Sometimes I Lie(69)
‘Something has happened,’ I whisper as soon as we’re alone in the kitchen.
‘What?’ asks Claire with her back to me.
‘Something that shouldn’t have.’
‘What are you talking about?’ she says, stacking the plates in the dishwasher. My bravery retreats.
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it myself.’
She finishes what she is doing and turns to face me. ‘Amber, are you OK?’
This is my chance. If I tell her about Edward, I know she’ll help me. I study her face, I want to tell someone how afraid I am but the words won’t come. This isn’t the right time and I remember that I’m afraid of her too. She might make me go to the police. She might tell Paul. She might do something worse.
‘Yes, I’m OK.’ It’s her turn to analyse me now; she knows that I’m not. I need to give her something more. ‘I’m just tired, need some rest, that’s all.’
‘I think you’re tired too. You keep getting yourself all worked up over nothing.’
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. The twins eat, sleep, play, cry, repeat. The adults wish they could do the same. Mum and Dad always made us wait until the afternoon to do presents and we seem to be continuing their rather miserable tradition. We watch as the twins half open beautifully wrapped gifts, predictably more interested in the wrapping than the contents. Then we exchange adult-sized presents, neatly wrapped, crisp gift receipts tucked inside. I open one from Paul and it takes me a while to register its relevance. I thank him and try to move on to something else.
‘Hang on, what is it?’ asks Claire. She likes us to take turns, for everyone to watch what everyone else gets.
‘It’s a diary,’ I say.
‘A diary? Who are you, Anne Frank?’ laughs David. I can see that Paul looks embarrassed.
‘I thought she might like it because—’
‘I love it, thank you,’ I say, interrupting him before he can finish his sentence, and kiss him on the cheek.
‘I used to write a diary,’ says Claire. ‘Always found it very therapeutic. I’ve read that it’s good for anxiety, to write it all down. You should try it, Amber.’
When we’ve all had our maximum fill of playing happy families I help David put the twins to bed. I read them a story that I’ve read them before and marvel at how easily they fall asleep. As I leave their bedroom, I notice the robin-shaped lump of cast iron propping open the door. It was Claire’s nana’s. She still keeps it even now, the only old thing in a house that has been made new. I come downstairs to find Paul and Claire talking quietly in the kitchen but, as soon as they see me, they stop and it’s a second too long before Paul smiles in my direction.
Then
Christmas Day, 2016 – Early Evening
Paul and I walk home in silence. He walks quickly, so that I have to hurry to keep up with him. A fine mist of drizzle permeates the cold air but I don’t mind, I’m just pleased to be outside, to have left Claire’s home. That’s all that house is now, hers. There is nothing left of mine within its walls, not even the memories are my own. It’s a life I should have left behind by now, but something has always stopped me from moving on. Fear of the unknown is always greater than fear of the familiar.
The streets are empty. I like the quiet stillness of it all. Peace on suburban earth. Everyone is locked inside with relatives they don’t have to see for the rest of the year. Stuffing turkey down their throats, watching nonsense on the television, unwrapping gifts they neither want nor need. Drinking too much. Saying too much. Thinking too little.
The drizzle evolves into rain as we pass the petrol station. It’s closed now, everything is closed. I’ve only ever been inside the place twice. The first time was a few weeks ago, to ask a question. No harm in that, people ask questions all the time. The cashier studied my face a little harder when I had finished speaking, but he soon concluded that I wasn’t about to rob the place; I didn’t look the type. He told me that the CCTV was kept for a week and then automatically deleted. I thanked him, then waited a moment in case he had wondered why I wanted to know. He didn’t, so I left. He forgot about me before I even walked out the door.
The second time was a little more recent.
Madeline wasn’t terribly grateful after I drove her home from work when she was sick the other day. After I helped her inside, she thrust her credit card at me and told me to fill her car up at the petrol station round the corner. She wasn’t happy about the tank being almost empty and informed me that she wouldn’t have time before work the following day. She assumed I’d be upset about her demands, so I arranged my face to fit her expectations but secretly I was rather pleased with myself. It meant that the mouthful of petrol I’d endured in the staff car park when I syphoned her tank earlier that morning had not been in vain. The taste of diesel lasted for hours, despite spitting it out straight away. I’d learned that trick at school, helping to clean out the class fish tank.
‘You might have the others fooled with your Florence Nightingale act but not me,’ she muttered before hauling herself up the stairs, one step at a time. She stopped halfway and turned her head to look down at me. A triumphant smile spreading itself across her clammy, round face. Madeline always had a real way with words, but I heard the ones she chose that afternoon long after they were spoken.