A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

Dora stared at her. ‘Come on,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s get the rest of your things together. Don’t worry about Gibson, I’ll bring him round for you tomorrow.’

  Lillian smiled her sweet shark smile. ‘You know, you’re such a nice person, Dora. I’m really glad you’re my friend.’

  What was there to say? Dora smiled ruefully, feeling the face pack break up like an ice flow. She felt a peculiar empathic sense of hurt for Lillian that she couldn’t quite handle. It was the same feeling she had had once when her daughter, Kate, had been bullied at school. The sensation took her by surprise.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, stroking back a curl of red-blonde hair from Lillian’s face. ‘We’d better not keep Calvin waiting.’

  When they’d both finally gone, she tucked away Gibson’s cat basket in the kitchen. She’d put off catching him until tomorrow. She plugged in the kettle and then set about restoring the running order in her mind. The face pack appeared to have given her a rash.

  13

  Dora dragged the gate-leg table out from the spare bedroom and wondered if she had time to nip out to buy a tablecloth before Jon arrived – something exotic, something sophisticated – something clean. Cartwheeling the table around on one of its little dumpy legs, a drop leaf swung out and grabbed at the door frame, lifting a great curl of new paint and plaster before falling with a resounding smack on her thumb. Dora swore softly under her breath. Maybe she could find a tablecloth that covered blood stains and went with bruises.

  She stuttered and hiccuped the heavy oak table across the carpet, eventually sliding it under the window so that they’d be able to look out on the street below. Somewhere she was certain she had candles. Dora glanced at the clock and then the wall, wondering if a quick dab of Copydex and a smear of emulsion would be dry by eight-ish.

  Gibson dozed in the hearth, one eye closed, while Oscar perched above him on the mantel shelf, debating whether the newly installed pot plant constituted an invitation to shred.

  Dora looked at him sharply. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she snapped, as he insinuated a questioning, chiselling nose down towards the tumble of crisp green foliage. She pulled one of the armchairs forward a little and slid a dining chair either side of the newly arranged table. It looked vaguely Parisian, she thought, bohemian. She stood back and smiled.

  Gibson was not impressed. Above him, with the skill of a proctologist, Oscar leant down, clinging to the mantel shelf by a single molecule of claw and paw, and nipped a leaf off the plant. Dora hissed at him, smoothed her hands down over her shirt-tails and looked at the clock again.

  The sitting room looked good. All she needed now was a decent cloth, there was an old pair of Liberty-print curtains in the bottom of the … As she glanced up she saw something in the street below and for an instant felt a tiny flutter of panic. What if the watcher was there again? Nervously, Dora stepped away from the window and took a deep breath.

  Lillian was gone, things would get back to normal. She wouldn’t give whoever it was the satisfaction of looking out, there or not. She wouldn’t look, she would plan for Jon’s arrival.

  She’d made a curry – roghan gosht – they’d have pilau rice, poppadoms, mango chutney. She took another deep breath, letting the rich smell from the kitchen settle her nerves. She was home, she was safe, and Jon Melrose was coming to dinner.

  Dora turned away and headed quickly into the hall.

  The curtains were in the bottom of the airing cupboard, the candles in a box in the kitchen. There were an awful lot of other thoughts skittering through the shadowy recesses of her mind as she plunged into the drawer to find a candlestick. Something glinted in the corner of her mind – a slick little moondark puddle of desire, a ripple of expectation.

  She’d already changed the sheets on the bed, whipping off the sensible striped flannelette in favour of the ones Sheila had given her for Christmas, cream things with impossible-to-iron frills on the sheet and duvet cover and fiddley broderie anglaise inserts in the pillows. There was wine in the fridge, beer, half a bottle of scotch.

  She grinned, forcing the candles to stand up by ramming a ball of tin-foil into the holders with a kebab skewer. Was getting a policeman drunk an acceptable way to get him into bed? She reddened at her own thoughts – it had just been too long.

