Sometimes I Lie

‘Look at these hands, just like Mum’s but without the wrinkles.’ I imagine them smiling warmly at each other across the bed. I do look like Mum, that’s true. I have the same hands and feet, the same hair, the same eyes.

‘In case you can hear me, I need to tell you something,’ says Claire. ‘I hoped I wouldn’t have to, but you should know that he’d be here if he could.’ I feel like I am holding my breath, but the machine carries on pumping oxygen into my lungs. ‘Paul didn’t think the police were going to leave him alone and he was right. They’re saying his were the only other fingerprints in the car and they seem quite sure it wasn’t you driving. Then there are the bruises, the marks on your neck. Your neighbour said he heard you screaming at each other in the street. I know Paul didn’t do this to you, but it’s more important than ever now that you wake up.’ She squeezes my hand to the point where it hurts. I can feel the blanket of darkness rolling up over my neck, my chin, my face. I’m going to sleep, I can’t fight it any longer, but I have to hold on. Her final words are distant and distorted, but I hear them:

‘Paul has been arrested.’

Then

Wednesday, 21st December 2016 – Afternoon

I walk up our road enchanted by the little clouds of hot breath coming from my mouth and realise I’m smiling to myself. There is very little to smile about at the moment, so I promptly readjust my face. The sky is slowly killing itself up above while the street lights flicker to life to show me the way home. I close the gate behind me, while the cold fingers on my other hand switch to autopilot, searching for the key inside my handbag. When they’re warm enough to feel what they’re looking for, I let myself in. I can hear something. Without closing the door, I stumble through the tiny hall to the lounge and see Paul lying on the couch staring at the TV. The missing husband has returned. He looks up at me briefly, before looking back at the screen.

‘You’re home early,’ he says. That is all. I haven’t seen or heard from him for over twenty-four hours and that is all he has to say. I fold my arms without meaning to, like the stereotypical angry wife I’ve become.

‘Where have you been?’ I ask. My voice trembles slightly and I’m not even sure I really want to know the answer. I’m furious and yet at the same time so relieved to see that he’s OK.

‘At my mother’s house. Not that you care.’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve been worried sick. You could have called.’

‘I forgot my phone and the signal is shit at Mum’s house anyway. You’d know that if you ever bothered coming with me when I visit her. I left you a note and I called the landline. I thought you might make the effort to join me this time, given the circumstances.’

‘You didn’t call me. There was no note,’ I insist.

‘I left you a note in the kitchen,’ says Paul, his eyes fixed on mine. I march to the kitchen and, sure enough, there’s a note on the counter. I snatch the piece of paper, holding it close enough to read:

Mum has had a fall. Going to make sure she is OK. Might have to take her to A&E. P x

I try to think back to the night before. I had been preparing a meal for us both, I had to rearrange the larder. I spent a long time in the kitchen and I do not remember seeing this note. Paul stands in the doorway.

‘This wasn’t here. You’ve just put this here now,’ I say.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘The light was on in the shed. I thought you were writing. I cooked us a meal.’

‘So I see,’ he says. I follow his gaze around the kitchen, everything exactly where I left it last night, pots and pans still full of food on top of the oven. The empty bottle of white wine. Everything is a mess, I can’t believe I left the place in such a state.

‘You haven’t even asked how she is,’ Paul says from the doorway as I continue to survey the chaos. A pile of potato peelings is browning on a wooden chopping board, more flesh than skin because I’d used a knife to do the job. I can’t stand to see the kitchen looking like this, so I start to tidy up while he continues to talk at me.

‘Please can we not fight, I’ve had a horrible time,’ he says.

I don’t want to fight either. Words keep falling from his lips as I clean, but I don’t believe any of them. I can’t stand the dirt and the lies, I just want it all to stop. I don’t remember when things went so wrong, I only know that they have.

‘She’s broken her hip, Amber. She called me lying on her kitchen floor, I had to drop everything and go.’ I open the oven to find the lamb shanks I’d been cooking, dry and shrivelled to the bone. ‘You would have done the same if it was your mother.’ I wouldn’t have done the same for my mother because she would never have called me in that situation, she would have called Claire.

‘So why was your car at Claire’s house?’ I say, throwing the meaty bones into the bin and turning to face him.

‘What? Because my MOT expired. I can’t reinsure the thing until I get it sorted, so Dave said he’d take a look at it for me,’ he says, without hesitation.

David, not Dave, she doesn’t like it.

He has an answer for everything and all the pieces of the puzzle seem to fit. I begin to feel foolish and my own stupidity softens me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, not sure that I should be.

‘I’m sorry too.’

‘Is your mum going to be OK?’

We leave the dirty kitchen behind us and sit and talk for a while. I play the caring wife he needs me to be and he tells me what a wonderful son he has been, which only seems to highlight his failings as a husband. There is no time for me to practise my lines, so I’m forced to improvise. It’s not an award-winning performance, but enough to satisfy the audience of one. I’ve never been fond of Paul’s mother. She lives on her own in a dated, draughty bungalow near the Norfolk coast. I hate the place and have only been to visit a few times. I always get the impression that she sees straight through me and doesn’t like the view.

Paul talks about his night at the hospital, and I listen for any holes in his story, but there are none. I watch his mouth as it forms his words and will them to be louder than the running commentary in my head. I want to believe him, I really do. My mobile is on the coffee table and I can see now that there is a missed call . . . maybe Paul had called to tell me where he was and I just hadn’t noticed.

‘Do you fancy some wine?’ I ask. Paul nods. I pick up my phone as I head out to the kitchen and listen to the message, but it isn’t my husband’s voice that I hear.

Before

Saturday, 14th December 1991

Dear Diary,