My Husband's Lies Read online

‘Food.’ Seb strides to the kitchen, then returns with a tray, lobbing two packets of deli food on Dan’s lap. ‘You open some too. Let’s see what we’ve got.’

  They spread the open packets across the glass coffee table. Slices of meat and salami, a whole variety of sausages, pots of stuffed peppers, cheeses and savoury pastries, the sort of food Dan would normally devour, but he doesn’t feel hungry; he’s not sure if he’d be able to swallow if he tried.

  Seb stands again abruptly. ‘You need a drink. One beer is OK. I’ll get you a beer. Can’t watch the footie without beer.’ He starts to walk away, then turns back, his face flushing. ‘Are we watching the match, Dan? Is that what we’re doing?’

  Gazing at Seb’s uncertain face, the rush of heat in Dan’s flesh tightens and spreads. His head still isn’t sure, but his body stands, walks to the master bedroom and Seb follows.

  There’s a feeling of restraint on the bed, a slowing of time as Dan watches the graceful movement of Seb’s head. He’s touching his skin with only his lips. Exquisite, almost painful, he’s made his way from Dan’s face to his neck to his chest. Now he’s following the tapering dark hair with his mouth; unbuckling his belt, kissing, still kissing with soft knowing lips.

  His sensations overwhelmed, Dan closes his eyes. Unhurried, more intimate and intense than before, it feels too much like making love. He wants Seb to continue, he would like him to stop. The dull sound of the television commentary wafts through the open bedroom door, becoming more and more urgent as the action builds up to a goal.

  Seb pulls away, strips off his T-shirt, then his jeans, standing naked and proud, all shyness gone. His body is beautiful, toned and tight. Dan hasn’t really looked at it before, not properly, from a distance. And his stunning face, the cropped hair of the swimmer. Pulsing with desire, he reaches out.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Seb says with a grin. ‘I’ve brought you a present. Wait there.’

  Returning with a gift bag, Seb sits on the bed, keenly watching him break a gold seal and look inside.

  Dan stares, confused, unsure of what he’s looking at. It’s a tube, like a tube of body product Geri might buy.

  ‘I thought if you wanted to … Seeing as we have time.’ Seb’s vulnerable face is watching his. ‘Only if you want to. And we’d need to be relaxed, obviously, so …’ He puts his hand in the gift bag and extracts a small sachet of white powder. ‘It’s good stuff from a guy I know in London, so I thought we could do a few lines, so we’re chilled before—’

  The outrage hits Dan hard in the chest. He drops the tube of lubricant as though he’s been punched. He knows only that he has to get dressed, out of the bedroom and away from the flat before he does something stupid. The anger pumps through his body, constricting it. His lungs, his throat, his fists, but as he reaches the door to leave, he finally finds his voice.

  ‘What’s fucking wrong with you?’ he shouts, straining every inch of self-control. ‘That’s what’s making you ill, you fool. Drugs, Seb. That’s what’s messing you up, playing with your head.’ He stares at Seb’s face, realisation dawning. ‘You’re high now, aren’t you? You were high when I arrived. What the fuck, Seb? How can I possibly trust you?’

  Pushing hard at the fire exit, Dan hurls himself down four flights of stairs, bursts through the heavy front door, then scrambles to his car. The steam heaves from his chest as he finally breathes. His eyes sharply sting and his hands tremble badly as he battles with the key, but the engine finally turns and he’s free, down the long driveway, out of the gates and onto the leafy lane, heading towards the safety of home.

  At the traffic lights he stops, punching the steering wheel repeatedly. He wants to cry, he wants to yell; he’s confused and frustrated and hurt. What the fuck should he do? He shouldn’t be driving in this state. Pulling into the car park of a large pub, he stares at its sign. A drink, yes a drink. He needs a stiff drink.

  The football match blares from the TV above the bar. After the third large measure of whisky, Dan smiles a small ironic smile. He’s watching the fucking game after all. He tries to follow the second half, forcing out the mental image of Seb’s broken face as he left, replacing it with resolve: I’m not gay; I’m not fucking gay. What the hell is Seb playing at? Drugs, bloody drugs. He’s probably an addict.

