Sometimes I Lie(31)

I open the door as quietly as I can and check on Paul. He’s already gone back to sleep, gentle snores escaping from his open mouth. I take my dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and creep along the landing to my little study. Everything is neat and tidy, just how I left it. I take out my white gloves and my fountain pen and stare at the blank sheet of paper. I’m too tired to think of what to write and then I remember Mrs MacDonald from school and her Three Things rule. The words come and I smile to myself:



Dear Madeline,



I hope you’ve been enjoying my letters so far. I know how much you like reading letters from your fans.

I am not a fan.

There are three things you should know about me:



1. I know you’re not the woman you pretend to be.

2. I know what you did and what you didn’t.

3. If you don’t do what I ask, I’ll tell everyone who you really are.



I’ll keep writing until you get the message. Ink doesn’t last for ever of course, so let’s hope we don’t have to hear from each other for too much longer. If the ink runs out, I’ll have to find another way to make you listen.

‘What are you doing? Why didn’t you come back to bed? What’s with the magician gloves?’

Paul is peering round the study door in just a t-shirt and his boxer shorts. I’ve been caught.

‘I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make a late start on the Christmas cards but my hands were cold,’ I stutter.

He gives me a strange look. ‘OK. Well, Mum has just texted, she thinks the doctors are trying to kill her. I’m going to have to go back up there.’

I didn’t think she knew how to text.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now. She needs me.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I offer.

‘No, it’s all right. I know how worried you are about work at the moment. I won’t be away long.’

He retreats from the door before I have time to reply. I hear the shower being turned on and the boiler rumble to life. He’s not in too much of a hurry then. I fold my letter, place it in the red envelope and put my white gloves back in the drawer. I walk past the bathroom, the door is a little ajar and steam is already billowing out in a bid to escape. I peer through the damp cloud and see my husband, naked in the shower. It’s been a while since I have seen him this way and I feel a curious mix of rejection and relief. I move quickly towards our bedroom and take his phone from the side table next to the bed: 06:55 – I hadn’t realised how late it was, it still feels like the middle of the night. I type Paul’s password into his phone. I remember the first time I tried to guess it a few months ago, putting in our wedding anniversary, my date of birth and then, finally, his. Of course it was all about him. I open his text messages. The last one was over twenty-four hours ago, from me. There are no texts from his mother. I hear the shower stop. I put the phone down, climb back into bed and face the wall. I listen as he dries himself, gets dressed, sprays himself with deodorant, does up his belt and refills the pockets of his jeans with loose change.

‘How will you get there? Train?’ I ask.

‘No, quicker to drive.’

‘I thought the car needed its MOT?’

‘Dave says it’s ready now. I’ll just collect it from the fore-court. I’ve got the spare key.’

‘Did he text you too?’

‘No, he called last night. Why?’

‘No reason.’

He has an answer for everything.

He kisses me goodbye and tells me that he loves me. I tell him that I love him too. Well-worn words that have shrunk and lost their meaning. I lie perfectly still as I listen to the sound of my husband leaving me, it doesn’t last long. When the front door closes, I get out of the bed and watch him walk away from behind the bedroom curtain.

I follow in Paul’s footsteps, head down to the kitchen and turn on the light. My throat is dry so I pour myself a glass of water to take back upstairs. I stop in front of the oven and check that it is off twelve times, clicking my fingers with my empty left hand. I notice the red light of the answering machine flashing away on the sideboard in the hall. The only people who have ever used the landline are my parents, and even they don’t call this number any more. My index finger hovers reluctantly over the PLAY button, almost too scared to make contact, as though it might burn me. I swallow a gulp of water, letting it wash away my fear, then I push the button. It’s Paul from two days ago. So he did call to tell me he was at his mum’s. I don’t know how I missed the machine flashing, I walk past it all the time. I delete the message and then pause over the PLAY ALL button. I shouldn’t need to hear his voice again, but I do. I close my eyes as the familiar sound of my father’s voice fills my heart and ears. Hello, it’s me, Dad. Call me back when you get this, Peanut. He hasn’t called me that for such a long time. The tears I have been managing to suppress fall freely from my eyes. They make tracks down my cheeks and cling to my chin for as long as they can, before dropping down onto my nightshirt to form damp stains of sadness. I’ve saved this message for so long now. Paul says it’s morbid, he doesn’t understand. Out of some instinctive curiosity, I pick up the phone and hit the LAST NUMBER DIALLED button. After several rings, I hear a click and then a pre-recorded message speaks in my ear. I slam the receiver down, glaring at it as though it’s to blame. I’ve never called Claire from this phone.