Home Truths

by Tina Seskis

  Christie pressed her hand to her temple, tried to push the images down. She longed to get up from the table and flee the kitchen, flee the mental images that tormented her still. She couldn’t think about the past any more, it was too wretched. She had to get a foothold on the future. Piers was her future. At least he’d made the nightmares go away. Her children needed to understand that.

  ‘Oh, Mum, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ Daisy said.

  ‘I do, Daisy.’ Christie’s voice was steadier now. ‘Piers will never be your father, but he’s the most interesting, amazing person, and he loves me.’ She took a breath, and stared her children down. ‘The thing is, your dad and I adored each other, and he gave me the two most beautiful children I could ever wish for.’ Did Jake roll his eyes? She was sure he did. She ignored him. ‘But he’s dead. And it’s been difficult for all of us, but now . . .’

  ‘Now what?’ said Jake. His left hand was shaking slightly, and again Christie wondered what was going on with him, but she didn’t dare ask. It was probably all in her head anyway. She took a breath, and her eyes were shiny. Soft spirals of steam were still emanating from the cottage pie, as if it were an injured beast, slowly dying. She felt irritated suddenly. Her children needed to trust her.

  ‘You two have your own lives to live,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have to be worrying about me. And now you don’t have to, because I’ve finally met the person who accepts that I’ll always love your father first and foremost, but who wants to look after me anyway.’ She paused, took a breath. ‘And you know what?’ She smiled then, the same wide gorgeous smile that spread all the way to her eyes and which her husband had fallen in love with so many years ago. ‘I’m happy to let him.’

  64

  ELEANOR

  ‘Oh my gosh,’ Eleanor said, stunned, unsure whether Lizzie’s question was attacking or not, what Oliver might have said about what had happened. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a pretty straightforward question, Eleanor.’ Lizzie picked up her champagne glass, and she was gripping it so hard, Eleanor swore it might implode under the pressure. ‘And Oliver said you did.’

  ‘Lizzie, no . . .’ Eleanor’s head was wheeling now, as if she were the sun and the globe lamps in the room were the planets orbiting her, spinning, whizzing, creating a kaleidoscope of colour and confusion. She thought she might even be sick.

  ‘The thing is, Eleanor,’ Lizzie said now, ‘I could forgive him the girls in the office, at conferences, the hook-ups when he was away on business. What the eye doesn’t see and all that. But under my roof . . . With the person who looked after my children, who became my friend . . .’ Lizzie trailed off, and it was as if the anger had dissipated. She’d come up to London, had asked the question, and the effort had clearly exhausted her.

  Eleanor didn’t know how to explain it. She remembered the night so clearly now, although she’d done her best to forget it for all these years since. Lizzie had been away on business, overnight for a change, and Oliver had been out for the evening. Eleanor had got the twins into bed, watched a bit of TV downstairs, and then had settled in for the night in her loft room, in bed, reading a book. She’d just been drifting off to sleep when she’d heard clattering up the stairs, had smelt the whisky breath, before he’d even reached her.

  ‘Hello, Eleanor,’ he’d said from behind the door. ‘Banished up to the attic, are you? Come down and have a nightcap with me.’

  She’d giggled nervously. He might be attractive, but she knew a come-on when it was one, and he was her boss’s husband – and paralytic at that. ‘I was almost asleep,’ she’d said. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late,’ Oliver had said. He’d come fully into the room at that point, sat down on the end of her bed, had reached over and put his hand on her thigh through the duvet. She’d frozen – in shock, yes, but more than that. In fear. If she called out, the only people who might possibly hear her were her stalker next door, or Oliver’s four-year-old twins.

  Eleanor had thought quickly. Under the covers she was safe enough, but if she got out, tried to escape, she’d be vulnerable. Somehow she’d known to stay still, try to keep the situation calm.

  ‘Well?’ Lizzie said now. Her face had aged in an entirely natural way, and she was usually an attractive woman, but now she looked depleted somehow, as if someone had booted her in the stomach and knocked all the breath out of her. As if she were slowly deflating, like a balloon after a birthday party.

