My Husband's Lies Read online

  ‘I haven’t been out in the Merc since the wedding. How about a road trip, just the two of us?’ he asked on the telephone, knowing this was the best way to tempt Patrick out of his usual weekend routine.

  Lisa wasn’t best pleased when he said he’d be out on Saturday morning, but he argued she’d be in bed sleeping after a night shift at the hospital, so what difference did it make. ‘It makes a difference to me,’ she said. ‘Besides I’m getting fed up of this obsession about a sister you never met. What difference does that make?’

  ‘It makes a difference to me,’ Nick wanted to mimic, but he knew it was puerile, that it would offend Lisa even more.

  He rubs his hands as he waits, thinking back to Wednesday evening to calm his agitation about his mission today. He had a quick pint with Dan and Will in the pub near St Mark’s. They always meet there; a tiny drab pub in Whalley Range, one they’ve used since illegally buying their first pint at fifteen or sixteen. Will has the furthest to drive from Bowden, but he kills two birds by visiting his mum first.

  Of course it was Will who bought that first round all those years ago; fairly tall and muscular even then, with the authoritative voice of his barrister dad. A dirty old man’s pub, they called it then, chosen because they thought it was an unlikely place for the Brothers from their school to frequent.

  He arrived the same time as Will, but Dan was already there, his head buried in the Guardian. Will looked over Dan’s shoulder and tapped the article he’d been reading. ‘Dirty old men and Catholic teachers, hmm,’ he commented wryly. ‘How little we knew.’

  ‘You weren’t the one always chosen to sit on Brother Joseph’s knee,’ Nick replied.

  Will laughed. ‘I was jealous,’ he started, and Nick waited for the quip. ‘Truly! I used to think, why can’t that be me? If only I was as small and mouse-like as Nicky Quinn.’

  ‘Piss off—’

  ‘Seriously, though, I had a crush on Brother Mark. Do you remember him? He was young and trendy with sideburns. He wasn’t there for long. Mum said that he knocked up some young girl. I was devastated when he left. If it hadn’t been for Jen keeping me on the straight and narrow, so to speak, who knows? It could’ve been you and me, Nick. I could’ve been your Elton. What about you, Dan? You were the pretty boy.’

  Dan sipped his pint without the usual retort. He turned to Nick instead. ‘Couldn’t Jen come tonight?’

  ‘Presumably you invited her,’ Will asked, opening his crisps.

  Nick had. He’d telephoned Jen, but she’d made an excuse, which was annoying because she was the one he’d really wanted to talk to, and he could hardly arrange a tête-à-tête, not with Lisa in her current mood.

  ‘How’s Lovely Lisa? Married life treating you well?’ Dan asked later.

  ‘Bet you’re having loads of sex,’ Will quipped with a nudge.

  He thought about replacing the truth with a joke, then decided against it. ‘Not this week, that’s for sure. It’s been a frosty nightmare, and I don’t mean this weird weather.’ He wiped the rim of his glass with a finger, a habit Lisa tells him to stop. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. ‘Did you two have teething problems once you’d made all the vows?’

  ‘Whoa, not me,’ Dan raised his hands and smiled. ‘I haven’t made any promises.’

  ‘Does trying to throw yourself out of a hotel window count as teething?’ Will added, straight-faced. Then, after grinning, ‘Not your foot-in-mouth disease again, eh Nick? Thing about marriage is that sometimes you have to bend the truth for an easy life, sometimes even lie.’

  Nick now watches Patrick carefully reverse the Mercedes from the garage and smiles at the memory. The pint with Will and Dan made him feel so much better; it was a relief to be honest, to see the funny side and not feel a failure for once. It was a shame not to get more of ‘Mother Hubbard’s’ wise words, but that’s in hand, he’s following them now, though the worry of how and when to ask his burning question makes him feel queasy.

  ‘Where to?’ Patrick asks, though Nick has already told him; Patrick doesn’t like surprises.

  ‘The boat lift near Winsford. Can you remember the way? I know we’ve been a few times before, but not for a long—’

  ‘Anderton Boat Lift,’ Patrick interrupts. ‘A two Caisson lift lock linking the River Weaver and the Trent and Mersey Canal. Only one of two working boat lifts in the UK.’

