The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  “So tell me,” Zora says. “Why are you here? And why have you sent poor little Robin to that awful school we hated so much?”

  Her words are harsh, but her face is kind. Zora’s face is always kind—open, welcoming, lit up by a smile. Though she’s not smiling now, her eyes full of concern.

  “There’s no need to go on,” I say, topping up our glasses.

  “There’s every need to go on,” Zora says, taking a large swig. “You swore blind you wouldn’t do this.”

  I take a sip of wine. I haven’t drunk for a couple of weeks and it’s helping, warmth spreading through me. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to leave, and my mother had it all stitched up this end.”

  “What do you mean? What does your mother have to do with it? She can hardly be controlling you from beyond the grave.” Zora starts to laugh. I don’t join in. After a moment Zora stops. “Dear God, seriously? She’s still got her claws in? How the fuck has she managed that?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m not in any rush.”

  “I’m doing my best,” I say. “I’m doing my best to make the best of a shitty situation. That’s what I want you to have in mind. OK?”

  “OK,” Zora says. “I have it in mind. Now spill.”

  “You know she cut me off when I got pregnant?”

  Zora nods. “I remember.”

  “I really tried to sort it out. I thought she’d come round after Robin was born, but she stayed so angry with me. She kept telling me how much I’d ruined my life by having Robin, how much I would regret destroying my future in all the years to come. It was horrible. I couldn’t deal with the way she was talking about her own granddaughter. And she hated Andrew, too.”

  “I remember,” Zora says.

  “Well, when Andrew was offered the job in New York—it was the end. We left, I never spoke to her again. In our last row, she said if I left, if I chose family over career, I was dead to her from that point onwards. And that she was cutting me out of any inheritance.”

  “Wow!” Zora says, with a sharp intake of breath. “You didn’t tell me that. Her own daughter…”

  “She was never exactly maternal. This is the woman who would only answer to the name Lydia, remember? Not Mummy or Mother. I didn’t want to think about it, to be honest. I was out of here—I was never counting on any inheritance anyway.” I get up to my feet and gesture around me. “I mean, look at the place. You remember what she was like—tight as tight could be. I always thought there was no money, not really.” I pause, drink some more wine.

  “But?”

  “Well, there is money. Some, at least. And the house.”

  “And she left it to you?” Zora says.

  “Not quite. That’s where it gets complicated. She’s left the whole lot in trust to Robin—some investments, an income, the house.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” I say. “It’s only on condition that Robin goes to Ashams. Primary and to the end of secondary school.” I think about telling her the full story, the way it was all forced on me at the end. But I can’t deal with it. Not yet—the fear is too great still, those hours when Robin was missing, when I couldn’t reach her or Andrew. It’s bubbling underneath.

  I take a deep breath, hold it. She’s safe. We’re both safe. I’m not thinking about it. I continue. “The whole thing is mental, really. Everything hung on there being a place available at Ashams in the first place—something she knew would be near impossible. Those places don’t come up—you need to put the girls’ names down for the primary school before they’re born, even. The admissions officer practically laughed at me when I called to ask about availability the first time.”

  “Wouldn’t she have thought of that?” Zora says.

  “Yes. I think it was her way of leaving the money to us without any intention of us actually getting hold of it. An elaborate act of posthumous spite.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “Me neither,” I say. “So when this place at Ashams came up now… That’s why I’ve had to send Robin there. Otherwise there would be nothing at all.”

  There’s a long pause. Zora is shaking her head. I can’t blame her. “It’s fucking archaic. You should try and break the trust.”

  I almost laugh at the horror on her face. “I was thinking about it. Her solicitor, the one who drew up the will—he’s the trustee, too, and he’s not that much behind it. As long as Robin is at Ashams, the house will be held in trust for her, with a small income to support us both, and once she finishes at the secondary school, she’ll get full possession and the trust will end. But if she leaves, or doesn’t get through to secondary school, the house is forfeit. It’ll be sold and we won’t see any of the inheritance. The solicitor doesn’t like it. Apparently, he told Lydia not to do it. He’s pretty much told me what I’d need to do to overturn the will. At least now we don’t have to bother.”

  At this moment Robin comes into the kitchen.

  “And now I’m stuck at this horrible school where no one talks to me,” she says, clearly having overheard. “And we have to live in this horrible house.”

  “Robin, please…”

  “I’m hungry,” Robin says, turning away. “Is there anything to eat?”

  I stop my explanation and make supper, cooking spaghetti and reheating a sauce I’d prepared earlier. I can feel Zora’s eyes, though, boring into the back of my skull, and I know the questions haven’t gone away.

  6

  Robin’s mood softens a little during the meal and she chats to Zora about her friends in America, but she stomps upstairs as soon as the meal is finished. I put the plates over by the sink and Zora and I go through to the front room to sit on the misshapen sofa, bottle of wine in my hand.

  “Robin doesn’t seem to be coping with it all that well,” Zora says, finishing her wine before reaching over and filling her glass up again. “And we haven’t even got on to Andrew yet.”

