My Husband's Lies Read online

  Geri smiles. ‘I strolled, actually. I made a promise to some guy …’

  Thank God for Geri, dependable Geri. He returns the smile. ‘Then why don’t we rock and stroll to Mum’s later?’

  The weather keen on their faces, they walk arm in arm from their leafy street towards the busy main road to buy flowers for Annette. They stroll past the old cinema, Leon’s Fabrics, various eateries and the Co-op, heading towards the cream cemetery and the large barren council estate opposite, content in their silence.

  Interspersed with irritation, Dan thought about his parents as he drove back from Oak House and they’re again on his mind. His black-haired dad is super fit from forty years as a postman, a bricklayer, a gardener, any work he can lay his hands on so long as it’s outdoors.

  ‘My job is to keep your mum happy. I love her with a passion,’ he says to Dan. ‘But a little space helps. Know what I mean?’

  The thought of him dying is unbearable. After a heated argument, even worse.

  ‘Is Seb OK now?’ Geri asks, as though reading his thoughts. ‘It was nice of you to drop him home. Did he get himself sorted, do you think? You know, with the doctor.’

  He doesn’t want to talk about Seb. He takes up too much space in his head. But Geri is looking at him quizzically.

  ‘Until today I didn’t know he was there, literally there next to his dad on the settee when he died,’ he says. He hadn’t intended to mention it; hadn’t wanted Geri’s inevitable analysis.

  ‘Really? My God, that’s awful. How old was he?’

  ‘Eighteen, so not a child.’

  Geri shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, Dan. Looking back, I was still a kid at eighteen. Thought I knew it all, of course, but I didn’t. It’s a vulnerable age for that reason, I guess. Poor Seb. That would mess up anyone’s head. Just being there, seeing it happen, let alone the feelings of helplessness and guilt. On top of grief, of course; losing your dad, someone you love. God, that’s terrible.’

  Dan nods, feeling hot. Of course he knows this; he was just temporarily blinded by a surge of emotions he can’t fully describe. Anger, panic, hurt, danger.

  Not girly enough for you now?

  God, lust, bloody lust. Combined and churning in his mind.

  What a bastard he was to drop Seb off without a word; he should’ve said something, done something, an acknowledgement, sympathy. Love.

  Suddenly aware she’s still speaking, he turns to Geri at the gate of his parents’ house. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening for a moment. What were you saying?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just surmising about Seb. Perhaps that’s why he just fell out of love. Do you remember him saying that? You know, maybe it’s a subconscious way of dealing with intense emotion? Like deep trauma, forgetting or rejecting it, rather than having to deal with it head-on?’

  Her words hit a note, but before he can process it, the door flings open. The stark smell of hygiene seeps out. His father steps forward wearing slippers and a grin.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he says to Geri with a peck on her cheek. ‘Come on in, the kettle’s on. Remember to wipe your shoes!’ He opens his arms and pulls Dan into the usual tight hug. ‘Good job you sent a text giving us warning,’ he says in a low voice. ‘Gave your mum time to fix her face. Someone has made a comment about the colour of the new carpet and she’s taken it badly. It’s called heather but looks more like my favourite old rockers Deep Purple! I wouldn’t mind changing it if it was just the one room, but she’s had it laid all through the house.’ He laughs. ‘Thank God for Father Peter. I’ll ask him to drop by with his blessing, but in the meantime, say you like it!’

  The four of them sit in the tidy front room, drinking tea and chatting about the strange weather and the baby, the new neighbours and Celebrity Big Brother, about the football match tomorrow, the views of the lads in the ‘Blue’ pub. Geri admires Annette’s patent shoes and comments on the lovely colour of the new carpet and how it brings out the stripe in the curtains. But Dan is only half participating. He gazes blankly at the latest framed portrait of Jesus Christ, desperate to send a text in private. He wants to say, ‘I haven’t gone off you, Seb. I’m just confused.’ But he knows he won’t say that, it’s too open, too honest. Instead he’ll just say he’s sorry.

