My Husband's Lies Read online

  ‘Who knows what goes on in here,’ Geri said at the dinner party, tapping her temple. Of course, they’d been gossiping about Seb, but Jen had glanced at Penny and a shiver seemed to pass through her slim shoulders. ‘Someone’s walked over her grave,’ Nola would have commented.

  ‘Perfect Penny,’ Dan had called her when she came on the scene. ‘I didn’t think she was Will’s type.’ Then, after a moment, ‘But there’s something about her which reminds me of his mum. Not just the classical looks, but a sort of stillness. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘No, and what is Will’s type, Dan?’ Jen had wanted to demand, piqued and jealous and feeling wholly inferior to the neat and slim younger woman with the china doll eyes hanging on to Will’s arm when they met at the theatre. But Penny was difficult to dislike. Fairly quiet, but pleasant and smiley when she was spoken to.

  Jen turns the page, wondering what Penny’s mum has to complain about. Penny is still pleasant, smiley and polite. She has a thank you text from her for providing the food at Dan’s. ‘It tasted so fab, could I order from you rather than Costco next time?’ it said sweetly.

  And there it is, that inevitable slice of pain. How will she cope when Penny and Will present a baby to the world? She won’t blame Penny, per se, she won’t blame anyone, she’ll just feel enormously sad.

  After zipping up thirty anoraks in the classroom, Jen puts on her own and strolls to the village for her lunchtime break. Then perches on a cold metal bench next to a coffee shop to call the doctor’s surgery. She’s mentioned it already, but wants to ensure a note is passed to the doctor saying why she’s there, so he or she already knows about Holly’s problem without having to spell it out in front of her. Is she being overprotective? She isn’t sure, but her own diagnosis of Munchausen by bloody something seems more likely than ever.

  When she finishes the call, she looks again at her texts. The one from Will was sent at the same time as Penny’s, like ‘kissing cousins’, as Nola would say. ‘What’s up?’ it reads. ‘Why wouldn’t you look at me on Saturday?’

  She’s thought of a thousand ways to respond, to explain her feelings of sorrow, of longing, of ending. Of betrayal, even. But what would be the point? Neither of them are free; she’s married to a good man, she doesn’t want to be free. And yet she’s hurting. Her facade is dry and jolly, but she bruises too easily, she always has.

  Shaking away the urge to cry, she breathes deeply. She shouldn’t have given in when Will turned up unexpectedly that day; it’s brought everything back when they were settled, when she was settled with Penny as his wife, when she could say to herself, ‘It could’ve been worse, she could’ve been another me.’

  A rap from the cafe window brings her back to the sharply cold Tuesday. A prematurely grey-haired lady waves and points to a slice of gateau on a plate. She’s the mother of a severely disabled child whose brother was in Maria’s class at primary school. Jen and the mum used to fitfully chat outside the school door, waiting for their children to spring out. The girl would be there in her wheelchair, lovingly dressed in party clothes, her head to one side, her body immobile but her eyes alive, watching the other kids throwing themselves joyfully around the playground. Jen never asked what the girl’s disability was, but year after year rumour had it the child would shortly die. It got to the point where people blithely assumed she never would, that somehow she was invincible. Then she died in her sleep without warning. Other mums said her passing was a blessing, a release. Nola said taking the child back to heaven was God’s way of healing. At the time, Jen disagreed fervently, but now she doesn’t know.

  She waves back to the woman and looks at her watch pointedly, intending to leave, but then changes her mind. It feels as though her life revolves around idioms and cake, but this woman has suffered, really suffered. She has ten minutes spare for a chat, to listen to someone else’s problems rather than selfishly dwelling on her own.

  The doctor’s surgery heaves, surprisingly so at half past four in the afternoon, but then again it’s still the flu season, and from her glance around the newly built waiting room, Jen guesses most of the patients are students. Glandular fever, perhaps, the kissing disease, the poor sods.

