Pretenders. The

by Zaza, Agatha

  ‘I’ll have some,’ Holly chimed in, wanting to leave the extension. ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll manage,’ Anne replied. ‘Ovidia?’

  Ovidia nodded this time, looking up at Anne, her eyes refocused, perhaps thankful.

  ‘John, Edmund, Jasper?’ Her voice was brisk, and she was already on her way towards the French doors.

  ‘I’ll have a cup, thanks,’ Edmund said. John nodded and Jasper said nothing. Holly watched as he rubbed his chin and stared at the floor. She tapped his thigh, and, for a moment, she caught his eye, but then he was gone again.

  20

  Anne was a different shade of blonde when Jasper first met her. Her hair was darker, richer, and cut and styled with a military precision that gave her the quiet elegance of a 1950s housewife.

  ‘We tidied,’ John had said by way of greeting. Anne had stood behind him, a fraction of an inch taller than him in a belted cardigan and flowing midi skirt.

  Jasper had arrived at their house on time. He’d taken a taxi when he could have easily taken public transport and had waited at a café near the tube station for nearly an hour beforehand. He’d had a milkshake, a sickly sweet concoction that, in the absence of solid food, gave him the energy he needed for the evening.

  ‘It’s lovely to finally meet you,’ Anne had said stepping forward, though Jasper had only met John a fortnight earlier. She didn’t say ‘I’ve heard so much about you’ or give away any clues if she knew about the circumstances in which he and John met. He’d felt a warmth radiate from her as he shook her hand.

  He’d held out the brown paper bag he was carrying. It had been covered in cheerful red and orange apple prints from an eco-toy shop across the road from his house. Jasper would never have thought of it before, but Edmund had reminded him to take a gift, as if he knew that his brother now felt socially inept, incapable of recalling the conventions of a simple dinner party. Without reminding, he’d ironed his clothes after work but had been aware that his blue shirt sagged around him and his jeans were too big and held up by an extra notch he’d punched in his belt using a corkscrew.

  He’d seen the relief in Edmund’s face when he’d told him he’d been invited to dinner. Edmund had long since stopped urging him to socialise or to participate in activities that would take his mind off things. In fact, especially since Jasper had quit work, citing medical reasons, Edmund and his parents had become the only people he spoke to on a regular basis, until he met John.

  ‘A puzzle, how lovely.’ Anne had pulled the box out, looked it over, and closed it back into the bag. ‘We farmed them out for the evening, but the girls will love it.’

  ‘With my mum and dad,’ John had interjected with a smile. ‘Thought we’d get them out of the way.’

  Anne had jabbed him with her elbow. ‘Come on in.’

  They’d entered a large combined living and dining room with light wood floors and creased linen lamp shades. A large grey cashmere throw covered a good part of a dark brown sofa. The room had been arranged in a way that suggested conversations with friends. A series of small black and white pictures of their daughters ran along the wall opposite the deep brown armchair in which he was invited to sit.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Jasper had said, trying to recall what one said at a dinner party. ‘It’s very Nordic.’

  ‘You see,’ Anne had poked John. ‘I told you it was a style. Thanks so much. I’d have gone for something bolder and more minimalist — this was sort of a compromise.’

  ‘It’s cosy yet stylish,’ Jasper had added, shifting his weight and realising that the armchair was rather comfortable.

  ‘Anne’s dream is to end up in a magazine,’ John had sat down on the sofa at the side nearest Jasper. ‘I’m more of a home-is-for-living-in type.’

  ‘In that case, well done. You’ve got both,’ Jasper had said, and Anne looked even more bashful.

  He’d liked Anne immediately. He’d liked them, John and Anne together, their banter, the way they seemed so comfortable with each other. But Anne was not Louisa. He was sure then, he hadn’t mixed up her name. The afternoon he’d met John, Jasper had been confused when John said, ‘My wife, Anne.’ It explained the way John had kissed Louisa — an erotic, passionate act in front of a man they’d only just met and, at the time, never expected to see again.