  Patrick talks at some length, describing the boat lift and its history as he drives. Nick is never sure whether the information he retains for anything remotely technical is long-term memory or swatted from the internet, but his ability to cram reams of data in his head is incredible. Nick is pretty good on sports statistics, so he’s a great person to have on the pub quiz team, but that’s because he’s interested in sport. Ask him to list the kings and queens of England or British prime ministers and he’ll have no idea. That’s Dan’s specialty; he was always a clever boy without needing to show it.

  Listening to Patrick and staring through the window, he watches the green frosted countryside spin by. Trying to bat away his anxiety, he picks out the pieces of his childhood farm set, a game he often played with Patrick: trees like cabbages, stone walls, brown fences, black and white cows, barns, goats and sheep. Unsure if it’s real or imagined, he inhales the smell of manure from their long weekend walks. A strangely comforting tang. Nostalgia, he supposes.

  The low sound of the car’s horn brings him back to the road and a stubborn stray sheep. He turns to Patrick, suddenly remembering how comforting it was to see his fair hair in the darkness when he was small and had a nightmare. Immediately there by his side, it was as though Patrick knew. Today his greying hair is hidden by a suede hat with flaps. Give him a moustache and he’d look like a dashing World War II pilot rather than a sad fifty-year-old keeping his ears warm on a cold March morning. But Nick knows that’s unkind. Patrick’s a happy soul; he’s had girlfriends over the years, or maybe friends who were girls, mostly slightly odd or do-gooders. But there was one who was invited on a road trip to Llandudno. Not only that; Patrick had amazingly let her stay at the flat. She seemed smiley and normal and fun, so at seven or eight Nick had liked her. Or maybe it was because she’d given him easy hugs and let him select an inordinate amount of penny chews before going on their tour. Fruit Salad, Blackjack, Refreshers and Drumsticks. And a whole lot more.

  Nick smiles wryly at the memory. The bloody story of his life! He gobbled the sweets so quickly, they made him feel sick, then he got in trouble with Patrick for stuffing the wrappers down the back seat of the Merc.

  A shame that girl was binned, but hardly surprising. She’d just laughed at Patrick’s paddy. He doesn’t like that. Nor girls who’re too clingy. Or bloody bossy. He likes being a bachelor, holidaying in the same part of France year after year, living his own life, doing what he wants, when he wants to do it. With things as they are currently with Lisa, Nick has some sympathy, but then, how would he know about living his own life? He’s gone straight from the frying pan of his parents into the fire of Lisa. At bloody thirty-four too.

  They arrive at the boat lift in twenty-five minutes. For all Patrick’s caution, he drives the Mercedes very fast, smoothly changing from gear to gear in his leather-gloved hands like a racing driver. But he takes time parking the car, manoeuvring it several times. Nick knows it isn’t just a question of protecting his beloved car’s doors, it’s because Patrick likes everything to be equidistant, like the position of his bed, the bookcases and the sofa in his flat. Even the smallest items in Patrick’s kitchen have a specific place and Nick has always known not to pry or to move them.

  When they finally stroll around the complex, Patrick chats knowledgeably about salt mining. It has changed since Nick was last here. He remembers the nature park in the surrounding area, but not the manicured lawns leading to the lift, nor the visitor centre, the cafe or the exhibition. Perhaps they were there as a boy, but he preferred to stay outside, kicking a ball towards the knotted woods, darting along
the dusty paths and through the tall trees, hiding from Patrick, willing Patrick to find him when too much time had gone by.

  They spend the best part of a long hour in the free exhibition. Patrick gazes at the control centre for some time and then studies each exhibit carefully, reading the information from top to bottom, yet not participating in the interactive content. Nick’s mind drifts as he fitfully plays with the gadgets. His stomach still churning, he frets about when to ask Patrick about their sister. He’d thought he’d ask in the coffee shop over a drink and a muffin, but when he looked earlier, the cafe was light and open, people were already lined at its large window to watch the boat lift itself. Hardly the place for a private conversation.

  He decides to ask his question casually in the car, or perhaps at Patrick’s flat later, but by noon he’s starving and needs a drink, so he suggests they take a last look around the display, then find a pub for lunch on the way home.