  Thinking back to her student days in Liverpool, she remembers the first term when she suffered badly from tonsillitis, a recurring problem since childhood. She could barely swallow, and when she peered in the mirror, her throat was coated in white slime. She dragged herself to the health centre and was sent away with a flea in her ear. ‘Nothing that gargling with soluble aspirin won’t cure,’ the doctor said dismissively. She immediately made her way to Lime Street station and caught the first train back to Manchester, nearly dropping from exhaustion at her mum’s front door. It was wonderful to see Nola’s concerned dimpled face, to feel the weight of her fleshy freckled arms as she pulled her into the warm house. But it was her dad she had longed to see as she sipped water on the train. It was Seamus she needed. She wanted him to hold her tightly, to spoil her with a new soft toy and packets of cherry-flavoured cough sweets; to lie on the narrow bed and stroke her hot forehead; to tell her she was his only special girl and to whisper some Irish blarney until she finally slept.

  From learning about his real betrayal two years previously, it was the first and only time she allowed nostalgia to pierce her unyielding anger.

  Clearing her throat, she looks at her daughter. Why she’s thinking of him, she doesn’t know. She shrugs away the memory and offers Holly a mint from the bottom of her handbag, wondering if the girls will go to university. It was a given for her; she was bright, and at the private school it was expected. Even though they are in education, she and Ian haven’t yet got a handle on how clever their daughters are, and their huge state school was in ‘special measures’ not so long ago.

  When Maria was five, Nola presented a letter from Seamus offering to pay for her education. ‘Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Jennifer,’ her mum warned. But Jen declined, saying Ian had been through the state system and had done very well, and anyway she wanted her kids to be rounded. But the truth was she couldn’t bear to accept the bastard’s blood money.

  Another patient’s name is called, pulling Jen away from her black thoughts. Holly’s eyes are still glued to her mobile.

  Expecting a boy each pregnancy, Jen is still astonished she gave birth to three girls, but then again her brother’s wife had longed for a daughter. After three boys in quick succession she consulted the internet for a recipe for a baby girl; she ate white bread and bananas, had sex before ovulation and did handstands after. But when she was eventually rewarded with a perfectly baked female, it wasn’t what she’d expected; the child wasn’t a replica of herself, she was dark like her father and grew up introverted.

  ‘It’s personality which defines them,’ her sister-in-law said.

  ‘And is that from nature or nurture?’ Jen asked.

  ‘Definitely nature,’ she replied, but as Jen studies Holly’s rapt face, she doesn’t think life is so simple.

  ‘What’s happening in the world?’ Jen asks her. ‘Any transfer news?’

  Still flicking through photographs of her favourite footballers, Holly shakes her dark head. She’s a Red like her parents, but Jen suspects her interests are more romantic than technical. Of course she wants United to win, like Ian she’s devastated for hours when they don’t, but Jen isn’t sure her daughter could explain the offside rule like she could at the same age.

  The bloody waiting interminable, Jen looks again at the clock. Trying to rise above the reason why she’s here, she contemplates football and what to make Ian for dinner, thoughts far preferable to those of the father she can’t seem to escape.

  Holly pulls at her sleeve. ‘Mum, did you hear that? They called out my name.’

  She stares for a moment at her daughter’s luminous eyes. Funny really; it was the one thing she and Will Taylor disagreed on – the Manchester football divide.

  Taking a deep breath, she puts her
hand in the small of Holly’s back and leads her down the corridor, and though she knows she shouldn’t, she clasps her hand at the door. With a reassuring smile, she knocks, then gently pushes her daughter in.

  It’s a female doctor, so that’s good. But she’s young, so young. Will she know what she’s doing?

  The doctor looks up from her screen. ‘Take a seat. So, how can we help you today?’

  ‘General check-up,’ Jen starts, praying that empathy will make up for lack of experience. ‘Holly has just been a bit under the—’

  ‘The PE teacher at school thinks I’m too thin,’ Holly interrupts. ‘She told Mum I should see a doctor.’ She turns to Jen and shrugs. ‘It’s OK, Mum. That’s what Miss Fern said when she called me over at the end of the lesson. After asking if I was eating properly. Some girls chuck their lunch on their way to school or at break.’

  The fact Holly knew about the conversation catches Jen short. Then what she said finally registers. Chucking their packed lunches! The thought of her girls throwing away food is alarming. Not just the waste, which she hates, but that she’s never thought of it before. And more to the point, if it is something they do behind her back, there’s absolutely nothing she can do about it.

