Sometimes I Lie(16)

The can makes a psst noise when I open it with my fingernail, as though it wants to tell me a secret. I take a sip. It’s so cold it hurts my teeth, but I enjoy the tingling sensation and drink it down. I look back out at the garden and see a robin perched on a fence post. I stare at him while he appears to stare back. It all happens so fast. A mess of feathers in full flight hurtle straight at me with such speed and determination until the glass doors get in the way. The thud of the impact makes me jump and I accidently knock my drink over. The robin’s tiny body falls backwards, almost in slow motion, and lands on the grass. I rush to the patio doors but don’t open them. Instead, I stand and stare at the tiny bird lying on its back, flapping its wings in mock flight, its eyes already closed. I’m not sure how long we are frozen like that, the creature fighting for breath as I involuntarily hold my own, but time eventually catches up with what has happened.

The robin stops moving, its wings lay down by its side.

Its red chest sinks until it is still.

Two tiny legs lower themselves down onto the damp grass.

I feel somehow responsible but I can’t open the door or go outside, I need the safety of the glass barrier between us for now. I crouch down on my knees, lowering my face to get a better look, as though I might see the life leave the bird’s body through its beak. I remember a friend telling me once that robins were the dead revisiting you with a message. I wonder what kind of message this is supposed to be and notice the hairs on my arms standing on end.

The knock on the glass startles me. I look up to see Claire’s face at the window. She doesn’t notice the bird, even though she is only a few steps away from it. I stand to open the door and she steps inside without waiting to be invited, as though she owns the place. She helped us find this house, spotted it online and arranged an early viewing with the estate agent. I went along with it, it’s a nice house, but choosing something and owning it are not the same thing.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks, taking off her coat. She’s perfectly groomed as usual, her clothes crisp and clean despite having two young children, not a hair out of place. I hate the way she always comes round the back of the house to see if I’m at home. Anyone else would ring the doorbell at the front and take a hint if nobody answered, but not Claire. She’s asked for a key a few times now. I always say I’ll get one cut but never do.

‘Nothing, I thought I saw something.’

‘You’re home early.’

‘It’s a bit quieter than normal because of Christmas.’ ‘Paul not here?’ she asks, putting her jacket on the back of a kitchen chair, making herself at home.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’ I regret my choice of words as soon as they are spoken. My tone doesn’t go unnoticed, it never does.

‘Well, I’m glad I caught you on your own,’ she says. I nod. I do feel caught.

‘Do you want a drink of something?’

‘No, I’m OK, can’t stay long, have to pick up the twins,’ she says, sitting down at the table. I take some kitchen towel and mop up the spilt drink before sitting down opposite her, my seat still warm from before. I can’t help staring over her shoulder at the dead bird just outside the door.

‘So?’ I ask, without meaning to sound abrupt. My exchanges with Claire aren’t the same as the conversations I have with other people. It’s like when you turn on the radio and they’re playing the song that you were already humming inside your head. You can’t possibly have known what was coming, but somehow you did. That’s what it’s like with Claire.

‘So . . . I’m worried about you. I thought maybe we should talk,’ she says.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you? You don’t look fine. You’ve been ignoring my calls.’

‘I’ve been busy. I have a full-time job.’ I study her face for a moment, stalling for time as my mouth rejects each form of words my mind suggests. She looks so much younger than I do, as though her face has forgotten to age over the last few years. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’ I wish I could tell her the truth, share the sort of secrets that normal sisters share, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. We have everything and nothing in common and our mother tongue doesn’t contain that kind of vocabulary.

‘Do you remember the boy I dated in my last year at university?’ I ask. She shakes her head. She’s lying and I already regret bringing it up.

‘What was his name?’

‘Edward. You didn’t like him. Not that that will jog your memory, you never liked any of them.’

‘I liked Paul,’ she says. I ignore the past tense.

‘I bumped into him on Oxford Street, yesterday, one of those crazy coincidences I suppose.’

‘I think I do remember. Tall, quite good-looking, very sure of himself.’

‘I don’t think you ever met him.’

‘Is there a point to this story? You’re not going to have an affair, are you?’

‘No, I’m not going to have an affair. I was just making conversation.’

I stare at the table for a while, wishing she would just leave, but she doesn’t.

‘How are things with Paul?’

‘You tell me, you’ve spent more time with him than I have lately.’ I’m surprised at my choice of words, which are far braver than I’m feeling. We’re sailing into unfamiliar territory here. I’m aware that I’ve started speaking in a language she doesn’t understand and for the first time we might need an interpreter. She stands to go, removing her coat from the back of the chair. I don’t try to stop her.