  Nick chooses an inn on the main road randomly, and though fairly empty, it displays an award for its food. Sitting at a small table, they study the menu, but Patrick’s eyes flicker. He flattens his hair repeatedly and adjusts his watch. Nick knows the problem, of course. It’s only twelve-twenty, too early for lunch.

  Feeling the sweat on his spine, he sighs inwardly. Bloody hell. Can’t Patrick be flexible for once in his life? But he needs to hold his irritation in. They’re in an empty middle room, he has to press on with his questions before it fills up.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ he asks. ‘My treat. Don’t look at the price. Go for whatever you want.’

  Patrick puts down the menu. ‘I’ll have a think,’ he says, sipping his half-pint.

  Nick taps his foot. ‘Fair enough. It’ll probably take ages to come, though.’ He throws back his beer, wondering how to put his question, but Patrick interrupts.

  ‘What happened on Sunday? Mum said Dad lost his rag with Lisa. They were arguing about it at dinner on Wednesday. She said Dad should apologise, but he was having none of it. Said it was his house, bought with his money, his rules.’

  ‘Oh, Lisa said something Dad didn’t like,’ he replies hurriedly. Then, taking a quick breath, ‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask Mum and Dad, but they’ve never talked about it, so I thought I’d ask you.’ Patrick’s face looks blank, so he presses on. ‘It was something that came out at the reception. Auntie Iris mentioned it. She didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. I think she was a bit pissed …’

  Nick’s chest feels constricted; he knows he’s going around the houses, but isn’t even sure what he wants to know. And Patrick’s face still looks empty.

  ‘Anyway, Uncle Derek heard and he seemed a bit … I don’t know, annoyed, I suppose, so—’

  A young waitress in a white frilled apron approaches their table and asks if they are ready to order. Nick looks towards Patrick. His face has become starched and sweaty. His arms are folded across his chest and he’s rocking gently.

  ‘Not yet, thanks,’ Nick says to the waitress. Then back to Patrick, needing to spew out the words. ‘So, anyway. The thing Iris mentioned without meaning to …’ His throat feels clotted. ‘She spoke about someone called Susan …’ The rocking becomes more pronounced but he pushes on, the thud of his heart loud in his ears. ‘Look, I know from Derek she was your twin, but she was my sister too, and though I never knew her …’ He flounders for a moment, trying to frame how he feels. In his mind he sees a small curly-haired girl wearing an oversized duffel coat, keeping her twin brother in line. ‘I guess I’m just interested to know about her. What happened, Patrick? How did she die? When did she die?’

  A gasp emerges from Patrick’s mouth, then a tumble of words. ‘It was my fault; it was my fault …’ He blurts something more, but he’s up from his seat, his chair clattering to the floor. Then he’s out of the door before Nick’s sluggish mind can catch up.

  ‘Patrick! Patrick, stop.’

  His heart racing, Nick stands to follow his brother, then realises he hasn’t paid for the drinks. Fumbling in his wallet, he pulls out a tenner, throws it on the table and bolts to the door.

  The sharp wind cools his cheeks as he runs, but when he arrives in the car park, the Mercedes has gone.

  Doubling up, he breathes deeply. When his heart finally slows, he shakes his head and smiles thinly. It really is bloody cold; a hat like Patrick’s is just the thing he needs now.

  Perching on a fence, he goes back to Patrick’s words. His fault, his fault. What the hell did that mean? And what else did he say? Something about fishing.

  Blowing on his hands, he waits for ten minutes. He knows Patrick won’t return, but he gives it twenty before taking out his mobile.

  Lisa’s voice is croaky. ‘Nick? Hi. Everything OK?’

  There’s an instant surge of love. ‘Sorry to wake you, but …’ He feels foolish, contrite and anxious. ‘Patrick has gone. I tried to talk to him about Susan but he just started babbling, then he bolted. I’m in the middle of nowhere. Can you come and get me?’

  He hears her yawn. ‘Course,’ she says sleepily. Then after a moment, ‘What on earth did he say?’

