‘Between us,’ I say, ‘I think he likes the company. Especially after all the burglaries around here lately.’
‘What burglaries? I haven’t heard of any!’
I feel my cheeks burn as I clock Tamsin’s widened eyes. I feel mean – she lives at the more deserted end of the village. I shouldn’t have exaggerated like that. Nothing was even stolen from Stuart’s house or garage.
‘Clearly, I’m mistaken, sorry, ignore me.’ Time to change the subject. ‘Who would like to go first and share their initial thoughts?’ I say, choosing the kind of words Nina would use.
I feel like an overworked, underappreciated manager trying to bring staff to order. I don’t want to give that impression, but what is the point in having a book club if you don’t discuss it? Yes, it’s incredibly sad that Nina’s gone, but I’m here and I’m doing my best, just as I promised.
It’s obvious who has read the novel and who is winging it. I make mental notes because they’ve had six months. Maybe I’ll subtly suggest to repeat offenders that this may not be quite the group they’re looking for. I promised to take care of things for Nina. It’s a big responsibility. Ruining anything she set up would be a sad failure.
Deflated that the evening has not been the success I’d hoped for, I nearly cave when Tamsin offers me a glass of red as we both tidy up after the others leave.
‘No, thanks,’ I say, drawing steeply on diminishing willpower.
‘Ah,’ she says with a wink. ‘Any news to share?’
The problem with lies is that it’s easier to stick to a thread. I nod. The moment I do, a memory flashes: Nina had confided that she found Tamsin overly inquisitive.
‘Oh, huge congratulations!’ she says, throwing her arms around me.
I stiffen. Heat flames my cheeks for the second time this evening as regret at my big mouth hits.
‘It’s a secret,’ I say.
‘What’s a secret?’ asks Stuart, standing at the study door.
My mind grasps for words but they’re elusive.
‘Marie’s got some news—’ says Tamsin.
I interrupt. ‘It’s very early days and—’
‘Well, very early congratulations then,’ he says with a smile.
He looks genuinely pleased, yet the thought of new life can’t do anything but highlight his own loss.
‘I don’t know what came over me. Ben will be so cross if he finds out I’ve blabbed.’
An understatement.
If he discovers my lie, he’ll throw our past back in my face and I dread to think where that will leave us. Just a few more days and all this will right itself by becoming true. I’ll stay calm and ride this out. It’s not as if it’s the first time I’ve been forced to do this.
Chapter Four
Humiliation intertwines with grief, rage, disappointment, despair. I can no longer pretend. It has been another week of negative results. When it feels physically impossible to cry any more, I chuck the white plastic stick into the bin with the others, tie up the bag and transfer it to the outside rubbish.
Ben will go mad if he finds them.
Or, maybe he won’t.
It’s only seven in the morning, but fuck it, I pour a Baileys into a coffee and stir. I check the kitchen clock. Ben’s due home from work in less than an hour. I need to think.
When I told him my period was late yesterday, his reaction was to warn me again about gun-jumping. I tried to believe it was because he was trying to protect me from more disappointment. But . . . I can sense lies. I’m good at detecting the telltale signs. More often than not, it’s concealed in the barely perceptible shift of a gaze.
Ben’s eyes betrayed relief. He does not want to have a baby with me any more; he just hasn’t got round to telling me. I down the contents of my mug and make myself another.
By the time Ben’s key turns in the lock, I’ve come up with a plan: avoidance. Plus, a mental pact not to lie in future (at least not big ones), and I’ll do all the things Ben’s asked me to, like spend less time at Stuart’s, talk about things other than Nina or our future baby, be more fun. I figure that if I weather this particular relationship storm, things will naturally settle down. My dad always says that. Most of the time, it’s true.
‘Hi,’ I say.
We hug, but don’t kiss.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks.
There’s no point in trying to hide my red eyes. I look like a frog. I shrug.
Ben knows what it means. He holds me tight and I give into grief again, my eyes shut tight, my face buried against his chest so I don’t have to deal with his reaction.
There are practicalities to deal with in the aftermath of a big lie; enough of a reversal in order that I don’t have to confess outright. There is an art to it: a mix of weaker lies, a dash of truth, a deflective comment, until I come up with something decent enough to let me off the hook. I enjoy it in a twisted way and almost take pride in my creativity. There’s painful pleasure with the release of fear, the underlying panic at being caught out obliterated like a downpour after a dry spell.
I start with Deborah: a phone call. My period came, a hint of an early miscarriage.
Tamsin is next with a text outlining a similar fib.
I tell Stuart in person.
‘I made a mistake.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ he says. ‘Nina thought she was expecting twice before Emily came along.’
Betrayal is a hard emotion to conceal because it twins with the physical symptoms of sickness. Sometimes, I used to think that I was being a bit paranoid or oversensitive when I felt left out of Nina’s life. Each time I’m confronted with evidence that it wasn’t my mind, it’s bittersweet.
‘I hope it happens for you soon,’ Stuart continues. ‘You’re so great with children. Can I make you a coffee? Tea?’
‘No, thanks, I’m on my way to work, a sixtieth birthday celebration,’ I say. ‘I just popped by to tell you and get it out of the way so that I can move on without any . . .’ I struggle for the right word ‘. . . misunderstanding.’
‘I get it,’ he says. ‘I don’t know if this is an appropriate time to mention this, but I was going to ask if you’re up for a visit tomorrow lunchtime to the new pizza place on the high street? The children have been asking, and it would be great to have adult company. No pressure, though, only if you’re feeling OK? Ben’s welcome, too. All on me, of course.’
I smile. ‘Ben is working. But I’d love to, thanks.’
‘It’s a date,’ he says.
As I drive away, guilt hits at the broken pact with myself. Should I have told the truth, that I’m on my way to an appointment with my therapist? I’ve always kept it private. Maybe I should be more open with the people I trust, admit that I need help?
Yet, when it comes to doctors, dentists, fake work appointments, surely everyone fibs? It’s not just me. Lies make life palatable. It’s simply unavoidable at times. I do it to protect myself and others. Surely it’s not a bad thing to tell people what they want to hear? Sometimes there’s no choice.
Judy throws me.
‘Why don’t you just ask Ben if he still wants children rather than risk miscommunication with all this guesswork?’