  Eleanor needed to think fast. She decided on a version of the facts, one that would be the least hurtful for Lizzie. ‘Oliver made a pass at me,’ she said. ‘When you were away once. I rejected him.’ She stared the other woman out. ‘I didn’t want to have to tell you.’

  ‘Are you sure you rejected him?’

  Eleanor didn’t reply straight away. She recalled the unedifying struggle, his sour hot breath, how she’d had to beat at him until he’d seen sense. She’d been lucky. She should have quit after that, left immediately, but Oliver had apologised, said he was drunk, had never come near her again. She hadn’t wanted to leave Lizzie in the lurch. But more than that, where would she have gone? The one person who’d tried to befriend her had turned out to be a stalker; she’d had no family in the UK, nowhere else to go . . .

  And yet, it occurred to Eleanor now, maybe that was why she’d reciprocated Alex’s advances mere weeks later: because she’d needed an escape route – not just from Gavin, but from Oliver too. Maybe she’d just never put two and two together, had never confronted the truth of her marriage before . . . That maybe she’d ended up with Alex because she’d needed him. Had been vulnerable. Alone.

  Surely not?

  Long-pent-up tears were rolling down Eleanor’s cheeks. Lizzie was still studying her, waiting for her answer. But how could she possibly tell Lizzie that Oliver, her husband, the father of her children, was not only a serial cheat but a sexual predator too? She took a deep breath.

  ‘Lizzie, I promise you nothing happened, but, yes, he did try it on once, I admit that.’ She chose not to go into detail. ‘And after that I only stayed because of you and the twins. Maybe I should have told you, but I just didn’t know what to do for the best . . .’

  Neither woman spoke. Emotions flitted and bounced about the room, as the waiters continued their rounds with silver teapots and delicacy-laden cake stands. They simply stared into each other’s eyes, searching for the truth. At long, long last Lizzie’s face softened. ‘Oh, you poor girl,’ she said.

  Lizzie took Eleanor’s hand and they continued gazing at each other, tears flowing down both women’s cheeks now, as far-distant memories continued to percolate within Eleanor, of all those early traumatic times in London . . . and as she sat there, she doubted herself all over again, about how she should have handled the situation with Lizzie’s husband . . . but, worse, far worse, she doubted whether she’d ever truly loved her own.

  65

  CHRISTIE

  Morning rushed at Christie sometimes, and it was as if her head were being forced back against the pillows and she would never be able to get out of bed again. It was an irrational feeling, and not necessarily related to the weather, or the latest depressing news story, or even how well she’d slept the previous night. It was more primal than that. More fundamental. Even the act of opening her eyes made her heart hurt. What was the saying? You could never be happier than your least happy child. But there was nothing to go on, nothing to pin her worry to, and so some days the world just seemed that little bit heavier, for no apparent reason at all. Yet how could it be that the baby boy she’d once carried, had suckled and cooed over, had been there for, through the joys and pitfalls of childhood, was now a virtual stranger to her? It was the loneliness of it, the fact that she could never articulate her fears. They felt too impossible. Too ridiculous.

  Christie bit the top of her lip, pulled it towards her mouth, thus stretching the skin beneath her nose, as if she were preparing it for a wa
xing. She held her breath as she leaned over and grappled on the floor for her iPad. She propped herself up with pillows and rested the tablet against her knees. How did this innocuous device have so many answers inside it? She could ask it anything – except what her son was up to. She’d tried googling his name, but it was fruitless. If there was something, it would be underground, on the Dark Web, whatever that was. And so mainly Christie made do with constantly scanning her emails, watching for something from him, which rarely came.

  This morning there were no messages from Jake, as usual. In fact, amongst the normal unsolicited rubbish, there was only one email of interest. It was from a luxury holiday company, with her personalised wedding quote, and even without opening it, it made her feel guilty, although she was sure Paul would have understood. She remembered how happy Paul had been for one of his workmates who, much to other people’s disapprobation, had married his late wife’s nurse. Surely Paul would have felt the same about Christie moving on too. And maybe it was better that she and Piers go to the other side of the world and do it quietly, just the two of them, with no fuss. Her children had made it clear they didn’t want to come to the wedding anyway. This would give everyone the perfect excuse.