  ‘Why on earth would they do that and go hungry?’ she asks.

  ‘They want to be skinny.’

  ‘And how about you, Holly?’ the doctor breaks in. ‘Do you throw away your lunch? Do you want to be skinny?’

  Holly shrugs again and says not particularly. Then she tells the doctor about the girls at school, how some don’t eat, how others make themselves sick after eating and about a few who self-harm, or so they say. She thinks they’re stupid. They’re all into boys and fashion and she’s not. She prefers watching sport and she’s learning to play the guitar so she can join a band. Jen watches them chat, incredulous about what goes on in high school and amazed at her twelve-year-old’s eloquence and maturity.

  The doctor asks Holly to lie down and Jen watches from the side of the couch. The teacher is right; lying full length in her underwear, Holly’s stomach is concave and her knees are like knots on a twig. She finds herself holding her breath as the doctor looks at her daughter’s teeth, examines her limbs, listens to her heart, peers in her ears, feels her glands. ‘Are your legs always so bruised?’ she eventually asks.

  ‘Suppose so,’ Holly replies and Jen reels, pitching with anxiety. She’d never noticed; oh God, what a terrible mother. Weight loss and bruising. What else has she missed?

  Holly dresses again, sits and glances around the room disinterestedly.

  ‘Thanks, Holly,’ the doctor says. ‘I know it sounds horrible, though it really isn’t that bad, but I’ll need to take some blood. Everything looks fine, but blood tells us everything, you know? About what’s going on inside? So if your mum makes an appointment with the blood nurse …’ She watches Holly’s face. ‘I know, she’s lovely though, and she hates us calling her that. She’s actually called Gwendolyn, so maybe the name—’

  ‘Why can’t you take it now?’ Jen cuts in.

  Blood tests? She hadn’t thought about that; she’d been too hung up with the prospect of a Munchausen Mother eating disorder diagnosis; she’d assumed they’d be monitoring Holly’s eating habits and the like. But blood. What for?

  The doctor turns to her. ‘We have a specialist nurse who does the bloods?’ Her voice rises at the end like a question. If Jen wasn’t so anxious, she’d find it annoying. ‘She’s very experienced and so quick you won’t believe it. I’m sure she’ll fit Holly in for an appointment very soon.’

  They stand in the queue at reception. ‘Sorry, love,’ Jen says as they wait. Her heart is beating wildly, but she tries for an even tone. ‘It’s a bummer having to come back again. But as the doctor said, it’ll only take a minute and it’s not as bad as it sounds.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Holly lifts a shoulder, her gaze back on her mobile. ‘As long as it’s a Wednesday, so I miss double maths.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Penny

  ‘Hi Penny. Come on in.’

  Penny stares. Debbie has had her hair cut substantially shorter. Kids, she guesses, Debbie has kids. One, three and five. Girls, probably, like Jen. Jen had her hair cropped when Holly and Maria were little. No time for grooming with babies born so closely together. Penny remembers her saying it.

  Debbie’s voice breaks through her reverie. ‘How was the dinner party? Did you make your apology?’

  ‘Yes, it was fine, thanks. Everyone was really nice.’ Nervy though, she thinks. Everybody seemed edgy, Will included. Or perhaps it was just her. When she first arrived and saw Geri’s huge bump, she wanted to scream. Not from jealousy, per se, but the bloody unfairness of life. Not even married, Geri got pregnant first try. Then the way she kept rubbing her stomach. As though anybody needed a reminder. The desire to throw something was imperative for a time. Had to dig her nails in her palm. Not that she would’ve, of course.

  Debbie is gazing. ‘We talked about family therapy a couple of sessions ago. Have you and Will thought about that?’

  Penny pictures him putting his mobile face down. Wishes he wouldn’t do that. He knows she doesn’t pry. Part of her wants to, but what might she find? The thought leaves her breathless.

  ‘Not at the moment. He’s really busy at work.’

  ‘Maybe another time?’