  Here in her castle, Anne was most certainly his wife. Small framed photos showed pictures of the two of them and their daughters in various poses, on a beach, in a garden. Each picture was carefully arranged yet was deeply personal.

  Anne had offered him something to drink. He’d hesitated, wondering if his lack of food would suit beer or wine better and had been about to opt for beer, when John said, ‘Maybe we could have it with dinner, if it’s ready. I’m starving.’

  Anne had been taken aback. ‘It’s almost ready, but is Jasper?’ She’d looked toward him.

  ‘I can wait until dinner.’ He’d felt relieved.

  They’d talked to Anne as she served the meal she’d taken from Vegetarian Living. ‘I hope you like chickpeas. I’m trying to eat healthily.’

  ‘Diet,’ John had mouthed and was rewarded by a glare from Anne. ‘You’re the one that wants to lose weight. I have no complaints.’

  ‘It’s all right until I’m faced with — sit please.’ She’d waved them to the table. ‘With the likes of Louisa Trent. Three kids under six and not a spare bit of fat on her body.’

  Jasper’s eyes had flicked towards John, who had given no visible response to what his wife had just said.

  ‘I’d wanted to invite her over tonight,’ she’d said, and Jasper saw that she was watching as he spooned the food on his plate. ‘Physiotherapist at my hospital, single —’ she’d begun but let her words drift as she looked at Jasper poking at his food. ‘It won’t bite, you know,’ she’d said abruptly.

  ‘Anne,’ John had intervened sternly.

  ‘Whatever it is, starving yourself won’t cure it,’ she’d continued. ‘Trust me.’ She’d stood and fetched condiments from the kitchen island.

  Jasper had lifted his fork, discomfited that Anne had noticed, and ate a few mouthfuls. He’d guessed from what she’d said, John must have mentioned something, though how much detail he’d given his wife, Jasper couldn’t have known.

  Anne had said something about a new exhibition at a gallery near where she worked, and the conversation evolved from there. John had brought out the wine, and they went back to the living room. Jasper discovered a strange sense of normality in their home and banter, and he had found he could sit near Anne without a sense of dread or confusion.

  ‘John would never bring a client home,’ she’d said when John had excused himself. ‘So, if you’re not one of them, I can ask what’s bothering you.’

  He’d smiled at her direct manner. ‘The usual. Broken dreams, a bit too much drink, etcetera.’

  ‘No one can help, if you don’t say.’

  Jasper had shuffled in his seat.

  Resting her chin on her hand, Anne had continued. ‘When I met John, I was bulimic and in a pretty desperate state.’

  ‘A patient?’

  ‘No, never,’ she’d quickly glanced at the door, as if checking if John was in hearing range. ‘I’ve never even told him. I’d had a lot of practice hiding it.’

  ‘And now you’re cured?’

  ‘I don’t know about cured, but I do know that I can eat now and keep it all down and raise two kids.’ She’d glanced again towards the door at the sound of John’s footsteps. ‘Try looking after yourself, even if that’s the only thing you do.’

  Jasper had nodded involuntarily.

  John had returned to his seat. He’d held out a new bottle of wine and asked, ‘Chilean?’

  It had been nearing midnight, and John had put Anne — who’d had too much to drink — to bed, and they’d remained talking in low tones until Jasper said he really should go home. He’d ordered a taxi despite John’s protests that there was still more wine.


  They had been standing by the door when John said, ‘I left certain things out when I told Anne how we met.’

  Jasper had nodded.

  ‘If she ever does bring the subject up, I’d appreciate it if you kept Louisa out of things,’ John had said.

  Jasper had nodded again, choosing to stay silent.

  ‘It wasn’t anything …’ John had cocked his head, as if to say illicit, unsavoury — extramarital.

  This time Jasper had raised his chin, a small act of defiance.

  ‘Louisa is a friend …’ John had begun.

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ Jasper had said. ‘A bit confused, maybe, but not stupid.’

  The taxi had stopped at the kerb.

  ‘Are you still on for drinks on Friday?’ John had asked as they stared at the vehicle in silence.

