My Husband's Lies Page 32
So like Holly’s. Little Holly. Holly, Holly, Holly. As she watched, Annette dashed off and whispered to Geri’s granny. Then the aunties and cousins, the nephews and nieces. Nick and Lisa too. Every time she looked, they were staring right back. Sniggering, sniggering. Laughing at her.
That’s silly, Penny. Silly Penny! Focus, just focus.
She just has to focus.
Opening the cutlery drawer, she lets out the trapped air in her chest before starting again. Twelve teaspoons, twelve forks, twelve knives, big and small. The missing dessert spoon throws her for a moment, but it’s there in the sink with a bowl. Will’s nightly cereal.
Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed,
To see such fun,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
The sixes still troubling her, she takes off her robe to cool down, ambles to the lounge and quietly pushes the door.
Quietly she stares. Her husband is dozing. Will, her Will. Then his mobile snaps the silence and he jerks. Scooping it up from the sofa, he smiles at the screen. Takes a deep breath, then lifts his finger.
‘Will?’
Dropping the phone in his lap, he looks up in surprise.
‘Penny! I thought you’d gone to bed. You made me jump.’
‘Who were you texting?’
‘No one,’ he replies with those lying hooded eyes. He turns the mobile face down. ‘A text just came this minute. Not got round to reading it yet.’ His gaze focuses and he frowns, another bloody frown. ‘What are you doing, Penny?’
The tears burn her eyes. ‘You’re lying, Will. I know when you’re lying. I’ve always known.’ Does she say it out loud? She’s not sure.
The furrow turns to alarm. ‘Are you OK, Penny? What’s going on?’
It’s her period, not a baby. Again.
Breathe, Penny, breathe. She tries to concentrate on her task. ‘Is six enough, Will? The agent said to cater for twelve.’ She studies the sharp carver. ‘Will six knives be enough? There isn’t time to buy more.’
He’s staring; she doesn’t like it. And all those lies, bloody lies.
‘For ages I didn’t know,’ she whispers. ‘Not for sure, but now I know what you did.’ Picturing Annette’s gleeful face, she inches towards him. ‘You should have told me, Will. Everyone knows, don’t they? Everyone but me? Stupid Penny. Stupid, stupid Penny. They were gawking and sniggering. You’ve made me look a fool …’
Will’s face is pale, his eyes hollow and flickering. Speaking very slowly, he holds up his hands. ‘It’s fine, really fine, Penny. Nobody knows. You don’t look a fool. And it was only once, really. After your … after Nick’s wedding. I’m sorry, Pen. It was a difficult time for us both. I just needed someone to talk to, so I went to Jen. It just happened. It wasn’t planned. We didn’t mean to hurt you …’
But Penny’s counting, this time in years. Twelve. Coincidence again! A dozen, how funny. ‘Holly is twelve.’ She pauses for a moment and looks at the knife. It glints like a wink. ‘Does that mean I should buy twelve?’
‘What? Holly?’ Will sits up, perplexed. ‘What about Holly? What are you on about, Penny?’
Oh Will, her Will. His lies are so good. He’s very, very good. ‘Holly is your daughter, Will. Don’t pretend. Everyone knows.’
His lying face is a picture of incredulity; she wants to laugh, really laugh. But his words from just now finally reach her. I went to Jen. It just happened.
Her heart thumps as she thinks. Focus, Penny, focus.
It’s her period, not a baby. Again.
Nick’s wedding was in January, January this year, when they were trying for a baby.
And only once, really. What does that mean?
‘You went to Jen? What did you mean, Will?’
He’s her Will; he’s hers.
‘You didn’t mean to hurt me? What does that mean? You promised me a child.’
Jen, Jen. Jen, bloody Jen. He’s been fucking Jen! Affectionate, kind Jen who already has kids, who has bloody everything. She’s not having Will; he’s hers, he’s hers.
Realisation flaring, she gapes at his mobile, then finds herself lunging, flailing and shouting. ‘It’s from her, isn’t it? The text is from her? Let me read it, let me see.’
Penny wakes. Her head feels heavy, her limbs achy and sore. As she yawns, she glimpses the bedside clock. Oh Lord, look at the time! Gatwick today! They’ve overslept when there’s so much to do. She turns to Will to wake him, but his side of the bed is empty, the duvet neatly nestled against the pillow.
Sitting up, she tries to think, but her mind feels fractured. So difficult to focus, to piece together last night. She was ticking off the inventory, wasn’t she? Will was in the lounge, watching TV. He must have slept on the sofa.