  Spinning a damp place mat, he tries to focus, to think. Seb was meant to be Will’s best man, but he was ill. The illness was shrouded in mystery. He remembers that now. And something Will said about the world of modelling and drugs.

  The match ends but he doesn’t move. He orders another whisky. I’m not gay, he thinks again, I’m not fucking gay. But even so, even so, why would they need drugs? How he’d felt was a drug. That should’ve been enough.

  Putting his head on folded arms, he sighs. Like a teenager in love. How pathetic. He trusted Seb; he fucking trusted him. It’s him who’s the fool, a stupid bloody fool.

  A vibration through his jacket pocket jerks him back to today, to a Sunday and to Geri, pregnant Geri, his partner. Oh God, he’d forgotten; he’d completely forgotten. He has a baby on the way, for fuck’s sake! He’s a bloody, bloody fool. What the hell is he doing in a pub?

  His heart thrashing with alarm, his unwilling fingers fumble for the mobile, but when he squints at the screen the call isn’t from Geri. It’s from Seb. Seb Taylor who needs drugs; Seb Taylor who’s betrayed him; fucking Seb Taylor who he wants when he shouldn’t.

  He hesitates for a moment, wanting to hear his voice, wishing he had the resolve to ignore it.

  ‘Dan? I’m scared. I don’t feel well. Dan? Are you listening? Can you come? I’m fucking scared. My throat—’

  The alarm is immediate and sobering. ‘Seb, what have you taken?’

  ‘Nothing. Not much. You’ve got to come. This has never happened before. I feel weird. I can’t swallow. I’m really fucking scared.’

  Dan stands and puts his hand in his pocket, extracting his car keys.

  ‘You’re not driving, right?’ the barman asks.

  Agitation blocks his senses. He shakes his head, trying to think. Of course he can’t drive. He’s well over the limit. What the fuck has Seb done? What has he taken? Some rogue drug? Or an overdose? Oh God, a bloody overdose.

  Going back to his mobile, he stares. An ambulance, of course. He must call an ambulance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Jen

  Jen drives towards Chorlton Green, glad to leave the frayed atmosphere at home. She insisted the girls accompany her and her mum to the Sunday service at St Catherine’s this morning. She doesn’t make them attend every week, but feels once a month is fair dos to keep them in touch with their religion. Then when they’re old enough, they can decide whether to take it or leave it.

  She personally enjoyed the whole religious thing as a child, especially her first communion and confirmation. Admittedly, it was for the mini wedding dress and the celebration party, rather than belief, but she liked the familiarity of the prayers and the hymns, there was something reassuring about the community of it all.

  She still isn’t sure about belief, but going to church each Sunday makes her feel better. Praying helps, especially at low times. Like it did as a girl.

  ‘Come on, love, let go of Daddy. He has to go now. It’ll be OK, Jennifer, I promise. With God’s help, it will be OK.’ They were Nola’s words when she was eleven, when she was dragged off her father, her fists clamped onto his neck, his hair, his wrists, his shirt, any part of her lovely daddy to stop him walking through the door and leaving them forever.

  She sobbed every night. ‘Don’t cry, love,’ Nola consistently said. ‘He still loves you dearly; you’re still his special girl. And you’ll see him lots. He’s left me, love, not you.’

  The heartache was unbearable for months and months. Secretly she blamed her mum for Daddy leaving, but talking to God about it helped.

  She now absently stares at the traffic lights and sighs. Of course, she still prays before sleep, but likes her Sundays and other
Holy Days for prayer in church. It feels more personal. Like a face-to-face meeting rather than email or text, the message has a better chance of getting through. It’s a bonding time for her and Nola too. Not that they need it; living in the same village, they see each other most days, but it’s nice to spend three Sunday mornings out of four, just her and her lovely mum, a coffee, chat and gossip in a local cafe after church, putting the world to rights.

  But today Maria kicked off. She didn’t want to go to church, she didn’t believe in God and if there was a God, what sort of God was he? Famine and war, Ebola and earthquakes, cancer and childhood death. Jen could see she had a point, but as ever, her eldest took it too far. Jen was a hypocrite for going every Sunday anyway, she sneered. Look how she’d bought those horrible commercialised Easter eggs the other week. Wasn’t Easter a serious religious celebration? If it was, she was hardly setting an example to her children.