  ‘Yes,’ Jasper had breathed in relief, glad John hadn’t changed his mind about being friends.

  21

  In the kitchen on her own, Anne exhaled, realising that Holly offered to come with her because she too wanted to escape the others. She felt the tension accumulating in her gut. The kettle stood on the counter, and Anne noticed that the debris of an earlier breakfast had been emptied into the sink.

  The kitchen gave the impression of being immaculate because it was expensive. The surfaces would remain forever unmarked, every drop and every spill could be easily wiped off the durable, technologically devised material. Not a corner, counter, or stool was scuffed or marked. If it was, it would be replaced. The cutlery drawer slid out silently, revealing a selection of perfectly matched tableware. Still, when she looked into nooks and corners, she saw more of the shoddy cleaning, crumbs that accumulated and aged in corners and beside the toaster.

  This house was hiding its owners from those they loved most, she thought, as she filled the kettle, plugged it in, and pushed the button. Their lives pivoted around this house. From here they went out to work, to socialise, to exercise, and then returned to, most likely, each night; yet they didn’t care about or for it. She could tell Ovidia cared about her clothes; they were clean and in excellent condition. She was wearing make-up, and her hair was perfect — had she imagined that she’d receive guests, she’d have had someone clean up at least the bathroom. It meant she hadn’t used the bathroom nearest the kitchen long enough for the smell of disuse to creep in.

  Why didn’t Jasper know about this house? He hadn’t even known its address. She’d always thought it strange that Jasper and Edmund usually met in cafés and restaurants or went out somewhere. It made sense now— he didn’t want Jasper to know about his secret life for reasons the brothers were keeping to themselves. Not knowing this reason was maddening, and Anne hoped the house would give her clues.

  Since Holly had moved in with Jasper, she knew Edmund only dropped by Jasper’s flat sporadically, though he’d helped his brother select and pay for the flat. But such habits were easy to fall into, like the way she never met John at his office. Also John knew Edmund to a degree, yet he had believed Edmund to live in a penthouse. If this had changed, he’d have told her. What possible reason could he have not to?

  Edmund had been hiding this life from his brother. It could be something just as simple as Edmund not wanting Jasper judging his tastes — but that, Anne thought, sounded much too petty.

  She couldn’t ask Edmund and Ovidia, but not knowing was chaffing at her. She didn’t know the couple enough to interrogate them or demand an explanation. She was like a bystander at a sudden public altercation, the history and the event and what came after might never be known. She wasn’t sure she could accept that.

  She looked around. If she was to get any answers, she’d have to find them herself.

  A kitchen like this, Anne thought, will have a mess drawer. A place where little scraps of things go: cast-off shopping lists, reminders, old hair bands, loose change. She assured herself that she could claim to be looking for accoutrements for the tea, if she was found. She opened every drawer, relieved that they were so silent, until she found it. The picture was in the drawer near the wine cooler. Everything around it neatly arranged — bills, envelopes, pieces of paper, deformed paperclips, and other photographs.

  Anne gently tugged out the picture, trying not to upset the drawer’s order. It showed a photo of a baby in hospital, tubes and cables attached to his fingers and leading from his nostrils. As a nurse, she immediately recognised the equipment as life support. It wasn’t a new born — she guessed it had to be about six months old. Its eyes were closed.

  She put the picture back carefully and found others.

  Only then did she understand whose pictures she held in her hand.

  She leaned forward and rested her hand on her chin. Since they’d arrived, there had been no mention of a child, or life support, and nothing in what she’d seen of the house so far bore any evidence that a child had ever lived here. She thought she remembered Edmund saying, the first time they’d met, that he didn’t have any children — or had he just shrugged? Having children of her own, it was a question she’d have asked anyone his age. Maybe he’d given her a vague response that she simply interpreted as being a no — when in fact he’d told her nothing.

  She set the pictures down and exhaled, trying to free the knot that formed in her throat.

  There were six photos. She looked at each one. Then stopped and caressed the image of a baby asleep in an expensive cot, its new clothes all in pale blue. The other photos showed it had brown eyes and brown afro curls. It was unmistakably both Edmund and Ovidia — a perfect blend of the best of each parent.

