Everything but the Truth

by Gillian McAllister

  Howard reached and batted my face with his paw.

  ‘Hey!’ I said.

  And Jack laughed. ‘He’s upset with you, for reading my emails,’ he said.

  There was an edge to that comment. Perhaps there always would be.

  He would often mention this, ask questions about my hacking. I would blush as I answered them. It was sad, the way he looked at me sometimes. As though I, too, had violated him, stealing in on him in the middle of the night.

  But, then, I looked at him sadly, too, sometimes. Thinking that he was a murderer. He was. Wondering at all those lies he’d told. Thousands of them.

  ‘He’s upset with you for taking six months to tell me the truth,’ I said.

  We looked at each other. Neither of us spoke.

  Jack cleared his throat self-consciously, then kissed me softly.

  Things weren’t perfect, but they were ours.

  53

  Walter Douglas was born on 2 April. The spring leaves were beginning to sprout out of the end of the twigs, as if the trees were just beginning to take their winter gloves off. And, as I felt the peculiarly warm slithering sensation after the last, sweaty push, a manoeuvre I had coached many a woman through, the world reoriented. Like a spotlight went on, focused on Wally, and the rest of the lights in my world dimmed. It was just Wally, Jack and I, lit up brightly in the centre of the stage.

  And everything I’d thought about motherhood had been incorrect. Of course I could be trusted. It was the most natural thing in the world. Instinct completely took over. It wasn’t like the boy. Wally was – truly – mine. I wish Mum had been there to see it. To see how I turned out. Because of, and despite, her.

  None of the clichéd events happened. I could hardly remember his weight: we were almost drunk with tiredness. There was no photograph of Wally on my chest, skin on skin, with Jack posing in the background. We didn’t announce it on Facebook.

  Instead, parenthood became a different kind of bliss, and it was totally unexpected to me. It was calm and warm. Snuggling in freshly washed pyjamas on Jack’s sofa. All of us snoozing intermittently. Wally on Jack’s chest; a sight worth a million labours. Wally smelt delicious, of warm milk and lavender and hot baths. I was fascinated by him: the tiny fingernails, his brow – he had Jack’s heavy brow – and his slightly longer second toe. He got that from Kate and Mum.

  We didn’t see anyone for ages. It was just us. Nice lunches. Lying on the sofa. Looking at Wally. That was all we did.

  ‘We’re so sad,’ I said as we were studying Wally’s feet. ‘This is literally all we do.’

  My laptop bleeped then.

  Mission request from Davey.

  ‘You’re very privileged,’ Jack said. ‘He hardly ever plays with anyone else.’

  I thought about the moment Davey and I had shared in the living room together. Without him, I might never have found everything out. I was grateful to him, and I hoped he knew that. Neither of his parents had apologized, but that was okay. I didn’t need them to.

  Jack leant over me. Wally was sleeping, scrunching his face up as he dreamt, moving his legs like a little caterpillar. Jack smoothed the dark hair from his forehead, releasing more delicious baby scents.

  ‘He’s not made that face before,’ Jack said.

  Howard leapt from the floor and on to the sofa, settling down on Jack’s lap.

  ‘You’re very important, too,’ Jack said to Howard.

  We both laughed, and Wally yawned.

  Audrey texted me: Well done on becoming a real-life Big Boy! she wrote. May he not grow up to be Weird or Kidult, just perfect xxx.

  I cried at that text, because I was mad and hormonal, and Jack made me a cup of real, caffeinated tea.

  ‘I’m going to venture into the outside world,’ I said later, standing up.

  Wally stirred but stayed asleep. My body was starting to feel like my own again, even though my stomach still felt like somebody else’s; jiggly, doughy, strange. But the rest was coming.

  ‘Really?’ Jack said.

  ‘Just the garden,’ I said.

  I couldn’t quite articulate the reason why I wanted to go. It felt as though the world had become filled with firsts again, experienced through Wally. The first time we went into the garden. The first time he had his hair washed. His first sneeze. Life was beginning again for me in the springtime.