  Jen was on the point of telling Maria to stay home, almost relieved not to have to look at her miserable features for a couple of hours, but Ian intervened again, shouting as angrily at her for disrespecting her mother as he had the last time. So she’d tagged along towards church, her face a picture of irritation and disdain.

  ‘Come on, love, take a chill pill,’ Nola said, putting her chubby arm around Maria’s shoulders as they walked.

  ‘Grandma!’ the girls laughed and it broke the ice, but by the time they got back to Ian’s chilli con carne, all three were sniping, so she was glad to escape later.

  Jen knocks at the solid door of Geri and Dan’s house. Though technically a semi like hers, it has several huge bedrooms, an attic and a cellar. ‘There are four hormonal women in our house, can we swap houses?’ she has joked over the years. Hers in Didsbury is in a sought-after area, but the bedrooms are small and the girls have to share. Maria has recently swapped with Anna, preferring the tiny box room than having to share with Holly. But Anna is happy; she’s thrilled to sleep in bunk beds with her middle sister. ‘It’s like a sleepover every night,’ she confided the other day.

  One daughter on cloud nine; it makes Jen’s heart soar. No cares in the world. At least not yet …

  Geri eventually opens the door, yawning wearily. Jen tries to stretch her arms around where her slim waist used to be. ‘You are officially huge, Geri! How’s it going?’ she asks.

  ‘Another week to go, but of course that could be three. I haven’t said anything to Dan, but I keep feeling a twinge, then nothing happens, so who knows? To be honest, it feels as though he or she will never come out. A sort of pregnancy Groundhog Day.’

  ‘Good description. Though I find it hard to remember now. The three pregnancies seem to blend so they’ve become interchangeable in my memory.’

  Geri smiles wryly. ‘Well, that’s good, I suppose. Only another two babies to go …’

  Jen nods and smiles. The nine months did blend, and so did the labour in retrospect. But with each baby, it all came flooding back once the contractions began. Like heartbreak. But she’s not here to think about Will. Or her dad for that matter. They are on the back-burner for now; worrying about them as well as Holly would be too overwhelming.

  They’re still standing in the slightly tangy hallway. Jen glances at the peeling corner of the faded floral wallpaper, the urge to pick and tug there as always. She nods to a box near the kitchen. ‘Is that the crockery? I’ll put it in the car.’

  Geri puts a hand to her stomach. ‘There we go again.’ Then after a moment, her small frown clearing, ‘Coffee first? Or a glass of wine? Come through. I’ve been for a cream tea this afternoon with my mum and sister. It’s funny, isn’t it, how your tastes change? I used to love Earl Grey before getting pregnant, but now it’s too perfumed. Will I go back to liking it? Will life in general revert to normality?’ She looks pensive for a moment before coming back to the conversation. ‘Sorry. Did you say tea? We ordered too many sandwiches, so I have a doggy bag of goodies. Fancy taking a look?’

  They sit in the bay-windowed lounge and talk about Geri’s plans for the kitchen after the baby is born, in fact her plans for everything, hallway included. Jen watches the emotions flick through her shining eyes, the impatience, the apprehension, the excitement, as she explains how she didn’t expect life to be on hold for eight and a half months. Though not generally an anxious person, she feels she’s been holding her breath for a very long time. From getting pregnant in the first place, to peeing on a testing stick, to scans and blood tests, more peeing in pots and for the last few weeks the high blood pressure. And of course she’s still holding her breath for the big one!

  ‘At least a big gulp of air will help push the little one out,’ Jen replies with a smile, understanding Geri’s need to talk.

  ‘And, of course, you feel unique, special and clever growing a baby,’ she continues, ‘which is absurd when babies are born all the time …’

  She breaks from Jen’s gaze, looks at her hands, then abruptly changes the subject.

  ‘Strange question, but how was Ian when you were pregnant with Maria, Jen? And after she was born?’ Her eyes flicker. ‘Dan isn’t saying anything, but … I don’t know. Something’s not quite right.’ She looks embarrassed and sighs. ‘You know Dan. Whatever goes on in his head stays there. But at times he seems, I don’t know, far away. Course he’s still loving and kind, but distant, almost. Is that normal?’ She tries for a smile. ‘You know, for new fathers-to-be? Should I be concerned?’

