Behind Every Lie(26)

“Blimey! What a rubbish idea this was!” Rose moaned. “I’m boiling!”

I swiped at a bead of sweat sliding down my nose as I poured a cup of sugar into the pitcher with the lemon juice. Rose rinsed her hands in the sink and fanned herself with one of Laura’s books. It gave me a good idea.

“Perhaps you have some fans?” I said. “I reckon we could set them in the windows.”

“That’s a brilliant idea!”

I followed Rose to a cupboard under the stairs and helped her drag out several fans clouded with dust.

“I forgot we even had these—you’re a genius, Katherine.” She grabbed a cloth to wipe them clean.

We bustled around the house opening windows and balancing fans in them, drawing the curtains on either side to keep it as shady as possible. Outside, the sun was already high in the sky, a smear of milk-white glistening against the blue. The sweltering heat made it difficult to breathe.

Rose had just settled the last fan in the kitchen window and was pouring lemonade into glasses with ice when I entered. Her skin was glistening at the nape of her neck, damp curls sticking to her forehead.

I noticed she had put the fan in the window the wrong way, blowing in rather than out. As it was the sunny side of the house, the fan should have been blowing the hot air out, whilst the shady side of the house should have the fans blowing in. I was certain I had told her that, but I was too hot and frazzled to correct her mistake.

“Here.” She pressed a glass of lemonade into my hand and sighed as she lifted the cool liquid to her lips.

“Mummy, can we watch a movie?” Laura asked. Her face was pink and shiny from the heat.

“What a splendid idea! All Dogs Go to Heaven is still in the VCR. You remember how to press Play?”

Laura nodded and grabbed Eva’s hand, tugging her toward the stairs.

“Mummy, can I have Barnaby?” Eva asked.

“Certainly, darling.”

I retrieved Barnaby from my handbag, and she headed up the stairs, her thumb already heading for her mouth. The heat was making all of us drowsy.

Rose and I took our lemonades into the living room and collapsed on the couch, our damp skin making soft thwucking noises as it stuck to the leather. The sheer, silvery curtains billowed in the breeze of the open windows. The scent of lavender from the garden hung in the air, tangling with the delicate floral scent of the street’s many mimosa trees.

“I have an excellent idea.” Rose jumped up, her gray eyes gleaming. She disappeared, reappearing after a moment with a bottle of Jameson. She grinned. “Let’s make these bad boys Irish.”

She poured a large glug into her glass and moved toward mine.

“Oh no—not for me.” I covered my glass, but she shushed me.

“Don’t be silly. You need to learn to let go, relax a little!” She put a finger over her upper lip like a mustache and lowered her voice to the timbre of a man’s. “You’re far too responsible.”

“Be that as it may—”

“It’s only one drink, Katherine!”

I hesitated. It was a Friday, after all.

“Very well, then,” I relented. “But only a splash.”

Rose’s idea of a splash was rather a lot more than mine, and soon we were both giggling, the alcohol making us loose-limbed and giddy. It felt glorious.

“Do you reckon the girls are asleep?” Rose asked.

“Almost certainly.”

“Oh, good!”

She set her drink on the glass coffee table and slipped out of her skirt. She kicked it onto the floor, her black knickers just hinting at the creamy curve of her arse cheeks.

“There.” She slumped next to me on the couch. “That’s better!”

She lifted her hair off her neck, the scent of lemons and happiness curling around her body, an intoxicating aroma.

A hot flush crawled up my throat and cheeks. “Rose. Honestly!”

Rose laughed. “You’re so uptight, Katherine! Don’t you ever want to let go? Just do something for yourself?”

I kicked my shoes off and peeled the sweaty socks from my feet. “There.” I wiggled my toes at her. “I have ‘let go.’ Happy?”

She laughed and drained her glass. “Delighted. But seriously. Don’t you ever want to truly let go? Like, get absolutely pissed, or go skinny-dipping in the middle of the day. Just not have a care in the world?”

I pondered her question. “Frankly, it seems quite impossible. Like imagining going faster than the speed of light, or that I can breathe liquid rather than air, or that Jupiter is more habitable than Earth.”

“But why?” Rose pressed.

I took a giant gulp of my drink, wincing as it burned my throat.

“My mother left when I was fifteen. Packed her clothes and disappeared. I was left to take care of my father, the village drunk. I suppose I had to learn at a very young age to be responsible, to squirrel money away, to rely on the kindness of neighbors to eat, to clean up vomit and …” I looked away, shame burning with the alcohol in my stomach. “. . . dodge drunken fists. So when I fell pregnant with Eva, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to ensure she had a real childhood. I never want to skip out on my responsibilities like my mother did.”

“Bloody hell.” Rose shook her head and slopped more Jameson into our glasses. The rims of her eyes were red. “You’re like a real-life saint. Keep calm and carry on, right?”