  I took him to the back door to walk in the early spring air. I was holding him with both hands, and shifted him so my right one was free. I turned the key but the door still wouldn’t open.

  I looked around. ‘Coming for Wally’s first garden walk?’ I said.

  Jack was reclining on the sofa, looking at his phone. It was no longer angled towards him, now that I knew everything. I could see Words with Friends lit up, blue and yellow, on the screen. He’d been playing with Kate, though I suspected Mez was taking her turns for her.

  ‘Course,’ Jack said, springing upright. His socked feet slipped on the wooden floors. They had pandas on, those socks, which made me smile. ‘Oh, hang on,’ he said. ‘I know it’s against fire safety, but I put loads of locks in, when Mum and Dad bought it.’

  He stopped speaking, then looked at me. And it was the same look he had given me countless times before. A loaded one I’d come to recognize as evidence he was thinking of Dominic and the burglaries and everything that had happened.

  And that’s when I realized.

  He was rifling about in the big wooden chest in the living room. He emerged with four keys, then drew back a bolt lock, too.

  ‘You’re free,’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever really been in your garden,’ I said, sidestepping what I’d just seen, looking at Wally instead.

  He was opening his eyes and squinting. They were a deep, navy blue.

  My feet were getting soaked in my ballet flats in the spring puddles, and I was looking at the sun setting over the garden.

  I drew my coat more tightly around me and looked at the orange sky to the west.

  Those locks. They’d done it for me.

  All my digging, all my sleuthing, stalking, ruminating, and it had been a cluster of locks on Jack’s back door that had done it. He didn’t want to be burgled again. That much was obvious. And, strangely, those little rusty keys he was holding safely in his hands while he was smiling at Wally and me was enough. For us. He would do anything for his parents, he had said, as he laid those rat traps. He would do anything for Davey, to keep him safe. And he would do anything for us; for Wally and me. It was his biggest failing, but also his biggest strength.

  I was culpable. Jack was culpable. In the end we all were. We’re all guilty of something. We all cause some pain. Some strife.

  We went back inside after a few minutes. We were cold.

  ‘In for the night?’ Jack said.

  I nodded, still not saying anything.

  He turned the keys in the locks one by one. He drew the bolt across the door with a scrape, and that was that.

  We were locked in, with him. Despite everything we knew about him. Despite all his flaws.

  The world was locked out, and he’d let us inside, all together.

  Safe.

  Reading Group Questions

  Throughout the novel Rachel struggles with the possibility that she does not truly know the father of her child. To what extent can you ever truly know somebody? Is there a specific point when you have to decide to trust them implicitly?

  How does the novel explore the split between our public persona and our innermost thoughts? How important a role do technology and social media (like Facebook or Twitter) play in our relationships with others?

  The novel is split into three distinct sections: ‘Who?’ ‘What?’ and ‘Why?’ Why do you think the author chose to structure the novel in this way?

  Beginning with an ending, and ending with a beginning, the novel is split between the past and the present. What does it take for Rachel to finally forgive both herself and J
ack? Can we ever really ‘move on,’ or do we simply learn to live with our past?

  Consider the title Everything but the Truth. Why is honesty so important to Rachel? Do we always have a responsibility to tell the truth, or does the truth sometimes do more harm than good?

  Rachel and Jack come from very different class backgrounds. How does the novel address the theme of class conflict? Do you think it impacts upon the characters’ behaviour or beliefs, and if so, to what extent?

  This novel presents us with a series of moral dilemmas, with its characters responding in different ways. What conclusions could we draw about moral behaviour? Is it more important to be right, or to be good? Is it possible to be both?

  At the end of the novel, Rachel returns to medicine to work in palliative care. Why do you think she made this decision and was it the right one?

  There are many different types of relationships explored in this novel, all with varying degrees of love, respect, trust and compromise. Do you think that Jack and Rachel have similar priorities when it comes to their relationship with each other, and how do these affect their relationship?