  I don’t want to talk about Andrew. Not now. Not ever. I stay silent, hoping that Zora will get the message and leave it alone.

  “It must be really hard for her,” Zora says. She looks at me closely, and I try to meet her gaze, but after a few seconds I turn my head away, swallowing hard to dislodge the lump in my throat. “It must be hard on you, too.” Her voice softens. Yes, I think. Yes, it is, and you don’t know the half of it. Zora doesn’t ask any more.

  Instead, she wanders around the living room. I follow her with my eyes, looking at the tired floral wallpaper, the chipped paint. There are shelves in the alcove next to the fireplace, full of old photographs and ornaments.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—what is it with these? They’re unbelievably ugly,” Zora says, lifting a figurine. She carries it over to me. It’s one of a pair of statuettes, similar to the ones I dislike upstairs. Zora’s figurine is of a mother holding a basket of fruit in her arms, laughing as a little boy helps himself to an apple. The other statuette is of a father leaning to offer a sweet to a little girl with her apron outstretched. The colors are saccharine sweet, pastel shades of blue and pink and green, the expressions on their faces nearly as sickly.

  “She was obsessed with them,” I say. “I used to love them when I was a child, though I’m not that keen now. I remember sneaking in to stare at them when she wasn’t looking. I even dared pick one up once. But she caught me in the act—she shouted so loudly I dropped it and the head broke clean off.”

  “Fuck,” Zora says.

  “Exactly. It was the man. If you look closely, you can see where it was mended.”

  Zora puts down the female statuette she’s been holding and turns the male one over in her hands, tracing the line of the mend with her fingers. “Why on earth did she like them so much?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “but she had that strange streak of mawkishness. She loved kittens and pink bows and fluffy stuff. Dolores Umbridge, you know?”

  Zora nods. “Well,
I don’t like it. Any of it. This house needs stripping out completely and starting again. You need to get rid of all those memories, start building your own. If you’re going to stay here, that is. Which I don’t think you should, if I hadn’t made it clear.”

  “You’ve made it abundantly clear,” I say. “I don’t have much choice, though. The only money I have at the moment is through doing what she told me to do: sending Robin to Ashams. I can’t afford to live anywhere else right now. I’m going to have to sort it out.”

  “I mean, Robin at that school we both hated so much—Sadie, honestly. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  I don’t have any words. “I will explain, I promise. And you will understand. I honestly didn’t have any choice. But I’m exhausted. Can we leave it? Can you trust me that I’m doing the best I can?”

  Zora glares at me, her eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment she relents and changes the subject. “Look, have another drink. I’ll trust you. Is there anything cheerful we can talk about? Have you any work lined up?”

  I slump further. “I thought we were going to talk about something more positive. I did try. I went in yesterday to tell the clerks that I wanted to come back. I was sure they’d have some magistrates’ court work, at least.”

  “And?”

  “Not a chance. It’s the same senior clerk, David—do you remember?”

  “David? That shit?”

  “He’s not a shit. He’s just… old-fashioned.”

  “I remember you talking about him back in the day. And I deal with him regularly now. I instructed a couple of barristers from there in a fraud trial I had recently,” Zora says. “He is definitely a shit. Didn’t he give you all that hassle when you kicked that QC in the bollocks, the one who was trying it on with you? Pretty much told you to go along with what more senior barristers wanted to do, not to make trouble?”

  Zora’s memory is too good sometimes. I’d chosen to forget about David’s reaction to that particular incident. “He wasn’t great when that happened, no. But I did get tenancy in the end, so… Not that that’s worth anything now. I’ve been out of it for too long. I have to reapply in writing to the tenancy committee. They’ll look at it in March when they make the decision on all the applications that have been made to chambers for membership.”

  “That’s months away,” Zora says. “Do you have enough to live on till then? Is Andrew giving you enough support?”

  I look at her. “It’s complicated.” A voice from a week ago hisses in my head, one I’ve pushed down all day. Get the fuck out of here, Sadie. I don’t want you. I don’t want Robin either. Support? After what’s happened I’m not even sure I’ll ever see him again. I know I never want to. My hands are shaking and I push them deep into my pockets.

  “Sadie,” Zora is saying. “You OK?”

  With an effort I relax my features into a smile. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”

  “Look, I know you don’t want to ask. But I could always sort you out with something. I send a lot of work to that chambers of yours,” she says.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t want to ask. You’ve already done so much.”

  “Bollocks,” she says. “I checked this shithole every now and again, that’s it. I’m serious—I’ll have a think about it, see what we’ve got coming up in the office. I’m not going to leave you languishing.”

  “I don’t need any favors,” I say.

  Zora looks at me, and I look back, but I’m the first to lower my gaze. We both know that a favor is exactly what I need, however little I like the fact.

  “You were bloody good at your job,” Zora says. “It wouldn’t be charity. You’ll have to earn it.”

  I smile at her, raising my glass, and the rest of the evening goes fast.

