Behind Every Lie(19)
“North of here. A village near Birmingham.”
“Do your parents visit often?”
“My mother left when I was a teenager. And my father passed away a number of years ago.”
“Oh, I do apologize.”
“There’s no need. I have my own family now. That’s what’s important.” I searched for something to say, to not appear so awkward. “Your husband, David, he must love his work.”
“Yes, he does. I apologize he rushed out so fast earlier. He’s expanding the gallery to focus on Asian art, so he’s quite busy right now. He spends quite a bit of time traveling, looking for new pieces. What about you? What does your husband do?”
“He owns a chain of restaurants in North London. He’s just opened a new one in Camden.”
“Is that how you met?”
“Yes, I was waitressing there whilst studying.”
“How romantic!” she exclaimed. “Was it love at first sight?”
I cast my mind back, trying to remember. It’s funny, in school I easily memorized pages of French parts of speech, recalled chemical interactions with astonishing ease. I’d once trained myself to memorize one hundred digits of pi. But I could not remember if I had loved Seb. My memory of our early relationship was like a journal entry: selective, incomplete, subject to interpretation.
“Not wholly, no,” I said slowly. “He was very … busy, of course. I was closing the restaurant one night, and he invited me to share a bottle of wine he was sampling. I was utterly swept away by him.”
I gulped a mouthful of tea, trying to stop the memory from rolling across my face.
At first, I’d been thrilled at Seb’s attention. I was square-shaped, shortsighted, not used to the attention of handsome, charismatic men. But that night, in the restaurant’s back office, his attention became overwhelming. I wanted to tell him to stop, but I feared losing my job. And then it was too late. His hand was in my knickers, his breath hot on my neck. His penis bulged against my thigh, a damp splotch already appearing on the thin material of his trousers. And whilst it didn’t disgust me, exactly, I couldn’t say it was truly what I wanted.
In fairness, Seb was chuffed to bits when I told him about Eva. We married soon afterward, and he had been an absolutely brilliant father to Eva.
“My father was David’s mentor. David took over the art gallery for him.” Rose smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Dad thought the world of David. I did—I do too.” She looked at her painting, drying on the easel, and bit her lip. “You must think me daft. So spoiled and entitled! All this domestic perfection, and yet here I am longing to retreat into my painting.”
“No, you’re mistaken,” I denied, although that was exactly what I had thought.
“It’s kind of you to say. I do realize how ridiculous it is. I started out rushing to perform my domestic duties, laying the dinner table, stocking the fridge, changing nappies, not to mention the bloody laundry, earning my A-plus as a housewife. These are surely happy problems, but I didn’t realize fulfilling these duties wouldn’t insulate me from wanting other things—painting, friends, late nights walking along the Thames. To be perfectly honest, I thought by now I’d be a successful artist living in New York, maybe Paris, carefree, child-free. Perhaps I sound selfish.” She sighed.
“Certainly not,” I replied. “There’s more to raising a family than baking cookies.”
She laughed. “Thank you, Katherine. I suppose sometimes life just doesn’t turn out how you expect.”
I thought of the nights when Seb got home late, his skin smelling of the sickly scent of other women. Or the nights he slid into bed, running his thick fingers over my flesh, and I’d recoil with a loathing so thick and black it was like tar. I had no family, no money, no security, but sometimes the idea of escape dangled tantalizingly in my mind.
No, I thought. Sometimes life doesn’t turn out how you expect.
“I understand,” I said.
Rose smiled slowly, understanding coloring the smooth planes of her face.
“I rather think you do,” she said. “Would you like another cuppa?”
ten
eva
DETECTIVE JACKSON GLANCED AROUND the gallery. He picked up a sculpture and raised his eyebrows at the lofty price tag. Melissa’s dark eyes ping-ponged between us.
“I’ll just go for a cigarette,” she said, sidling toward the door.
Jackson gestured toward my head as I stepped out from behind the counter. “How are you feeling?”
I gingerly touched the lump on my temple. The lightning marks on my arm buzzed with that strange electric thrumming, as if I’d put my tongue to the end of a battery.
“I’m okay. I mean, I’m better. I don’t remember anything, but physically I’m better.” I flushed. My teeth found a tiny piece of skin on my thumbnail. I tore it off, blood oozing along the nail. “I thought our interview was tomorrow?”
Detective Jackson pulled a small notebook from an inner coat pocket and thumbed the pages. “Yes, your fiancé made an appointment, but I told him I’d head up this way. I’ve always wanted to see Whidbey Island. I only moved here last year from Boston, and I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”