  Both Rachel and Jack are put under pressure in different situations – Jack, in his personal life where his family is threatened, and Rachel, in her professional life. How are Jack and Rachel’s responses similar and how are they different?

  Discuss the theme of motherhood. How does Rachel feel about becoming a mother, and how is she affected by her own family relationships? Jack’s family relationships?

  ‘Do no harm’ is the first rule of the Hippocratic Oath. Is it possible to live by this rule, or do we sometimes have to be cruel to be kind?

  What do you think of Rachel and Jack’s actions? Should either of them have behaved differently? Do you feel that either Jack or Rachel crossed a line, and at what point?

  Acknowledgements

  Gosh, haven’t we all dreamt of writing an acknowledgements section? And now here I am, my mind blank.

  Let’s start at the beginning: Clare Wallace. Thank you. For picking me out of the slush pile. For nurturing my novel. For the edits. For the shared avocado on toast while we discussed horrendous crimes and plot points. For late-night WhatsApp messages, endless games of Words with Friends and, of course, for getting me a book deal. It’s true to say I couldn’t have done it without you. But it’s truer to say I never thought I’d make a friend along the way, too. To Naomi Perry, for stepping in, for your concerted efforts and always super-fast email responses. To the brilliant Darley Anderson rights team for their boundless enthusiasm and brilliant ‘We’ve sold your Russian rights!’ emails.

  To the whole team at Michael Joseph: to Kim, for acquiring Everything but the Truth and making a chilly day in February one of the very best of my life. For your thoughtful edits and incisive tracked changes (never once have I rejected a change – I think you might actually be the better writer of the two of us). To Maxine – thank you for the edits, for having me and for sharing your wisdom with me. I’m so unbelievably lucky and excited to be working with you. To my brilliant copyeditor who actually googled the Valencia Open, Shân Morley Jones. To the sales, marketing and publicity team at Michael Joseph for your continued hard work and enthusiasm.

  Everything but the Truth wouldn’t be the book it is without some very special people. To Darin Millar for reading an entire draft alongside the Archbold textbook and advising me on criminal law (Scots law, no less; I’m sure I am your most difficult case). I don’t know how I can ever thank you. To Sami Saba-Davies, for reading an early draft and for being so nice about my many medical errors, and for taking such an interest since. Thank you for always answering immediately my extremely obscure and often quite worrying questions. To Chris Priddle, for talking to me for hours at a barbecue about your tennis career. I’m sorry I put the entire thing in a book.

  To the Espresso Mushroom Company, for letting me ask absurd questions about mushrooms (so many, you sent me some in the post to grow myself).

  There are a whole host of other people who answered questions about criminal law, police procedure, air rifles, medical tests, and so on – too many to thank, but you know who you are.

  And now to the personal acknowledgements. To my mum and my dad, for being the first two people I called the day I became an author who was to be published. I can’t think of a finer accolade than that.

  To my sister, Suzanne, and her endless patience with my ‘What would happen if …?’ messages. I’m extremely glad you became a doctor!

  To Dad, again, for the endless, endless cups of tea and walks. Thank you for saying, ‘But what is this character like?’ and, ‘No, that wouldn’t happen.’ Really, your name should be on the front with mine.

  To my friends and family who took my downbeat and excitable calls during the years of ups and downs before I got my deal.

  And to the Doomsday Writers, of course, for all the hand-holding, amusement and drama as we navigate the publishing terrain together.

  To my beta readers, Valerie and Tom. Thank you for your early praise and tactful suggested changes.

  To the authors who took the time to read an early proof and comment: it never fails to amaze me how supportive and lovely the writing community is, especially for debut authors. Thank you.

  And lastly, and most importantly, to David. I couldn’t write about love without knowing you.

  1

  It starts with a selfie. He is a random; we are not even sure of his name. We are always meeting them whenever we go out. Laura says it’s because I look friendly. I think it’s because I am always daydreaming, making up lives for people as I look at them, and they think I’m inviting them over to chat.