  When she finally gets up to leave, she says, “It’s so lovely to have you back, you know. You and Robin. Even if your life is a bit fucked up right now.” She hugs me. There’s comfort to be found in her familiar smell.

  “And I’m going to make sure you tell me what’s happening. You can’t fob me off forever,” she says, releasing me with a shake. “I’ll let you know about work as soon as I can.”

  Once Zora has departed in a cab, I go upstairs. I check in Robin’s room, but she’s not there. She’s tucked up in my bed, small under the thin duvet. I feel a twinge in my chest again, sharp and insistent.

  “You OK, sweetheart?” I say, sitting down on the bed next to her and putting my hand on the lump under the duvet.

  “I guess,” Robin says. She pushes her face out from under the covers. “I wish we could go home.”

  I start to speak, but she keeps going. “I’m sorry I was mad. I just wish it was all different, that’s all.”

  “I know. I wish it was different, too. But we can make it work. I promise.” I lie down next to her and hug her. “Are you going to sleep here, or are you going to go back through?”

  “I’ll go back. I just wanted to see you when you came up.”

  She gets out of bed and pads through to her own room. After she’s settled, I kiss her good night before I stand by the door and look at the room. The paintwork is stained, the carpet shabby. But it’s clean now, and warm. I’m getting there. Early days, but it’s progress.

  “I love you,” I say to Robin, softly, and shut the door behind me. Then I cross the hallway and climb back into my own bed, pushing my feet into the spot that Robin has warmed.

  SUNDAY, 6:07 A.M.

  A crash, glass shattering. Thuds up the stairs. I know something’s badly wrong before he’s even through the door, a smell of sweat and fear carried before him. I’m frozen, hands tight by my sides as he crosses the room in three easy steps, pulls me out of my chair, swings me around. Something cold at my neck, his voice rasping in my ear.

  “Get the fuck out of here. Or you’ll never see her again. Time you fucked off back home.”

  I start struggling, wrestling to be free, but his arms have stretched, grown, wrapped all the way down my legs, my feet. I can’t fight my way out as he turns into a snake, an anaconda, coils wrapped around me. I thrash from side to side.

  I wake, the sheets over my face, stifling me. I pull them off, gasping for air, my heart banging hard in my chest. It’s OK. A dream. It’s not real. It never happened.

  I throw off the sheets, go to her room to see her, calm myself. It’s OK. I’m still half in sleep, the dream lying heavy on me. This’ll calm me, to see her safe in her own bed.

  But she’s not there. And although I remember immediately through my haze of sleep that she’s not missing, she’s not even meant to be here, that same panic lands on me from the afternoon before, those hours she was missing, when I swore I’d do whatever it took to keep her safe if I ever got her home again.

  One hundred and twenty minutes of dread, each one stretching to infinity whenever I think back to them.

  I know it’s different this time. But it takes long moments before my heart rate goes back to normal, her bed cold and empty in front of me.

  At last, I return to my own bed, breathing in, out, in again. She’s safe. I know she’s safe. All is well.

  And in time, I sleep.

  7

  Time passes. Drop-off, pickup, cleaning, weekends an oasis of calm. There’s a pattern emerging, a rhythm to my days. No one talks to me on the school run; I prefer it this way.

  And being overlooked has its uses. Left undisturbed, I’m beginning to work out who’s who in the hierarchy around the gates. The loudest group centers around a blonde woman whose hair is always immaculately styled; the woman who nearly ran into me on the first day. Different-colored gym kit every morning, jeans and a long gilet in the afternoon, the hint of a white shirt collar sticking up around the front. The women around her stand enrapt as she speaks, their laughter hanging in the air for perhaps a couple of seconds too long.

  A gust of laughs ripples over from them now as we wait to collect our children, and my shoulders stiffen before I force them down. I ta
ke my phone out and scroll through the news, doing my best to ignore them. It’s nothing to do with me. Surely they’re not laughing at me.

  “You’d think people would at least have the courtesy to respond,” one woman says loudly.

  “You put so much work into these events, Julia,” says another.

  “It’s rude,” says a third.

  There’s a flurry of agreement.

  “We shouldn’t judge,” a voice says firmly, putting an end to the chorus. “Maybe it was done differently where they were before.”

  I don’t understand why, but it feels more and more as if these comments are in some way being directed at me. I steal a glance over the top of my phone and, for the first time, make direct eye contact with the tall blonde. Her blue eyes glare at me over the heads of her acolytes.

  “Not everyone knows that they’re meant to RSVP if they’re sent an invitation,” the same voice says again. It’s her. I look away, fast.

  Another woman strikes up. “But it’s pretty obvious from your emails. You use that invitation app—all anyone needs to do is click Yes or No. They don’t even need to explain.”

  So, the tall woman is called Julia. I risk another glance. The blue eyes are still piercing me. I shift on my feet, turn a little so that I’m not directly facing the group.

  “I’m going to say something,” says the sharp-voiced woman. I look up to find myself confronted by someone dark-haired, small and snappish, sparks of anger almost visibly flying off her.

  “You’re the mother of that new girl, right?” the woman says.