  After half an hour he pulls away from the conversation, takes the undoubtedly purple-coloured stairs two by two, stands at the bathroom door and contemplates Geri’s comment about deep trauma for a moment. Shrugging the thought away, he pulls out his mobile and sits on the loo seat. As he stares at the gleaming sink, he almost hears his mum’s voice. ‘I don’t know what he’s doing in there, Jed, and I don’t like to think about it, but will you have a word?’ But his long absences as a youth weren’t anything shameful, it was the mirror and experimentation with some of her hair products in an attempt to control the curls. He wasn’t wanking but tweaking, an explanation his dad found hilarious.

  Despite his agitation, Dan smiles at the irony of today’s absence as he turns on the phone. Waiting for it to load, he stares at the screen. ‘Shit!’ There’s a text waiting; Seb has got there before he’s had chance to apologise.

  Anticipating anger and insults, Dan takes a deep breath and opens the message.

  ‘Fancy watching tomorrow’s match on the big screen here?’ it says.

  Closing his eyes, he exhales. ‘Sounds good,’ he quickly types and presses send.

  When he arrives downstairs, Geri is waiting by the door in her coat, listening politely to one of Jed’s jokes.

  His dad turns with a grin. ‘Well you look more cheery than when you arrived,’ he says. ‘I’ll assume it’s my good company rather than having just had a good old sh—’

  ‘Ladies present, Dad!’

  His dad leaves it a beat, then makes the gag with perfect timing. ‘Shedload of tea and biscuits.’

  Lifting his hand to wave goodbye, Dan smiles and shakes his head fondly. Even round the corner, he can hear his dad’s laughter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Jen

  Hearing a creak on the stairs, Jen snaps the ivory box shut and slips it under the pillow.

  Ian pushes the door open with his foot. He’s carrying two glasses and a bottle. ‘I’m over it now,’ he says. ‘Let’s have a drink and watch a film.’

  ‘No point, Ian. You’ll abandon me for Match of the Day halfway through.’

  ‘Then watch the footie with me like you used to.’

  It’s the same whenever United lose; Ian goes from a strop to a sulk and then silence for three or four hours before shaking it off, then brings the torment back at half past ten by watching highlights on the television. Jen gets pretty sick of it, truth be told. Even when they’re entertaining or at a friend’s house on a Saturday night, she can feel his emotional absence.

  ‘It’s only a game of bloody football,’ she wants to yell. ‘There are far more important things going on!’ Yet she understood that passion years ago; the word ‘United’ came up in the speeches at their wedding repeatedly, Ian, his best man and her eldest brother competing to use the word the most times in a non-football context. But her interest seemed to wane as Holly’s grew. There was a spare Kenning family ticket today, so Holly went pink-cheeked and smiley to Old Trafford with Ian; they were dropped back home by her grandad at six, silent and stony-faced. She can’t imagine what the atmosphere was like in the car, yet she was a passenger once.

  She now looks at Ian’s distracted features and sighs. His description of Nick and Lisa’s relationship pops into her head again. Perhaps she and Ian had only a football team in common and, like her mother before her, married only because they had to.

  ‘Taste this,’ he says, pouring a glass of glossy red wine. ‘It’s one of Aldi’s select wines recommended by the Guardian’s wine geek. Five ninety-nine a bottle, but as good as an equivalent costing twenty quid in Waitrose, so he says. What do you think?’

  Jen takes a sip. She knows he’s making an effort to move on from his moodiness, so sh
e tries for a smile. ‘Might taste better with chocolate.’

  He punches his fist as though celebrating a goal. ‘We have chocolate! Knowing my lovely wife, I bought a selection this morning. It’s chilling in the fridge. Whole nut, mint or plain?’ He makes for the door, then turns back, studying her face for a moment. ‘Everything will be fine, Jen. Really. You worry too much.’

  She puts down the glass and puts her hands to her face. ‘So why the blood tests, Ian? What are they looking for?’

  ‘Anaemia, an infection or nothing! We’ve talked about this so many times.’

  ‘But suppose it’s something worse?’

  ‘It won’t be, Jen.’ He pauses for a moment, then perches on the bed. ‘Nothing I say makes any difference, but try this. What is the worst that could happen?’

