verity
March, 2019
‘Don’t forget the popcorn, Vee!’ my brother, Conrad, called from his place in front of the television. He was getting ready for his friends to come over and I was obliging by grabbing him some supplies while I nipped to the shops. ‘Giant bags of it, OK?’
Our parents had driven up to London to visit my grandma and I was staying over to look after Con. He was sixteen and loved the fact that I slept over to ‘look after’ him. Mainly because he got to stay at home in Brighton when Mum and Dad went away, and because he knew he could do whatever he liked except hurt anyone, get arrested or get anyone pregnant. There were other things on the list, sure, but those were the three biggies.
I slept in my old room which the ’rentals had kindly redecorated so it was a proper grown-up spare room that I loved to chill out in. I was convinced Mum did it so I’d move back in, but Dad had been clear when they’d helped me with my flat deposit – no takey-backsies. In other words, once you’ve left, you stay left. Visits are fine, nice, encouraged – but two nights were all he’d put up with.
I shouted ‘OK’ to my brother then shut the front door behind me, just as a man with dark-blond hair opened the creaky metal gate and stepped onto the black-and-white tiles of the garden path. He was at least ten years older than me and wasn’t dressed like a postie or a delivery driver; he also wasn’t carrying a clipboard or wearing a lanyard. He had a physique and way of holding himself that made his tan-coloured chinos, cream shirt and black jacket look extra expensive and ultra delicious.
‘Hello,’ he began, sounding pleasant enough.
‘Hi,’ I replied cautiously. Just because he didn’t have a clipboard on display didn’t mean he wasn’t someone intending to sweet-talk me into signing up for a home-cooking box that I’d never properly use or giving more to charity when a significant portion of my wages went that way already. ‘Can’t stop, just on my way out.’ I had never sounded so breezy. I high-fived myself in my head for managing to be so detached and cool and busy.
‘No worries,’ he replied. ‘I was looking for Serena Gorringe.’ His eyes raked over me in a quick, efficient fashion. ‘From your age, I’d say you’re not her.’
That stopped me in my tracks. No one used Mum’s maiden name any more. Obviously Grandma was still a Gorringe, as was Aunty Faye, but not Mum.
‘I’ll just knock,’ he said.
‘She’s not in,’ I said, giving him my full attention and stepping into his path so he didn’t have easy access to the front door. ‘Neither’s her husband, my dad,’ I added for good measure. I wanted him to know that Mum was married.
‘Typical me,’ he said, sounding dejected. ‘It took me so long to work up the courage to come here and now she’s not in. Great.’ He flopped his arms up and down in frustration. ‘I’m not sure I’ll get the courage up again.’
‘You sound like you’re going to propose to my mum or something,’ I told him. ‘Like she’s the great love of your life and this is all you’ve lived for.’
He didn’t say anything to that. And his silence ignited a series of sick feelings all along the bottom of my stomach. I looked him over again. He was far too young for Mum but nine years earlier, she’d left us for nearly two weeks. She and Dad pretended like it never happened, but it was long enough for eight-year-old Conrad to notice, so obviously I knew. Was it for him? No, surely not. He was a good ten years younger than her. But what if he was the reason? What if she was involved with him and Dad found out and that was why he made her leave?
None of us ever talked about why Mum left. She was just gone – coming back daily to give us breakfast; then after school she was there to give us dinner and say goodnight. And then, after what seemed like a forever, she was back. And Mum and Dad were mostly fine and then they were overly fine and loved up, and we all acted as if it hadn’t happened. Was he the culprit?
The man in front of me said nothing. And if he wasn’t going to propose or something, wouldn’t he say so? Wouldn’t he be denying it?
‘How do you know my mother?’ I asked him with an edge to my voice. He’d hardly tell me on her doorstep if they had been sleeping together, but it was worth a try.
‘I don’t know her,’ he said.
‘What do you mean? In a “I never really knew her cos you never really know anyone” kind of way, or a “she’s a complete stranger who I have a freaky connection to” kind of way?’
‘Somewhere in between the two, I guess,’ he said.
I glanced at the house, wondering when Conrad would see us standing there and come out to find out what was going on. ‘Too cryptic for me, sorry,’ I said, an even bigger edge to my voice. ‘Can you just speak your speak. Tell me what you want with my mum.’
The stranger seemed to grow very tall in those moments – he stood up in his frame and suddenly he was towering over me, his arms fastened across his chest in a tight hold and his face set so much like dried cement it was as if he’d never speak again. When he did eventually push words out of his pursed mouth, it was to say: ‘I want to ask her to confess to murder.’
‘What?’ I replied. I couldn’t have heard that right. ‘What are you saying to me?’
‘You heard me . . . I want her to confess to murdering a man called Marcus Halnsley so that my sister, Poppy, can finally clear her name.’
verity
Now
‘I can’t do this any more,’ he says quietly. ‘You know I love you, and it feels like I’ve been in love with you since for ever, but I can’t do this secrecy stuff any more.’
We’re lying flat on our backs on my bed staring at the ceiling. We’ve been like this for a while. I’d lain down here like this to hide from him while he dragged my vacuum cleaner around my flat like a recalcitrant donkey, violently fluffed every single cushion, and passive-aggressively wiped or dusted surfaces until they noisily squeaked their cleanliness. When he’d finished tidying up, he’d come in here to say something, changed his mind and lain down next to me, not speaking. We’ve been like this for twenty minutes, I think. And now he’s speaking, he’s saying this, even though it’s impossible what he’s asking.
‘It used to be quite nice before, but now it’s not working for me. We need to stop living like this and tell people about us. Our families, our friends. We’re not doing anything wrong. I want to be able to hold your hand in public, go out wherever we want without worrying who’ll see us. Hell, I want to invite you over for some shockingly bad food at Sunday lunch with my parents. I just want us to be a normal couple.’
I want that, too. Of course I do, but it’s not that simple, is it? ‘Logan—’
‘I was thinking, just hear me out, I was thinking, if you casually invite me to your father’s fiftieth birthday party in a few weeks, we can tell them in a low-key way then.’
‘No, Logan. I can’t do that. It’s my dad’s party. I can’t hijack them like that. I’m sorry, no.’