  ‘With Dan? God no! I’m sure it’s nothing and we know what wimps men are. I expect most freak out in some way or other,’ Jen replies, thinking that in fact Ian was thrilled and supportive, ahead of the game at each stage of her pregnancies, wanting to be involved and hands-on, going up another notch when each baby was born. But that was Ian Kenning for you. Steady, reliable, needed in her life.

  And Will, what of Will? Her soulmate, if she’s honest. Handsome and solid and so necessary too …

  Just stop, Jen. Just stop.

  ‘More tea?’ Geri asks, interrupting her fevered thoughts. She smiles apologetically. ‘Sorry, I’m rabbiting on. Let’s talk about you. How is Holly after the blood tests? When will you hear? Let me top up this pot with water and I’ll be right back.’ Geri returns to the lounge without the teapot. Her face is what Jen can only describe as stunned. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she says, ‘but I think my waters have just broken.’

  Jen strides to the kitchen, looks at the pool of fluid on the floor and laughs. ‘What a clever baby,’ she says reassuringly. ‘Easy to clean up.’ She takes Geri by the shoulders and sits her down at the table. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘First things first. We call the hospital to tell them you’re on the way, then we call Dan. Then a quick mop up for health and safety and I’ll drive you there with your overnight bag. How does that sound?’

  Taking out her mobile, Jen takes a deep breath. Right, action needed. She smiles to herself wryly. Today hasn’t panned out as she’d expected. But perhaps that’s not surprising. Nothing in her life has.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Dan

  Dan nearly nods off, but each time, he jolts awake, taking in the acrid smell, remembering his surroundings and reprimanding himself for temporarily forgetting. He’s in a crowded room at the hospital, sitting on a hard plastic seat and waiting for news. He wipes the tears from his cheeks with his hands. He doesn’t realise they’re flowing until they pool at the end of his nose, then drip down to his knees. They come each time he focuses on what’s happened, forced out by the crushing weight of the responsibility and the helplessness he feels.

  He stands again, patting his jeans front and back, then taking off his jacket and going through the pockets, sure his mobile will be there this time. That somehow the last five or six hours will rewind and start again so he can do everything differently.

  Of course his phone isn’t there; what’s done is done; nothing will change, nothing can.

  Doors open and close, brightly dressed staff come and go. Navy tunics with a
red trim, blue with white and protective green. Solid colours of reassurance, he supposes, but he’s not feeling it. He’s not feeling anything, he’s teetering and swaying, his mind refusing to focus on what’s behind the closed doors.

  Making his way to the gents’, he drinks from the tap and splashes cold water on his face. He rubs it dry with a green paper towel, then lifts his gaze to the mirror, pulling out the wet fragments of tissue caught in his beard, thinking, who is this person I see? This cheat and this fool. This inadequate man. Who the hell is he?

  Resisting the urgent need to sob, he stares at his reflection. The boy is still there, that ten-year-old boy. He’s hidden by the man and the beard, but he’s there.

  Closing his eyes, he covers his face and wills the memories away. For years and years he barely gave them a second’s thought, but they’re back, fucking back. He doesn’t know why; he’s afraid to think why, but he can feel them right now. Not just the disgust and the guilt, but the touch of his hand, a man’s grown-up hand on his penis. And those words, evil words, soft in his ear. ‘Such a special boy, my Daniel. Feels nice, doesn’t it? Why, look at that! I can see that you like it.’

  There’s a sudden urge to puke, so he lowers his head and breathes deeply, willing it to pass.

  He thinks about trauma, deep trauma. Was it really only yesterday? Geri’s wise words about it. Forgetting or rejecting it, rather than having to deal with it head-on. So much better that way. And that ten-year-old did it so well. Until he was thirteen. Bloody thirteen! Too old to cry, but sobbing uncontrollably in his father’s arms. Ironic really. He wasn’t spilling blood and tears because of the unforgivable abuse, but for something quite different. He doesn’t want to think about that. It’s forgotten, it’s buried, where it should be.