  She had spent so long subverting and subjugating her physical desire into words. Her prose was a sensual masterpiece; a blissfully erotic, seamless guided tour around sexuality at its most stylised. But reality had never been so smooth, or so uncomplicated; people in real life made judgements, had opinions and independent thoughts, sulked, wore socks in bed and broke wind, were self-conscious, fumbled and blushed – what if she had got it horribly wrong and Jon really didn’t fancy her at all? What if … she straightened her shoulders and tried to strangle the little nagging voice that suggested she was maybe just about to make a complete fool of herself. Apprehension and expectation were a disturbing combination.

  Carefully, she carried the curtains and candles into the sitting room and set them on the centre of the table. Maybe she had come to believe her own propaganda and along the way had forgotten the mixed emotions of doubt and uncertainty that went hand-in-hand with the rest of the cocktail. What would it be like waking up beside a man after all these years? She wondered if she drooled in her sleep and if the mirror lied and she was entirely composed of cellulite after all. Talking herself in and out of passion was almost more than she could bear.

  Finally, when the table was set, Dora slumped down into the sofa and encouraged the cats onto her lap.

  ‘You see,’ she said in a conspiratorial voice, sliding her fingers along Oscar’s sinuous back, ‘I’ve forgotten how to play this game. I’ve been fully occupied on the sidelines writing the commentary. I don’t know how it goes any more.’

  There was a hint of appeal in her voice. Oscar’s eyes narrowed and he began to purr.

  ‘God,’ she snorted dryly, as Gibson vied noisily for her attention. ‘I wish you pair were men. I’d know exactly what to do then, slap half a can of tuna on the lino and you’d be putty in my hands.’ Gibson rolled onto his back and mewled provocatively.

  ‘You’re quick off the mark tonight, sir,’ said Rhodes, as Jon Melrose closed the file on his desk and threw it back into the in-tray with an unmistakable gesture of finality.

  Jon tidied away the rest of the things by the blotter, sliding pens and forms casually into the drawers. ‘Someone once told me there was more to life than work,’ he said, eyes wandering back and forth to check his efforts. ‘I’ve decided to investigate the possibility.’

  Rhodes snorted. ‘Change of tune as well. Don’t tell me, another night out with Mrs Hall?’

  Jon glanced at his watch. ‘Dinner, actually.’

  ‘Very nice, where are you going? Somewhere posh?’

  Jon stretched and then got to his feet. ‘I’m having dinner cooked for me.’

  Rhodes grinned. ‘Watch yourself, sounds like you’re getting your feet under the table there, gov.’

  Jon pointedly ignored him. He had a nervous bubble of anticipation in his stomach. It was years since he had felt like this. He pulled on his jacket, nipping in the bud the grin he felt coming on.

  ‘So,’ he said briskly. ‘I’m off to Sainsbury’s to buy dessert and a bottle of something half decent and very drinkable.’

  ‘Hope you have a nice time, sir.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Don’t ring me unless Lord Lucan turns up.’

  As he closed the door, he heard Rhodes laugh good-humouredly.

  Jon hit the first wave of Keelside’s rush hour. The cars ahead of him were arranged along the by-pass like a child’s necklace of brightly coloured beads. He ignored the tailback on the first of the roundabouts and caught himself singing at the next and every subsequent red traffic light.

  On the radio, some perceptive soul was flooding the airwaves with classic love songs. Gladys Knight and the Pips caught the Midnight Train to Georgia against a backdrop of lush
rural splendour. Jori sat back in the driver’s seat and strained for the high notes, grinning madly. He even managed to park right up by the entrance to the store. The sun was still shining, and, from the look of it, every checkout was open. Maybe there was a god after all. Whistling, he climbed out of the car and pulled a trolley out of the stack.

  ‘Jon?’

  Two aisles from the checkout, he had a trolley full of frozen, microwavable gratification, three frozen desserts and an expensive bottle of wine. Hearing his name, Jon Melrose stopped mid-stride and looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘Nita?’ he said incredulously as his ex-wife hurried towards him, bright with smiles.

  ‘Oh, Jon. I’m so glad to see you, I wanted to thank you for what you did the other day. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’ She sounded breathless and emotional.

  Jon shrugged, trying to find something to say. He wondered if she truly imagined he would abandon Joe when he needed him. Nita was talking as if he was a helpful stranger, not Joe’s father.

  ‘How is Joe?’ he managed to say.