Hearing his deep tones, she slides on her slippers and pads down the stairs. At the bottom she stops in the hallway and stares. Blinks, then blinks again. Oh God, Will’s guitar, his beloved guitar, its white veneer smeared and splintered and cracked. And its neck, its poor neck, limp and broken like the dead swan she once saw on the riverbank.
The guitar was for Holly. Why would Will do that?
She turns towards the sound of his voice, but it isn’t just his. It’s a hum of conversation, wafting from the kitchen; they must have visitors.
Standing at the kitchen door, she straightens her shoulders and neatens her hair. Then pushes it open. ‘Hello?’
They turn to the sound of her voice. But it isn’t Will after all. It’s her father with their old family doctor, of all people. They’re sitting at her table.
‘Oh, how come …’ she starts. Then she catches the shadows beside the back door. She stares for a moment before blinking them away. But they’re here, really here. A man and a woman in dark uniform. Their arms folded, they’re gazing right back with cold hostile eyes.
‘Hello, love,’ her dad says. ‘Did you have a good sleep?’
He’s drinking from a mug, a mug from the cupboard. The doctor is too; he’s rudely staring, his eyes moving to her nightie.
No need to look down. It’s her period, not a baby; it’s only her period.
She comes back to her dad and the cup. ‘The mugs, Dad. The agent said twelve; there has to be twelve, you really can’t use …’ she begins, then notices his expression. His eyes are wet. Did she call him? Why does he look sad?
‘Can’t what, love?’
Stepping to the gloss cupboard, she goes to open it and count, but her eyes rest on the knife block. Five, there’s only five. The carver is missing. There has to be six! Where is it? Where is it? She looks at her hands, her trembling soiled hands. And her nightie, so slimy and stuck to her chest.
‘Dad? Why are you here, Dad?’
‘You called me. Not long ago. Do you remember?’
‘What did I say?’
‘That you’d been a good girl.’
A good girl? She squeezes her mind to last night. Hey diddle diddle. The inventory, the lounge, the plates round and round. A silly row about Will’s mobile. He put it face down. Wished he wouldn’t do that. But everything was fine, really fine. Cuddled him on the sofa until sleep, silent sleep.
Dormez-vous. Dormez-vous.
Her Will. Her Will forever.
The guitar, poor guitar? Not her fault, no. She had to silence the sound.
But a good girl? A good girl? Not bad Penny, please no.
Ah yes! Jen’s text, Jen’s message to Will. Though streaked crimson red, she could read it quite clearly.
‘Absolutely!’ she says smiling, relief flooding her cheeks. She nods to the sink. ‘I have been a good girl, Dad. I really have! I stopped the dish running away with the spoon.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A big thank you again to so many people:
To my gorgeous girls, my husband and the Lanigan family, for their affection, loyalty and support. To Elizabeth for finding t
ime to counsel and chat, even on the other side of the world! To Charl for putting up with being my twin and buying me Ted Hughes poetry volumes I didn’t know existed. To Emily for her beautiful sunny smile and four o’clock news bulletins. And to Jonathan for his love, humour and free publicity!
To my writing pals, old and new, for their solidarity, feedback and friendship. Particular thanks to my fantastic writers’ group in Didsbury and the Psych Thriller Killers, AKA Carolyn, Libby and Samantha.
To Hazel for reading yet another novel!
To all my school, university and work friends scattered across the world. From Australia to America, from Switzerland to the Bahamas, your warmth and big-heartedness has been amazing. From Clare’s London hospitality to Jo’s insightful WhatsApp messages; from Sara’s constancy to Liz’s eternal enthusiasm and Margaret’s lunch treats.
To my lovely book-club-without-a-book friends, my fabulous cake-date mums, my supportive writer ladies who lunch, the Didsbury prosecco trio and my girls’ night out faithfuls.
To the dinner-date couples and their delicious cuisine, the Hawkins and the Herrings, the Bakers and the Gammons, the Molloys and the Taylors (save for the frogs’ legs!). And, of course, the Mahers for their spectacular Christmas dinner feasts.
To Belinda, my friend with the slow dog, for her wonderful generosity in too many ways to count.
To my literary agent, Kate Johnson, for her continued encouragement, patience and frequent words of wisdom!
Finally to the fantastic, hard-working team at Avon, with special thanks to my brilliant editor, Phoebe Morgan, for her invaluable input.
You can’t run from the past forever…
It will always catch up with you.
Click here to buy.
About the Author
Caroline England is a former divorce and professional indemnity lawyer who lives in Manchester. Beneath the Skin was published in 2017. My Husband’s Lies is her second book. Caroline England Author can be found on Facebook or you can follow her on Twitter @CazEngland
By the same author
Beneath the Skin
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