  If Edmund had a child — surely Jasper would have known?

  Another photo showed the baby with its eyes wide open, staring. It was a boy, she guessed, since everything around him was blue and his blankets appliquéd with images of little cars. These were parents who were not interested in bucking convention, in pursuing new or radical ways of raising their child. Perhaps because they were older, maybe because they’d waited, maybe Edmund, or even Ovidia, had never planned on having children. One of the pictures showed half of Edmund; she guessed it was him from his clothes. He held the baby with ease, its large head peeking over his shoulder, still too young to see as far as the camera that was taking its image.

  Though taken at different stages in the child’s life, they all looked as if they were printed at the same time and then put away — none of the images were crinkled, marked, or smudged. Anne did that herself sometimes. She’d empty her camera phone and pick out four or five of her favourite shots of the girls and have them printed. There was still something reassuring about photos on paper. Somehow, as long as everything was stored in a digital memory, there was the danger that it might disappear, a hard drive might fail, a camera may be stolen — but pictures on paper would remain.

  Anne tucked the photos back where she’d found them. With them was a webpage printed out that had been folded and refolded repeatedly, its creases dirty.

  How long does it take to die after removing a breathing machine or life support?

  Being a nurse, these websites were familiar. Written by well-meaning charities, they were supposed to be reassuring, to guide people through the prospect of losing someone they loved.

  ‘Oh, Jasper,’ she sighed. Faced with the enormity of Edmund’s secret life, she felt a fathomless pity for her friend. All the phone calls, the lunches in the city, meeting at their parents’ home, all those things that Jasper read as a sign of the strength of their filial affection, were meaningless if Edmund hadn’t told Jasper he had this other life.

  She rooted around more, less aware of the people outside, and found a private-hospital flyer, folded in two, names of doctors, notes on medication, and a date — vague, almost illegible, perhaps today.

  Edmund and Ovidia had a baby, and it was in hospital. There could be no other conclusion, though she wanted one.

  She felt certain sadness for Edmund and Ovidia. Being a nurse, she’d seen people waiting for someone to die. She
’d seen families sitting in corridors and hoping for miracles until the end and even after. She’d seen some people in a daze, unable to speak or comprehend what was said to them and others who tried to continue as if everything was normal. She’d seen those who tried to be strong and those who crumpled to the floor in tears.

  Finally, Anne poured the hot water into the teapot. She arranged a tray with a milk jug, sugar bowl, and four cups and saucers, which was the most she could manage, and returned to the extension.

  22

  Jasper’s phone buzzed repeatedly, and he looked at the incoming messages, a smiling emoji from Saskia congratulating him. He didn’t respond. On instinct, he scrolled down through the most recent messages, past this morning to the previous night.

  Jasper had never saved Edmund’s number as a profile. Edmund had been using the same number for years, perhaps even a decade. Jasper had committed it to memory along the way. Before asking Holly to marry him the previous night, he’d tried to call Edmund. ‘He’s not feeling well,’ his mother had chirped between glasses of champagne. He’d called Edmund once but hadn’t been bothered enough to follow up with a message. But in the taxi back home, he’d sent a text on the spur of the moment.

  He must have been distracted, happy. He’d typed in the first few digits of Edmund’s number and sent the message. He hadn’t noticed the response from the mobile provider saying his message had not been sent.

  Edmund had received no warning that Jasper would be coming.

  Jasper let his head fall forward, and he swore silently. The house and its contents were not part of a conspiracy. Edmund and Ovidia hadn’t planned an elaborate charade. He had unwittingly intruded into their real life.

  Holly elbowed him gently. She was laughing about something.

  Holly was the future. Tomorrow, they’d carry on as if today hadn’t happened, he and Holly. Last week, they’d been looking at changing paint colours in their living room — such a safe, mundane activity. They’d begin planning their wedding; she’d take him through pages and pages of magazines and catalogues. Her sister and mother would whisk her off for fittings and make-up and whatever else her big day required.