  ‘Doing really well, maybe you’d like to pop in some time to see him? Sam wouldn’t mind. You don’t mind Joe not coming to yours next weekend, do you? Only I thought maybe he ought to take things a bit easy for a little while. Stay close to home until the consultant’s seen him again.’

  Before Jon had a chance to reply, Nita continued, ‘I’m really glad I’ve seen you here.’ Her smile grew wider still. She pushed a strand of blonde hair back behind her ears. ‘It’s no good, I’ve got to say something.’ She took a deep breath, exhaling through toothpaste-white teeth. ‘I’m pregnant. We only picked up the test results from the doctor’s this morning, what with Joe’s accident and everything – I mean, I was already more or less certain, but I wanted it to be official before we told anybody. The kids are so thrilled. We all are –’

  Jon nodded dumbly; what was there to say? He glanced down into his trolley and then up at her.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, as warmly as he could manage. ‘Looks like you’ve all got a lot to celebrate.’

  Nita laughed. ‘Thank you, thank you. I knew you’d be pleased for us. I told Sam you’d be pleased.’

  Before he had time to sidestep her, Nita pressed forward, closing herself around him in a delighted excited embrace. He stiffened, feeling the outline of her breasts pressing through his thin shirt and belatedly tried to pull back. Too late. She kissed him full on the mouth, her scent, the heat of her body making his mind reel.

  ‘Oh, Jon,’ she gasped, ‘I’m so happy. I just can’t tell you. Oh, would you like to come round tomorrow? You could come when Joe gets home from school. I’m sure he’d be really pleased to see you. Stay to tea.’

  Jon Melrose coughed uncomfortably. ‘That would be great,’ he said, prepared to say almost anything that meant he could extricate himself from her arms.

  ‘Good, can you give me a ring to let me know you’re definitely coming?’

  Jon nodded.

  As quickly as Nita had arrived she was gone, blue eyes bright with joyful tears.

  Jon leant heavily against the handle of his trolley and took a deep, deep breath, as if he were recovering from a punch to the stomach.

  Dora had bathed and still had a warm baby glow of cleanliness about her. She wanted to take a final look at the sitting room. She’d spread one curtain over the table, covering it in a rich festoon of pagan abundance, whilst the other hung across the back of the sofa, covering the worst of the plucks, with the cushions arranged in an inviting arc. She teased a pair of nail scissors from a jar on the mantel shelf and carefully snipped off the long white strings that peeped out over the arm, revealing the cloth’s pedigree.

  The intercom bell rang – it was barely half past seven. She rolled the strings into a knot and stuffed them into her pocket before heading for the office.

  ‘Hello?’

  For a little while she had forgotten about the man in the street, the burglaries, Lillian Bliss – the memories scurried back into her head like a tumble of gnawing rats. Dora had a horrible sense of déjà vu. She took a deep breath, not giving the caller a chance to answer.

  ‘Who is this please?’ she snapped nervously.

  ‘It’s me, are you all right? I thought I’d come over early.’

  Jon’s voice brought a sigh of relief.

  ‘I’m fine, come up.’ She pressed the entry button. It wasn’t until she was sliding the catch across on the upstairs door that she remembered she was still in her dressing gown, and immediately flushed crimson.

  Jon Melrose, bearing gifts, peered around the door and grinned.

  ‘You look wonderful. I didn’t drag you out of the bath, did I? Or do you always meet men on your stairs dressed like that?’

  Dora felt the colour in her cheeks intensify. ‘I did say eight-ish.’

  Jon looked embarrassed. ‘You did, you’re right. But I thought …’ He stopped. ‘Do you mind? I could go away again and come back later, if you’d prefer.’

  Dora stepped back and beckoned him in. ‘No, it’s all right, come in.’ She laughed nervously, still frightened of getting it all wrong. She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Tell you what, do you fancy a drink? There is a huge pile of God-knows-what that I bought from the supermarket in the fridge. Will you pour me something strong and bracing while I go and get dressed?’ She paused at the bedroom door. ‘I’ll have you know I cleaned the fridge out in your honour.’

  ‘You really know how to sweet-talk a man, don’t you? Shall I put my offerings in there as well?’

  Dora leant back out of the door. ‘It depends what you brought.’