  Christie shifted in the bed, scraped her hair away from her neck and twisted it into a topknot. She leaned back again, so the bun was held in place by the pillows, and gazed around the room. It was a warm shade of caramel, accented with vanillas and creams, the fabrics sumptuous and comforting, and the conflicted feeling was unnerving. She missed Paul. And yet she let another man sleep in his bed now. One she had agreed to marry.

  She needed to move house.

  Christie rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands. It didn’t help that she and Piers still hadn’t worked out where they should live. She wouldn’t go to Bristol, as it would be too disruptive for Daisy and Jake, even if they pretended not to care. It would be yet another change foisted upon them through no fault of their own. Maybe she should simply sell the house anyway and be done with it. Paul was dead, and there was nothing she nor anyone else could do about it. She could buy somewhere else round here, create a new home that worked for everybody. Yes, surely that was the answer.

  When Christie finally opened the email, the cost of the trip was even more extortionate than she’d predicted. But, she tried to tell herself, it would be sensational, and the money didn’t really matter anyway. She could afford it, which still surprised her, even now. She had never imagined, when she’d married Paul, that they would end up so well off.

  ‘Everyone needs packing cases, Christie, love,’ Paul had said, when he’d tried to convince her that it was a good idea for him to quit his job and put money on the mortgage to start his own business. ‘As sure as they need nappies and coffins.’ He’d laughed then, and she’d thought he was mad, but the eventual size of his bank balance had been no joke. It had come as yet another shock after Paul’s death. When the business had first taken off, she hadn’t wanted much to change anyway. She and Paul had liked living in Ware – neither of them had seen the need to move back up north. And although they’d upgraded to this place, it was by no means a mansion, and their only extravagance had been to decorate throughout before they moved in.

  So now, unfathomably, not only was Christie a widow, but a wealthy one. She was about to spend an absolute fortune marrying a handsome management consultant, having turned into a giggling, orgasm-infused parody of herself. Shirley Valentine perhaps. And put like that, maybe that was why everyone else seemed so fed up about it.

  Christie sighed. Her thoughts were dragging her down, into the soft, accommodating pocket springs of the mattress. She needed to get up, but it was almost as if she couldn’t. She felt paralysed by dread. She shut her eyes and saw Paul, beckoning her from afar; and then she pictured Daisy, sad-eyed and thin, the epitome of heroin chic these days . . . and then the face magically melded into Jake’s, and there were palm trees behind him, a look of hate on his face . . .

  No.

  Christie sat bolt upright, her heart roaring. As she clambered out of bed her knees creaked and felt weak, but they were always like that first thing in the morning. She tried to normalise her breathing, render her mind blank, at least until she was ready to paint it again. Would she pick red for terror, or blue-grey, like the sea, for frigid, pointless fear? Get a grip, Christie. Get a grip.

  Christie went into the shower, stood under the fierce tepid water for five minutes or so, her face pointed into it. She didn’t bother with soap. When she’d finished, she wrapped herself in a clean warm towel and returned to the bedroom, hair dripping. She sat down on the bed and reached for her phone. She was addicted to it. She was addicted to trying to find out about Jake. She looked at her calls first, in case she’d somehow missed one. And then she checked her email again, her social media feeds.

  Where was her son? He’d told her that he’d stayed up in Manchester for the summer. But whenever Christie had tried to call him, his phone had been switched off. She’d just got the odd email, saying that life was fine, and that he was working hard at the Dime Club. But she knew he’d been lying. When she’d rung the nightclub one evening last week and asked to speak to him, they’d said that Jake didn’t work there any more, and Christie didn’t know what to do. What could she do? Jake was nearly twenty-one now. She had no hold over him. He had no father to tell him what to do.