  Ian has said this before. He’s been on a cognitive behavioural therapy course in the context of helping schoolkids, the ‘reality check theory’ as he calls it. Jen isn’t sure that she likes it; it forces her to face up to possibilities she’d rather not say out loud, even though they’ve been voiced in her head many times.

  ‘Suppose the worst happens? Suppose the blood tests come back showing leukaemia, for example?’ He dips his head to look at Jen with a solid stare. ‘I’m telling you it won’t be leukaemia. But suppose it was? They zap the white blood cells with chemo and there’s a high percentage of treating it successfully. Yes? You know this, Jen. Little Clare Woods when she was five? Look at her now, completely clear. Then in the very small percentage where treatment doesn’t work, they do a bone marrow transplant. And one of us will be a match. You or me. Your mum, my folks, a flipping donor. I would be there like a shot; so would you. But that’s way down the line of probabilities. So, you have to get a grip and stop worrying. Do you see?’

  Smoothing the duvet, she nods her head. Instead of assuaging her fears, they’ve grown even huger. But she knows he means well. She pecks his lips and nods him away. ‘Whole nut,’ she says, trying for her bright voice. ‘And maybe some mint. Specially fricking Selected it might be, but it won’t be a patch on Cadbury’s.’

  ‘Chocolate on its way.’ He stands but doesn’t move. Facing the door, he clears his throat. ‘Is there anything else, Jen?’

  Her heart immediately races. She can’t see his face but knows he’s frowning. And the tone of his voice … What the hell is he asking?

  The Princess and the Pea popping into her head, she presses further against the pillow and the treasure that’s hiding there, wondering if somehow he can feel it.

  ‘Maybe a small slice of Mum’s Dundee cake,’ she replies, playing dumb. ‘But don’t let Maria see you bring it upstairs. Her hypocritical mum at it again! I’ll never hear the last of it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Dan

  Bloody hell, I could be a father today, Dan thinks. Since waking he’s said it several times in his head, but it still doesn’t feel real.

  Geri became pregnant at their first attempt on a scorching Cretan holiday, but after the initial exhilaration, the pregnancy seemed to creep unbearably towards Christmas. She didn’t even look pregnant; it felt like a phantom. But looking back now, it has flown. The due date falls next week. Geri has a packed overnight bag ‘just in case’. It sits by the front door and stares when he passes.

  He doesn’t feel ready.

  The warble of the Sunday birds finally piercing his malaise, he takes off his hoodie and dons the garden gloves given to him by Geri’s mum. The glossy holly bush stands proudly against the dull twigs of the rose bushes and the faded hydrangea heads. It has grown out of all proportion to the small sprig Geri planted last year ‘so we have some to look pretty at Christmas’.

  The baby could be today. He doesn’t feel ready; it still doesn’t feel real.

  The sound of Geri’s voice snaps his thoughts. ‘Geri to Dan! Coffee for you,’ she repeats. Tiptoeing across the paved patio, she carries the steaming mug to one side, sweetly biting the tip of her tongue as she concentrates on not spilling it.

  ‘Bloody hell. It’s actually quite warm out here. I thought it’d still be freezing,’ she says.

  Dan nods his thanks as he takes the cup. ‘I found white crocuses hidden under the leaves. Spring is sprung!’ He puts his spare hand on Geri’s stomach. It feels tight to the touch, like an overinflated basketball. ‘What do you reckon? Could today be the day?’

  ‘Hope not, not on a Sunday. Everyone says not to give birth at a weekend because there’s only a skeleton staff at the hospital and I certainly don’t fancy doing it without pain relief.’

  ‘Too right,’ he says, flinching inwardly at the idea of her being in pain. He replaces that thought with another uncomfortable one: the sabbath. His mum and dad will be in church right now, Annette looking her best, animated and joyous, Jed droning those bloody psalms and prayers. Catching Geri’s questioning gaze, he grins. ‘But the child that is born on the Sabbath day … How does it go?’

  ‘Is bonny and blithe, good and gay.’ Geri laughs. ‘Maybe not a Sunday, then. Not that there’s anything at all wrong with being gay, of course. But given a choice, you’d want to give your kid the best chance for an easy life, wouldn’t you? Being different isn’t always easy.’

