Sometimes I Lie(28)

‘You didn’t call me. There was no note,’ I insist.

‘I left you a note in the kitchen,’ says Paul, his eyes fixed on mine. I march to the kitchen and, sure enough, there’s a note on the counter. I snatch the piece of paper, holding it close enough to read:



Mum has had a fall. Going to make sure she is OK. Might have to take her to A&E. P x



I try to think back to the night before. I had been preparing a meal for us both, I had to rearrange the larder. I spent a long time in the kitchen and I do not remember seeing this note. Paul stands in the doorway.

‘This wasn’t here. You’ve just put this here now,’ I say.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘The light was on in the shed. I thought you were writing. I cooked us a meal.’

‘So I see,’ he says. I follow his gaze around the kitchen, everything exactly where I left it last night, pots and pans still full of food on top of the oven. The empty bottle of white wine. Everything is a mess, I can’t believe I left the place in such a state.

‘You haven’t even asked how she is,’ Paul says from the doorway as I continue to survey the chaos. A pile of potato peelings is browning on a wooden chopping board, more flesh than skin because I’d used a knife to do the job. I can’t stand to see the kitchen looking like this, so I start to tidy up while he continues to talk at me.

‘Please can we not fight, I’ve had a horrible time,’ he says.

I don’t want to fight either. Words keep falling from his lips as I clean, but I don’t believe any of them. I can’t stand the dirt and the lies, I just want it all to stop. I don’t remember when things went so wrong, I only know that they have.

‘She’s broken her hip, Amber. She called me lying on her kitchen floor, I had to drop everything and go.’ I open the oven to find the lamb shanks I’d been cooking, dry and shrivelled to the bone. ‘You would have done the same if it was your mother.’ I wouldn’t have done the same for my mother because she would never have called me in that situation, she would have called Claire.

‘So why was your car at Claire’s house?’ I say, throwing the meaty bones into the bin and turning to face him.

‘What? Because my MOT expired. I can’t reinsure the thing until I get it sorted, so Dave said he’d take a look at it for me,’ he says, without hesitation.

David, not Dave, she doesn’t like it.

He has an answer for everything and all the pieces of the puzzle seem to fit. I begin to feel foolish and my own stupidity softens me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, not sure that I should be.

‘I’m sorry too.’

‘Is your mum going to be OK?’

We leave the dirty kitchen behind us and sit and talk for a while. I play the caring wife he needs me to be and he tells me what a wonderful son he has been, which only seems to highlight his failings as a husband. There is no time for me to practise my lines, so I’m forced to improvise. It’s not an award-winning performance, but enough to satisfy the audience of one. I’ve never been fond of Paul’s mother. She lives on her own in a dated, draughty bungalow near the Norfolk coast. I hate the place and have only been to visit a few times. I always get the impression that she sees straight through me and doesn’t like the view.

Paul talks about his night at the hospital, and I listen for any holes in his story, but there are none. I watch his mouth as it forms his words and will them to be louder than the running commentary in my head. I want to believe him, I really do. My mobile is on the coffee table and I can see now that there is a missed call . . . maybe Paul had called to tell me where he was and I just hadn’t noticed.

‘Do you fancy some wine?’ I ask. Paul nods. I pick up my phone as I head out to the kitchen and listen to the message, but it isn’t my husband’s voice that I hear.





Before

Saturday, 14th December 1991


Dear Diary,

Last night I stayed at Taylor’s house and I didn’t want to leave. She lives in the nicest home, and has the kindest parents. She was born in that house, they’ve never moved, not like us. There are even marks on the larder door showing how tall Taylor was every year since she was born. A larder is a really big cupboard just for food. They need one because they have a lot of it and none of it is frozen. When I grow up I want a house with a larder too.

Taylor said her parents were just as weird as mine, but that is so not true. Her mum was really nice to me and her dad didn’t have to work late. When he came home we all ate dinner at the table together and it was delicious. It was a lasagne that Taylor’s mum cooked herself, in the oven, not the microwave, from scratch. Her parents didn’t argue once and her dad was actually quite funny, cracking silly jokes the whole time. Taylor rolled her eyes, maybe she’d heard them all before, but I laughed.

After dinner they said we could either go hang out in Taylor’s room, or watch a film with them. They have the biggest TV I’ve ever seen. I think Taylor wanted us to go up to her room, but I said I’d like to watch the film. Her mum made popcorn and her dad turned all the lights off, so that the only things we could see were the Christmas-tree lights and the glow from the television. It was like being at the pictures. Her parents sat on the sofa and Taylor and I shared a giant beanbag on the floor, as if we were a proper family. I didn’t really pay much attention to the film, I kept looking around the room. Everything was so perfect, I wish I lived there.