walled garden beyond.

  A large overnight bag sits open-mouthed on the kitchen counter, its knotted contents – assorted T-shirts, socks and boxers – lie scattered across the wood block work top and on the floor. She pauses, her nostrils pricked by the fetid airlessness of the place; the sickly smell from the relics of half-eaten takeaways slammed carelessly into the kitchen bin. Registers, too, the oily ring on the nearest cushion of the pastel sofa from a days-old pizza carton which sits forgotten on the floor.

  Kevin’s got one hell of a clearing up job before his brother gets back, she decides.

  Quickening her pace, Katy approaches the French windows which, as predicted, are open. Widening the crack, she steps outside. Standing tall, she opens her lungs to the world beyond with its baked air tinged with barbecue smoke and hot rubber. She glances towards the back gate separating the garden from the narrow alleyway parallel to the road which runs the entire length of the terrace. It is still padlocked from the inside, she notices. This is strange given Kevin said he’d go round the back to help secure the French windows from outside. How had he planned to get in?

  The slam of a door from somewhere close by brings Katy back to her senses. With no clear route out of the garden, her heart races with the sudden thought that she is trapped. Is Kevin still in the flat behind her, waiting? Is this some kind of joke, though this feels anything but funny. Why didn’t Phil tell Michael his younger brother was coming to stay? Assuming Kevin really is his brother – after all, they only have his say-so. But that’s just ridiculous. Who else can he be? With no alternative but to retrace her steps, her body braces as she turns to go back inside.

  A moment later she is pulling to the French windows behind her and feels another stab of panic as she realises just how easy it is to secure them. Trying to dismiss the thought that this was nothing more than a clumsy ruse to get her out of her own flat, Katy’s ears strain for any sign of movement from upstairs. But there is none. So she hurries back towards the fron
t door which, she sees with a jolt of relief, is still open – just as she left it. Stumbling out into the communal hallway, she slams the door behind her. It’s just too bad if Kevin’s locked out, she reasons. If he gets stuck he can always borrow Michael’s spare.

  ‘What were you doing?’

  A figure is looking down at her from the short flight of before her which lead to the open doorway to their flat, flush-faced and shining with sweat. He must have just got in for he is dressed in his running things and still wears the earphones connected to his smartphone which he is holding in his hand.

  ‘Michael!’ she exclaims, but as her face softens his tightens into a frown. ‘It was Kevin, he –’

  His eyes narrow. ‘You were downstairs, with Kevin?’

  Despite herself, Kat’s cheeks burn. He can’t be jealous, surely. But then again, why is she behaving like a naughty child caught red-handed with pockets filled with goodies filched from the biscuit tin? ‘No,’ she offers, drawing level with him outside the top flat’s door. ‘He asked me to help – there’s a problem with the downstairs French window. I just –’

  ‘Hold the explanation,’ he pleads, his raised hand stopping her abruptly in her tracks. ‘I’ve got to get some water.’

  ‘You just missed me, you know,’ she gushes, following him up the stairs. ‘When you went for your run – I was only a few houses along, but coming from the other way.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he gasps, taking deep gulps from a pint glass hastily filled with tap water. ‘I didn’t see you, sorry. You should have called … to let me know you were on your way.’

  And you – you could have waited, she thinks, though doesn’t say it. For there is something far more important Katy needs to know. What Jude was doing here, leaving the house, just a few minutes ago. ‘I saw a woman – leaving the house … just before you did.’ She forces a laugh. It was Jude. Definitely Jude, but why? She hopes it sounds casual. ‘Anything I should know?’

  With a shake of his head, Michael drains the remnants of his drink.

  ‘Well I’ve been thinking for a while it might be worth considering our options – you know, for as and when we need more space.’ He drops his gaze as he slips off a trainer, but Katy wonders if there might be another reason why he now seems reluctant to meet her eye. ‘The three of us? It seemed, well, a good idea to get someone round. You know, to take a look. I wanted to discuss it with you, properly, when I had all the facts. So I thought I’d ring the lot I found this place through, but then an old school friend – ’

  ‘Move you, you mean.’

  It is a statement, not a question. For she has suspected something like this has been playing on his mind. But Katy’s not thinking about the fact that given how many times she expressed her reluctance to move before the baby is bigger, he must surely know how much talking to estate agents behind her back would upset her. She is wondering why he’s lying. About another old school friend popping out of the woodwork when, for years, he’d said his former classmates were so dreadful he’d severed all links. About the fact that this so-called school friend, a woman, had visited when she was out. And that this woman was Jude.

  ‘She looked – professional,’ Katy adds.

  ‘Did she? Well, they have to don’t they, I guess – to get the best clients?’ He runs a forefinger around the neck of his running shirt which, despite the hi-tech breathable fabric it’s made of, is damply clumped against his skin. ‘All I’ve requested is an initial valuation, just a rough guide so we can have a sensible discussion about our options. Sorry, Katy, I didn’t mean to do it behind your back.’