  Feeling a gush of discomfort, Dan sips his coffee and doesn’t reply. But he knows she’s really talking about race. Geri has always scoffed and dismissed small-minded people who take issue with the colour of a person’s skin, but from time to time she and her sister talk about a racist PE teacher at their academy who never selected them to represent the school even though they were the best athletes. The thought still makes his blood boil, though the days of him losing it are fortunately long gone. Still, it was only an occasional thump and always for a cause, his passions so roused that the recipient deserved it. Not parochial at all.

  ‘Besides,’ Geri continues, ‘seeing as you guys are at Seb’s to watch the football this afternoon, Monica’s driving Mum up and we’re going for high tea at a posh garden centre in Macclesfield or somewhere. I wouldn’t want to miss out on displaying my little finger as I drink from a china cup, or my cream scone! Then Jen’s popping by to collect her crockery around six. I said you’d drop it off for her, but she said it wasn’t a problem. I get the impression she wants to talk.’ She looks down to her belly. ‘So not today, Fred, OK? I’m too busy!’

  Dan listens to Capital radio as he drives, singing along to block out deep thought. Everything’s fine, he thinks between songs. There’s no sign of the baby and even if there was, Geri’s with her sister and mum. He’s only watching football with the lads. He could be home in fifteen minutes. And the spat with Seb is over. Everything’s fine, it’s really fine.

  Seb answers the apartment door before Dan rings the intercom. ‘I saw your car through the window,’ he says, standing back to let him through. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dan replies, his breath stuck in his chest.

  Striding to the large drawing room window, Seb peers out. ‘Come and look. I didn’t really notice until today. But your secretary—’

  ‘Maya.’

  ‘Yeah, Maya. She was right about the view. Still looks pretty bleak, but this morning the sun was shining and I could see, well, I could see for fucking miles!’

  He turns towards Dan but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He looks healthy and his eyes are bright, but he seems unusually nervous, agitated almost. His hair is still as close-cropped as it was yesterday, his facial bones still as sculpted. A stupid thought, Dan knows, but he’d almost forgotten. He drags away his gaze and looks towards the television. Perhaps Seb is thinking about their row. Perhaps it isn’t really over.

  Seb rubs his head, then strides to the kitchen. ‘So, Dan, a drink. What would you like? I bought in beer. But you’re driving, of course. I should’ve bought Coke or fresh juice. Or Red Bull, maybe. I didn’t think.’ His back still turned away, he pauses for a moment. ‘But there’s food. Plenty of food. Have you eaten?’ He gestures towards a pile of
parchment-wrapped food on the granite work surface. ‘I can’t remember what I bought now. Have you been to the deli on Water Lane? The choice is fucking unbelievable! And there’s bread. Bread with nuts, bread with seeds, bread with olives …’ He turns to Dan and finally meets his gaze. ‘I don’t know if you like olives.’ His face suddenly transforms by a grin. ‘Dan Maloney, do you like olives?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dan says, smiling back. The spat’s over, he knows, it’s there in Seb’s smile. He nods at the TV. ‘It’s nearly three o’clock, are we going to watch the kick-off?’

  They sit each end of the long sofa facing the newly acquired television on the wall.

  ‘Flat-screen and huge. Like Will’s,’ Dan comments, wondering where Will is.

  ‘But probably cost a tenth of the price. You know Will; has to dash out and buy the latest model. Car, television, mobile phone. Headphones.’ He glances at Dan. ‘Did you see his new fucking headphones? A thousand quid from Selfridges! Then his laptop, of course. A dream Apple customer. Same growing up. He could never wait for Christmas. Pestered Mum into early submission.’ He grins again. ‘Can’t complain, I did pretty well out of it.’ Abruptly his face colours. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ Dan looks at his watch. ‘Is he or Nick coming?’

  ‘No, I didn’t ask them.’

  They fall silent for a time, their gaze on the screen, Seb tapping his foot on the soft carpet. Then he turns to Dan. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dan replies again, wondering if his vocabulary is going to be limited to the one word all afternoon. But it’s because he isn’t sure; he isn’t sure about olives; he isn’t sure about being alone on the sofa with Seb; he isn’t sure about the bloody tattoo; he isn’t sure about anything.