Sometimes I Lie

We weren’t worried, our teenage bodies could easily climb our way up and over, but Claire said she wanted to rest first and lay down on the concrete path. I lay down next to her and she held my hand. She gently squeezed it three times and I squeezed hers three times back. We lay there in the moonlight, drunkenly laughing at everything and nothing, and then she stopped and turned to face me, supporting her head on her elbow. She whispered as though the trees and the grass might overhear us. I didn’t ask what the two of them had been doing while I was waiting, but she told me anyway. She said it felt nice. I remember feeling sick, a little bit confused and a lot betrayed somehow. I thought she was making a huge mistake. A marriage, two children and almost twenty years together suggest that maybe I was wrong. She’s never been intimate with any other man. Never been interested. When Claire chooses to love you, it’s forever.

‘You’re here,’ he booms. David has a tendency to speak louder than is necessary. ‘Make yourselves useful and entertain these two, will you.’ He gives us a child each and walks over to the fridge, grabbing a handful of Claire’s yoga-sculpted bottom as he walks past. She doesn’t seem to mind or notice. I’ve got Katie, Paul has James.

The twins seem so alien to me, despite being family. Paul is naturally good with children, perhaps that’s why he’s always wanted his own. He makes the right sounds, gives off a good vibe. It’s more of an effort for me and I don’t always get it right. I try talking to Katie in a soft voice, asking her if she thinks Father Christmas has been to visit. Claire has gone completely overboard with presents and decorations this year, she says it’s all for the twins, as though they’ll even remember. Katie reaches for my scarf and tugs at it. I manoeuvre the material out from her tiny clenched fist, I need it to stay where it is, to cover the hand-shaped bruises on my neck. She isn’t happy about it and starts to cry. Nothing I do works, so Paul offers to swap. He gives me James and as soon as Katie is in his arms she stops screaming. She stares at me, as though she’s suspicious, as though she knows more than she possibly can. I make sure my scarf is still in place.

Paul is going to make a great dad. I’ll tell him tonight. It will be my Christmas present to him this year, there isn’t anything else I can give him that he doesn’t already have. I’m glad I haven’t told him already, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it from Claire and I don’t want her to know yet. I’ll tell him as soon as we get home, when it’s just the two of us.

The afternoon drags as the four of us eat our way through too much food, plugging the gaps with polite conversation and stories we’ve bored each other with too many times before. I imagine this scenario being replicated in thousands of homes all over the country. I spend the hours playing multiple roles: the caring sister, the doting wife, the adoring aunt and take tiny sips of my wine so that I never need a refill. When Claire heads to the kitchen, I snatch the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, offering to help her. Paul shoots me an evil glance, he doesn’t like being left alone with David, says they have nothing in common. They don’t.

‘Something has happened,’ I whisper as soon as we’re alone in the kitchen.

‘What?’ asks Claire with her back to me.

‘Something that shouldn’t have.’

‘What are you talking about?’ she says, stacking the plates in the dishwasher. My bravery retreats.

‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it myself.’

She finishes what she is doing and turns to face me. ‘Amber, are you OK?’

This is my chance. If I tell her about Edward, I know she’ll help me. I study her face, I want to tell someone how afraid I am but the words won’t come. This isn’t the right time and I remember that I’m afraid of her too. She might make me go to the police. She might tell Paul. She might do something worse.

‘Yes, I’m OK.’ It’s her turn to analyse me now; she knows that I’m not. I need to give her something more. ‘I’m just tired, need some rest, that’s all.’

‘I think you’re tired too. You keep getting yourself all worked up over nothing.’

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. The twins eat, sleep, play, cry, repeat. The adults wish they could do the same. Mum and Dad always made us wait until the afternoon to do presents and we seem to be continuing their rather miserable tradition. We watch as the twins half open beautifully wrapped gifts, predictably more interested in the wrapping than the contents. Then we exchange adult-sized presents, neatly wrapped, crisp gift receipts tucked inside. I open one from Paul and it takes me a while to register its relevance. I thank him and try to move on to something else.

‘Hang on, what is it?’ asks Claire. She likes us to take turns, for everyone to watch what everyone else gets.

‘It’s a diary,’ I say.

‘A diary? Who are you, Anne Frank?’ laughs David. I can see that Paul looks embarrassed.

‘I thought she might like it because—’

‘I love it, thank you,’ I say, interrupting him before he can finish his sentence, and kiss him on the cheek.

‘I used to write a diary,’ says Claire. ‘Always found it very therapeutic. I’ve read that it’s good for anxiety, to write it all down. You should try it, Amber.’

When we’ve all had our maximum fill of playing happy families I help David put the twins to bed. I read them a story that I’ve read them before and marvel at how easily they fall asleep. As I leave their bedroom, I notice the robin-shaped lump of cast iron propping open the door. It was Claire’s nana’s. She still keeps it even now, the only old thing in a house that has been made new. I come downstairs to find Paul and Claire talking quietly in the kitchen but, as soon as they see me, they stop and it’s a second too long before Paul smiles in my direction.

Then

Christmas Day, 2016 – Early Evening

Paul and I walk home in silence. He walks quickly, so that I have to hurry to keep up with him. A fine mist of drizzle permeates the cold air but I don’t mind, I’m just pleased to be outside, to have left Claire’s home. That’s all that house is now, hers. There is nothing left of mine within its walls, not even the memories are my own. It’s a life I should have left behind by now, but something has always stopped me from moving on. Fear of the unknown is always greater than fear of the familiar.

The streets are empty. I like the quiet stillness of it all. Peace on suburban earth. Everyone is locked inside with relatives they don’t have to see for the rest of the year. Stuffing turkey down their throats, watching nonsense on the television, unwrapping gifts they neither want nor need. Drinking too much. Saying too much. Thinking too little.

The drizzle evolves into rain as we pass the petrol station. It’s closed now, everything is closed. I’ve only ever been inside the place twice. The first time was a few weeks ago, to ask a question. No harm in that, people ask questions all the time. The cashier studied my face a little harder when I had finished speaking, but he soon concluded that I wasn’t about to rob the place; I didn’t look the type. He told me that the CCTV was kept for a week and then automatically deleted. I thanked him, then waited a moment in case he had wondered why I wanted to know. He didn’t, so I left. He forgot about me before I even walked out the door.