  Do what? she wonders. Connive with a woman who, having tracked me down after all these years of not being in touch, clearly wants to do me and my family harm? Why’s he not telling; what’s he holding back? Unless she’s mistaken, of course. After all, she only saw her from half-way down the street. But before she can ask any more Michael is walking towards her, up the stairs, eager to undress and shower.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ he calls, his voice now fighting with the sound of the water he is emptying from her bath. ‘I just need a quick shower. Then you can tell me the latest about what’s happening with your mum.’

  Katy makes her way upstairs to their bedroom, slips off her shoes and lies down on the bed. Staring up at the pale glass of the cylindrical lampshade that hangs from the ceiling above, her eyes circumnavigating its circular rim, her anger subsides. And as her body unclenches she notes the aches and strains in her legs, her back, her neck as the muscles unfurl. She mustn’t fight it, she realises. The way her body has started to change. The need to look after it. To protect them both from whatever else may be going on outside.

  Without even noticing, her hands have come to rest lightly on her belly and it is as they settle, her fingers lightly interlaced, that she feels it. A butterfly tremble from the cavity beneath. Like a finger giving a light flick, but from the inside. A sensation so unexpected she is baffled for a moment by its cause and then, more anxiously, wonders what it might mean. Could all that’s been happening over the past few days have unsettled the baby? Might more than usual physical exertion, especially in this heat, be damaging?

  Gingerly, she rolls onto her side and reaches for the pregnancy guide that sits on the floor by the bed and flicks through its pages.

  It is, of course, around the time she should start feeling it move – though she needs to re-read the relevant section to prove it. It’s normal. She mustn’t worry. He or she will be OK. It is the first time she’s allowed herself to think of it in this way. True, the baby became more tangible for her following the twelve week scan. But the knowledge they’d need another ultrasound a month and a half on to check for abnormalities due to her age has squashed any temptation to start thinking about the tiny foetus eventually becoming an actual person.

  He or she? she ponders. Diane had one of each; Michael’s mother, Jean, had three – all boys. Which is why Michael has already let slip his excitement at the prospect of a little girl.

  Yet Katy’s not so sure. She’s hardly excelled at her first mother-daughter relationship, has she? Then there’s school. How cruel girls can be. The shadow cast by her own experiences make small boys’ thump-and-forget tendency almost appealing. Besides she knows Michael has no preference, not really. With two nephews already it’s clear he’ll be a great dad, she thinks, stroking her tummy. A baby boy will cement things between the two of them. Repair the past. She must take care of herself; of them. This must be her priority from now.

  ‘You look comfortable.’ Michael is standing in the open doorway, a bath towel knotted around his waist. ‘Stay where you are,’ he adds, his expression softening. ‘I’ll make us something to eat and you can tell me all about it. Get an early night. Assuming you’re still up for it, we’ve lunch in the diary at Spike’s place in the country tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Katy frowns, fumbling for the appropriate context. That would be Saturday. The weekend. And today? Friday. Spike, one of Michael’s oldest friends, has just turned fifty and is hosting a weekend house party at the place in the country, near the south coast, that he bought a while ago to do up. ‘But mum – ’ she begins.

  ‘I know,’ he interrupts, raising his finger to his lips. ‘Don’t say any more. Just think about it. I’ve explained the situation to him and it’s OK if we just go for lunch and if you don’t even feel up to that that’s fine, too, if you don’t mind me going alone. I won’t stay over, though – I promise I’ll be back be early evening.’

  Katy sighs, wearied by the need to make a decision. Unsure what would be best, she simply nods as she slips back against the pillows.

  It would be nice to get out of London, she admits. A change of scene would help take her mind off things. But only if she can be confident Diane really is OK. Joyce will be more than happy to collect her, of course, then she and Michael can stop by to see her back at Parkview on the drive home. Besides, given the lingering memory of Jude’s visit the prospect of spending mu
ch of the day in the flat on her own now fills her with dread.

  ‘We’re out of milk, I’ll be back in five!’ Michael calls from the front door as Katy is patting herself dry a half hour later.

  Slipping into a loose T-shirt and a pair of pants, she wanders downstairs and into the sitting room where she stands at the window for a minute, monitoring his progress along the street towards the corner shop before he disappears from view. Though the window is flung wide open, the air inside smells acrid. A staining odour that seems to stick to everything which it takes her a moment to recognise. Cigarettes.

  Turning her back on the world outside, Katy scans the room from her vantage point by the window. From where she is standing she can see on the floor between the side of Michael’s leather armchair and the wall the make-shift ashtray Jude used yesterday. The butts inside, their filters stained a blood red by Jude’s lipstick. But on the coffee table beside the TV which stands in the opposite corner she sees something else.

  It’s one of the scallop shells she brought back from the weekend she and Michael spent in that sail loft in Whitstable. She used them as tea light holders and when empty they stood in a row along the upstairs bathroom window. Only this one has served another purpose. Stepping towards the coffee table, she picks up the shell. It contains a single butt. The same brand as in the other ashtray. But the filter of this one is stained by lipstick a different colour. Coral pink. Arguably a better match if you’re wearing an outfit of emerald green.

  It is Jude’s, she knows with a plummeting heart. But why come to the house, again, while Katy was out?