  Still jittery and rattled, Nick thinks back to the pub. ‘I’m not entirely sure. It happened so quickly. But I think he said it was his fault, that he should never have gone fishing that day.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Dan

  Flitting between tingling images of Seb and breathless trepidation about the baby, Dan drives the short journey from Chorlton Green to the Taylor house, but this time it’s at Will’s request. There’s a dispute between his mother’s neighbours about boundaries and their private road. Mrs Taylor doesn’t want to get involved, but Will thinks the argument will escalate and wants to be ahead of the game. He and his mum have studied the title deeds to no avail; they aren’t even sure which way they should look at the plans; they need an expert and ‘Dan is the man’.

  He asked Geri if she fancied coming with him for a change of scene, but she said she’d had the same idea, the four walls of the house were driving her bonkers, so she was going on a walk with her friend and her labradoodle to the water park.

  ‘Walking? Are you sure? I prefer the word stroll,’ Dan said with a smile, trying not to show the alarm he felt.

  ‘OK, stroll then, but it isn’t like Monty Python, Dan. I’m not going to lift my leg and let the baby slither out when you’re not there.’ She looked at him and smiled cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry; I’m not fretting, so neither should you. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Course I’m not worried,’ he replied, not liking the word slither either. ‘Have fun with the doodle. Keep your mobile with you and make sure it’s fully charged.’

  The title deeds are now spread over Yvette Taylor’s wooden table. Its herb green surface matches the colour of the kitchen units, but perhaps not surprisingly with two rowdy boys and their friends over the years, the paint has chipped off quite dramatically. Everything in the Taylor house is old or shabby chic, as Salim would call it. There’s the odd genuine antique, polished and pristine, but the furniture is mostly just old and often broken. Dan doesn’t think it’s lack of money, more a question of taste and necessity. Yvette’s watercolours are dotted throughout the house. Some are postcard-sized and displayed on mantelpieces, or pinned randomly on a wall with a rusty drawing pin. Others are bigger creations, hung on high walls in overlarge or damaged frames, purchased, he suspects, from charity shops in the village.

  It’s a stark contrast to Will and Penny’s house on the development in Bowden, furnished with contemporary furniture and fittings. Perhaps it’s Will’s subconscious way of rebelling, or perhaps he just likes modern houses. Dan was brought up in a semi-detached council house, so emulating was unlikely, rebelling inevitable. Yet still he bought his first and subsequent houses in Chorlton Green, walking distance from his parents. What does that say about him?

  He examines the plans. ‘You were right,’ he says after a few moments. ‘You’re looking at them upside down.�
� He points out the boundary lines, then sits down with the old title deeds and reads the clauses about shared amenities out loud.

  ‘You are a clever boy, Daniel,’ Mrs Taylor says with a rare smile. She looks like a cross between a model from the cover of a seventies knitting pattern and a bag lady, yet the scarf around her neck looks delicate, embossed with the interlinked Chanel symbol. He remembers his mum describing Will as ‘the one with the eccentric mother’ when they first started at St Mark’s. But then again, his mum likes everything new. Annette’s clothes, her shoes and her handbag always match; she’s still blonde, giggly and girly in her early sixties, still rushing to the priest if life goes awry. There’s nothing to compare her and the granite-haired stoic beauty standing next to him now.

  ‘He was always the clever one,’ Will says. ‘Scholarship boy.’

  Dan rolls his eyes. Our Poor Relation, Benefit Boy, Super Dan, Poor but Perfect, More Please Maloney. The nicknames changed over the years, but they were always light-hearted and affectionate. If his father had heard them, he would’ve laughed heartily; his mother would have taken to her bed for a week; their council house was bought with hard-earned money, she would like you to know.

  ‘Let me get you a coffee,’ Mrs Taylor says. She looks lost for a moment, then turns to Will. ‘The old fridge. I suppose we should move it.’

  ‘Another complaint from the middle neighbour,’ Will explains to Dan. ‘One that can be remedied immediately, thank God. I’ll get to it now.’ He looks beyond Dan’s shoulder. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a lift home too?’

  Seb is standing at the kitchen door, his arms behind his head, flexing his shoulders. Dan has to resist a double take and a gape; his hair has been cropped very short, he has a dark sleeve of tattoos along his left arm.