  Jon opened his large bag. ‘A strawberry pavlova, some sort of frozen chocolaty something with cream and nuts on the top and …’ He peered at the final box. ‘An appley thing with ice cream.’

  Dora grinned. ‘I see you’re a man who can take instructions, I like that. Stick them in the fridge, I’ll sort them out in a minute.’

  Relieved that he was there and was the same as she remembered him, Dora dressed quickly. Discarding the dress she’d so carefully ironed as too fussy, she slipped on clean black leggings and a long silky golden shirt. Barefoot, she padded back out to the kitchen, where Jon had poured two long glasses of cinzano and was topping them up with lemonade.

  He had his back to her and was dressed in a soft blue chambray cotton shirt tucked into faded jeans. In the nape of his neck, dark, grey-touched hair curled against his skin. She took a deep breath. A lemon lay dissected on the table beside him – and suddenly, more than anything in the world, she wanted to touch him. Stepping forward, she slid her arms around his waist, and pressed her face into his muscular back, breathing in the soft male smell of his body. He turned slowly towards her and she wondered momentarily whether she might faint.

  He looked down at her with his dark glittering eyes and smiled. ‘Well, hello there, Dora Hall,’ he purred, and she knew then that she hadn’t forgotten as much as she’d feared.

  ‘Hello, Jon Melrose.’

  He kissed her softly, with exaggerated tenderness, as if she might break. She wondered if she would cry. Instead she wheeled away from him, fingers still caught in his.

  ‘I’m incredibly nervous,’ she said, in a low voice.

  Jon held out a glass in her direction. ‘Dutch courage?’

  Dora laughed, and closed her fingers round the glass. ‘If you insist. I’ve cooked a huge curry, I thought we’d eat in the sitting room –’ The need to touch him was overwhelming. The desire inside her reared up, uninvited, like a cornered animal, and she hastily let go of Jon’s hand and grabbed hold of the sink to steady herself.

  He moved closer, brushing tender moist kisses into her neck, into the soft damp tendrils of her hair, and when she heard a low throaty moan it took her a second or two to realise the voice was hers.

  ‘This is much, much too fast. What about the curry?’ she heard herself say, as he pulled her into his arms, hands lifting to h
old her closer. It seemed as if they stood there a very long time. The kiss went on and on until finally she pulled herself away breathlessly.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered thickly, looking up into his dark mischievous eyes.

  He grinned. ‘You say all the right things.’

  Dora took a long pull on her glass. ‘I think we’d better eat. Trust me, it’ll be much safer if we keep a table between us. Do you want a lesson in how to cook rice?’

  Jon shrugged and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I think I just want to be with you. I’ll treat any cookery lesson as an added bonus.’

  She moved around the kitchen slowly, aware that his eyes were on her and felt embarrassed and delighted by degrees.

  As she rinsed the uncooked rice under the tap, with her back towards him so she couldn’t see his face, Dora said, ‘I think you ought to know something. I’ve never slept with anyone other than Ray. I was going to work up to telling you slowly, if … well …’ She could hear the embarrassment in her voice and laughed, spinning round, red-faced, to look at him. ‘God, this is so ridiculous, I keep telling myself I’m all grown up now. I flog porn to pay my rent and I still can’t find the words to say this. Maybe it would have been better if I’d written it all down before you arrived and just handed you two or three pages of lovingly typed manuscript as you came through the door.’

  Jon stood up slowly and took the colander out of her hands, standing it beside the glass of cinzano on the draining board.

  ‘Would you like to go to bed with me?’ he asked, in the quietest of voices.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I rather think I would,’ and then she grinned. ‘Hang on, I’d better turn the curry off, first.’ She looked at him again, feeling the colour in her face deepen a dozen shades. ‘Are you like a boy scout? Always prepared?’

  Jon paused for a second and then a light of comprehension dawned.

  ‘Oh God, no – I thought it might look a bit previous to turn up here clutching a bottle of plonk, a selection of frozen desserts and a packet of three.’

  They both looked at each other and burst into peals of laughter. Jon picked up his jacket from the chair. ‘I’ll just nip out, there’s a late-night chemist on the corner of Park Street, isn’t there?’