Let Me Lie(65)

‘Spitting image of her, you are. Isn’t she, Margaret?’

‘Oh yes. Two peas in a pod.’

I force a smile. I do not want to be like my mother.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Don looks positively disappointed. ‘It must be hard, though.’

‘Christmas,’ Margaret chimes in, in case I’ve forgotten what day it is.

Despite spending the last nineteen months grieving, I am suddenly paralysed with uncertainty. Should I be crying? What do they expect from me?

‘I’m fine,’ I repeat.

‘It still doesn’t feel real,’ Don says. ‘I mean, both of them – such a shame.’

‘Terrible shame,’ Margaret echoes. They’re talking to each other now – my presence irrelevant – and I have the uncomfortable feeling of having been sought out as a catalyst for their entertainment. For the ghoulish pleasure derived from talking about those less fortunate. I scan the kitchen to see who is holding Ella, so I can manufacture a breastfeeding-related exit.

‘I thought I saw her in the park yesterday.’

I freeze.

‘Funny how your mind plays tricks on you.’ Margaret gives a little trill of laughter. She looks around – a storyteller in full flow – and her laughter stops abruptly as her eyes reach mine. She rearranges her face into something approximating sympathy. ‘I mean, when I looked properly, it was nothing like Caroline. Older, black hair – very different. Clothes she wouldn’t have been seen dead in—’ Too late, she realises her faux pas.

‘Will you excuse me?’ I say. ‘The baby …’ I don’t even bother finishing my sentence. I retrieve Ella from another neighbour’s arms and find Mark in the study with Robert, looking at the extension plans.

‘I’m going to take Ella home. She’s tired. All the excitement!’ I smile at Robert. ‘Thanks for a lovely party.’

‘I’ll come with you. Mum’ll be wanting her bed, too. We’re all done here, I think?’

The men shake hands and I wonder what they’ve been discussing, but I’m already on my way to find Joan. As always, it takes ages to leave, as we say goodbye and Merry Christmas to people we see in the street or the park most days anyway.

‘See you on Sunday!’ someone calls out as we leave.

I wait till we’re out of earshot. ‘Sunday?’

‘I invited the neighbours over for New Year’s Eve.’

‘A party?’

He sees my face. ‘No! Not a party. Just a few drinks to see in the New Year.’

‘A party.’

‘Maybe a little party. Oh, come on! We’d never get a babysitter on New Year’s Eve. This way we get to stay home, but still have fun. Win-win. Text Laura – see if she’s already made plans. Bill too, of course.’

It’s days away, I tell myself. I have more pressing things to worry about.

‘I’ve told Robert we’ll support his planning application,’ Mark says, when Ella’s in her Moses basket and Mark and I are getting ready for bed.

‘What changed your mind?’

He grins through a mouthful of toothpaste. ‘Thirty grand.’

‘Thirty grand? It’s not going to cost thirty grand to replace the lawn and stick some plants back in.’

Mark spits and swills water around the basin. ‘If that’s what it’s worth to him, I’m not going to argue.’ He wipes his mouth, leaving a white smear on the hand towel. ‘Now I don’t have to worry about the flat being empty for a while.’

‘You didn’t have to worry anyway – I told you.’

He gives me a minty kiss and heads for bed.

I stare in the mirror. My skin is still free from lines, but the bones over which it stretches are undeniably my mother’s.

Margaret thinks she saw Mum in the park yesterday. She doesn’t know it, but she probably did. It’s only a matter of time before someone really does recognise her; before someone calls the police.

I could stop all of this, right now, by telling the truth.

So why haven’t I? I’ve known for more than twenty-four hours that my parents are alive; that my father faked his death to escape debt, and my mother faked hers to get away from my father. She betrayed me. Lied to me. Why aren’t I calling the police?

My face stares back at me from the mirror, the answer written in my eyes.

Because she’s my mother, and she’s in danger.





THIRTY-SIX


‘A baby?’ I said. ‘But we took precautions!’

‘The pill’s only ninety-eight per cent reliable.’

I didn’t believe it. Said so.

‘See for yourself.’

The thin blue line was unwavering. So was I.

I didn’t want a baby.

There were options, of course, but I was made to feel like a monster for even suggesting it.

‘How could you?’

‘It’s a collection of cells.’

‘It’s a baby. Our baby.’

Our parents were delighted. They met each other over an awkward afternoon tea and discovered they got on famously. It was time we settled down – they’d been respectively worried about our ‘wild ways’, suspicious of our London lifestyles. How wonderful we’d found each other; what a miracle this baby was!