  In the frame of his phone screen – camera facing forwards, to us – his teeth are white and slightly crooked, his nose hooked.

  Laura leans over to press the button on the phone. Her long, slender arm is captured at the edge of the display. It’s covered in bangles and bits of thread and a homemade bracelet. She’s a hippie at heart.

  She takes the photo, and now we are frozen on his screen. I wonder if he’ll keep it, that photograph of us that now belongs to him.

  ‘No filter,’ he says to us.

  ‘What?’ Laura says. She doesn’t use Instagram. She feels no need to check in to places or share her moments with anybody. She is nowhere on the internet, and I’m sure her life is better for it.

  We break apart from our tableau at the bar, but he stays standing next to me. He rocks up and down on the balls of his feet. He’s all in black, except his red trainers.

  I turn to Laura. She’s had her hair cut. It’s a pixie, again; messed up, the fringe sitting in her eyes. She looks androgynous, slightly goofy. I could never pull off that haircut. People would mistake me for a child. She never wears any make-up, but doesn’t need to, with straight, white teeth, naturally red cheeks and dark lashes. Her eyes crinkle at the corners even when she is not smiling. What she wants more than anything is to be an artist – she creates hyperreal paintings that look like photographs – and she doesn’t want to live her life like other people’s. She’s obsessed with it. She will sometimes say things like, ‘What’s the correlation between wearing a suit and doing a good job?’ or ‘Why do you need a house in the suburbs and a mortgage like everybody else?’ I would never say such things. What do I know about real jobs, real houses, I will think quietly, while, it seems to me, the rest of the world holds forth.

  ‘Great shoes,’ she says now, dipping her head down underneath the bar. They’re new. Cream silk, with ribbons that tie at my ankles. Laura lives in flats, the sides of her feet dry and hard from never wearing shoes at home. They live on a barge, Laura and Jonty. They moor it wherever they like. I sometimes want to do the same, bored of our tiny basement flat, but Reuben tells me I’d hate it; that I am a fantasist.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I bought them on a credit card, at almost midnight, the other night. I’d forgotten until they had arrived, experiencing a common sense of wonderment, and th
en recognition, as I tore in to the parcel.

  ‘Are they Reuben-approved?’ Laura says. Reuben is one of the only people she consistently misreads. She converts his shyness into something else. Disapproval, maybe. She may be right. He had raised his eyebrows as I unpacked the shoes, but said nothing. I shrug, now. ‘What’s his is ours,’ I say, though I’m embarrassed by the notion. Reuben works far harder than I do. Everybody does.

  Laura’s bony shoulders are out even though it’s December. Her top is simple, a plain white vest that’s too big for her. It’s the kind of material that doesn’t need pressing. I don’t iron anything. If I ever try to, our iron deposits a brown, sticky substance everywhere, and I have given up. In my head, I call it my Joanna-ineptitude; situations in which I fail where most others succeed.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got a friend for life,’ she says.

  I turn. The man is still standing next to me. I can feel the entire length of his leg against mine as he shifts his weight, trying to get the bartender’s attention. ‘Two more for these ladies?’ he says.

  We say yes to the drinks, and maybe we shouldn’t. We are becoming giggly. They arrive, placed on black napkins which dampen with condensation from the glasses. Laura sidles slowly along the bar.

  I follow, but so does he.

  ‘Your work or mine?’ Laura says, her head bent towards me so that he can’t hear. This is how our long chats begin. We once joked we should have an agenda, and now we kind of do: work, relationships, family. Then everything else. Whatever comes up.

  I let out a sigh, but it does nothing to dispel the knots that have appeared as soon as she mentions work. ‘I did a sudoku puzzle on my lunch that was more stimulating than my entire day yesterday.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She sucks her bottom lip in, looking thoughtfully across the bar. We hate our jobs in completely different ways. I have no idea what I would like to do. Laura knows exactly what she wants to do, and can’t do it.