  Christie leaned over, picked up a mug from the bedside table and took a gulp of cold tea. Perhaps she just needed to move forward, get on with her own life and let her children get on with theirs. As she clicked on her most recently bookmarked web page again, of a paradise resort on a tiny island off the coast of Australia, the thrill of anticipation was both a relief and a source of shame. The image the computer served up to her, like a sorcerer’s trick, was brash in its infinite blue-and-whiteness. She’d always wanted to go to the Great Barrier Reef. The fact she would be going there to get married felt surreal. She would treat it like a holiday first and foremost. The wedding itself would be low-key, incidental almost. She imagined herself barefoot, loose-haired, in a simple white dress. Just her and Piers. Nothing fancy.

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  Christie vigorously towelled her hair and wondered whether it was time to get it cut to something more age-appropriate. The skin around her eyes was creased now, and her jawline had slackened, but she wasn’t going to meddle with her looks, like some of her friends had. She put her head back, stretched her neck. She could feel the bones in the base of her head crunching, cracking, popping. Why was life so complicated? Why couldn’t her family be pleased for her? She didn’t buy any of the platitudes about how worried everyone was on her behalf. She knew what kind of a man Piers was, how happy he’d made her.

  Christie’s phone pinged.

  ‘Hi, C. What do you think of the resort? Shall we do it? It’s up to you, my darling. We can always go to Skegness if not. P xx.’

  Christie smiled. Her senses were dialled up, and as she pressed reply it was as if there were energy waves coming from her lover, emanating up from her fingers, through her arms and into her spine. Joyfulness flowed from somewhere deep within her, lava-like, reaching the surface at last. Henry, her first love, from Cambridge. Paul, her late husband, from home. And now Piers, her soon-to-be second husband, from out of the blue. Third time lucky, she was sure of it. Her happy ending was here, right now. All she had to do was take the chance to reach for it.

  66

  ELEANOR

  It was a text from Mason that first alerted her. It read: ‘Hope Dad is OK? Keep me posted. X’

  Eleanor rushed across the kitchen and flipped on the radio. The newsreaders’ tones had that quite unique note of sombreness that they reserved for only the most abject of breaking stories, when no one was quite sure what was going on, or knew who had died, and people were worried that it could even be someone they themselves knew personally. It seemed this latest strike had been in the heart of the West End, and it was another terr
orist attack, and scores of civilians were dead or injured.

  Eleanor tried to call Alex, but his phone was switched off, although of course that wasn’t out of the ordinary, and she wasn’t allowed to have his work number. Now she cursed the police’s policy. Where was he? Was he OK? She’d been so proud of him, before, and although she’d always worried about him, fundamentally she’d believed that he’d be all right. But these days it truly frightened her, not knowing where he was, what he might be doing, how close to danger he actually was. Alex was always so circumspect about it and, as Eleanor tried to reassure herself, what he was working on right now might not even be related to this attack. He’d always insisted to her that he was perfectly safe, and that his training was rigorous, and he’d been on enough courses for her to know that that must be true. Sometimes she wished the cops had guns in Britain, like they did in America. It seemed to her that the police here were sitting ducks, especially in this day and age.

  Eleanor went into the living room and turned on the TV, but despite the non-stop coverage all she found out was what the radio had already told her. She tried Alex once more, but again his phone went straight to voicemail. She opened Twitter and already the amateur videos were being posted. She couldn’t stand it. She picked up her phone again.

  ‘Just text me that you’re OK. Love you,’ she wrote. After she’d sent it, she went upstairs to sort out the washing, but that felt too trivial. She needed to call the bank, but it felt like too much of an undertaking when her husband might be dead or dying. She tried not to think about it. She knew Alex would call or text her soon enough – he always did when there was any kind of story that made the news, knowing that she had a tendency to think the worst these days. She simply had to not worry about it until then. She kept telling herself it would all be fine. There were thousands of police officers who worked in London, and so the chances of Alex being directly involved were surely minuscule. She just had to pray that the numbers would work in her favour.