  Penny doesn’t reply. She knows he would do it if she asked, even though he hates talking about feelings in general, let alone what happened at the wedding. He hasn’t said it, but he wants to move on and pretend it hasn’t happened. A good thing, perhaps. But how can she forget when reminders are everywhere? The guests at the reception. Therapy. Pills making her constipated and tired. Heavily pregnant friends who are far, far too jolly. Unexpected prompts in the dairy aisle at Sainsbury’s.

  ‘I guess therapy isn’t everyone’s thing,’ Debbie says, as though reading her thoughts.

  ‘That’s true.’ She pictures her gregarious husband when he’s with the A Team and Jen. Laughing, joking, happy. ‘Will’s as noisy as they come on the outside, but inside … Well, he doesn’t talk much about emotions. When something’s on his mind he goes quiet. It’s hard to work out what he’s thinking.’ She frowns. ‘Sometimes what he’s doing.’

  ‘So, Will isn’t good at talking. How do you find that?’

  Difficult, frustrating. Heart-pumpingly terrifying at times. ‘Oh, it’s fine, I’m used to it. I’m not exactly good at talking about things myself.’

  Debbie gazes. ‘I guess it can be hard for partners to cope. How are things at home?’

  Penny feels the flush and puts her hand to her throat. She’s being irrational, she knows it. Will’s distance is nothing, just work on his mind. ‘Absolutely fine. Now Dad’s retired, he bobs in quite often.’

  ‘And the relationship with your mum. How’s that going?’

  God, she’d forgotten about that, blaming poor Mum far more than she deserves. But Will needed a reason; she could hardly be honest. Though he never said it, his eyes showed his fear. Crazy, they said. My wife is a loony.

  Will wants her to be normal. Psychosis isn’t normal. Nor is paranoia; imagining those lies.

  She comes back to the question. ‘Oh, Mum. She’s still pretty busy with all her commitments, so I don’t see her as often.’

  ‘Does that help alleviate the pressure you described?’

  Penny sighs. Pressure, bloody pressure. So much. The stress of Will’s moods, the fear of hearing voices, the need to be normal and never lose it again. And having to be patient and wait for her baby. ‘Not really. I don’t think I’ll ever quite escape it all. Not unless I move to Timbuktu.’

  Debbie nods. ‘And Will,’ she presses. ‘How are things with him?’

  But Penny isn’t listening. Escape to Timbuktu, she’s thinking. The perfect answer to everything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Nick

  Nick takes a shuddery breath and rings the int
ercom at Patrick’s white-rendered crescent of flats. His breath emerges as a question mark of steam in the thin and crisp air, or so it seems; he’s been asking himself questions ever since his visit to Derek’s. Lisa says he’s building something as simple and sad as a child’s tragic death into a ridiculous size, that people are entitled to grieve in their own way and that he shouldn’t take his parents’ need for privacy so personally. She’s probably right, but he still needs to ask, then he’ll leave it alone.

  It takes Patrick several moments to answer. ‘You’re early. Wait by the lock-up garages,’ he says.

  Nick isn’t surprised on either count. Patrick’s a stickler for time and doesn’t like people going into his flat. The kitchen occasionally, the lounge rarely and the bedroom never.

  ‘No problem,’ he replies, smiling wryly. He still feels culpable after all these years. At the age of nine or ten, looking for a book or a comic in his brother’s bedroom, he dropped his box of flags and postcards and they scattered on the floor. He knew Patrick liked to keep the postcards in chronological order, so he spread them out, trying to glean the date from the postmark before he came in. When he did, he was furious. The whole family was banned, and though their dad often ribbed Nick about it, he didn’t see the funny side; his dad hadn’t let Patrick down; he hadn’t seen Patrick’s white angry face.

  Pulling up his collar, he walks around the block. Even if he didn’t know which garage belonged to his brother, he’d be able to guess from its plethora of locks and its newly painted door. Over the years he’s tried to convince Patrick that so many locks could be counterproductive, as it might look to a would-be thief that there was something worth nicking, but to no avail. He shakes his head and smiles weakly, wondering if the lock thing is a hereditary condition, that he too will get on board the lock train by the time he reaches forty.