Sometimes I Lie

‘I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make a late start on the Christmas cards but my hands were cold,’ I stutter.

He gives me a strange look. ‘OK. Well, Mum has just texted, she thinks the doctors are trying to kill her. I’m going to have to go back up there.’

I didn’t think she knew how to text.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now. She needs me.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I offer.

‘No, it’s all right. I know how worried you are about work at the moment. I won’t be away long.’

He retreats from the door before I have time to reply. I hear the shower being turned on and the boiler rumble to life. He’s not in too much of a hurry then. I fold my letter, place it in the red envelope and put my white gloves back in the drawer. I walk past the bathroom, the door is a little ajar and steam is already billowing out in a bid to escape. I peer through the damp cloud and see my husband, naked in the shower. It’s been a while since I have seen him this way and I feel a curious mix of rejection and relief. I move quickly towards our bedroom and take his phone from the side table next to the bed: 06:55 – I hadn’t realised how late it was, it still feels like the middle of the night. I type Paul’s password into his phone. I remember the first time I tried to guess it a few months ago, putting in our wedding anniversary, my date of birth and then, finally, his. Of course it was all about him. I open his text messages. The last one was over twenty-four hours ago, from me. There are no texts from his mother. I hear the shower stop. I put the phone down, climb back into bed and face the wall. I listen as he dries himself, gets dressed, sprays himself with deodorant, does up his belt and refills the pockets of his jeans with loose change.

‘How will you get there? Train?’ I ask.

‘No, quicker to drive.’

‘I thought the car needed its MOT?’

‘Dave says it’s ready now. I’ll just collect it from the fore-court. I’ve got the spare key.’

‘Did he text you too?’

‘No, he called last night. Why?’

‘No reason.’

He has an answer for everything.

He kisses me goodbye and tells me that he loves me. I tell him that I love him too. Well-worn words that have shrunk and lost their meaning. I lie perfectly still as I listen to the sound of my husband leaving me, it doesn’t last long. When the front door closes, I get out of the bed and watch him walk away from behind the bedroom curtain.

I follow in Paul’s footsteps, head down to the kitchen and turn on the light. My throat is dry so I pour myself a glass of water to take back upstairs. I stop in front of the oven and check that it is off twelve times, clicking my fingers with my empty left hand. I notice the red light of the answering machine flashing away on the sideboard in the hall. The only people who have ever used the landline are my parents, and even they don’t call this number any more. My index finger hovers reluctantly over the PLAY button, almost too scared to make contact, as though it might burn me. I swallow a gulp of water, letting it wash away my fear, then I push the button. It’s Paul from two days ago. So he did call to tell me he was at his mum’s. I don’t know how I missed the machine flashing, I walk past it all the time. I delete the message and then pause over the PLAY ALL button. I shouldn’t need to hear his voice again, but I do. I close my eyes as the familiar sound of my father’s voice fills my heart and ears. Hello, it’s me, Dad. Call me back when you get this, Peanut. He hasn’t called me that for such a long time. The tears I have been managing to suppress fall freely from my eyes. They make tracks down my cheeks and cling to my chin for as long as they can, before dropping down onto my nightshirt to form damp stains of sadness. I’ve saved this message for so long now. Paul says it’s morbid, he doesn’t understand. Out of some instinctive curiosity, I pick up the phone and hit the LAST NUMBER DIALLED button. After several rings, I hear a click and then a pre-recorded message speaks in my ear. I slam the receiver down, glaring at it as though it’s to blame. I’ve never called Claire from this phone.

Then

Thursday, 22nd December 2016 – Morning

I’m a few minutes late for work. Madeline is already in, but it doesn’t matter, not today. I still feel disorientated, as though I might be dreaming within a dream. I checked the bottom of Paul’s wardrobe after he left. The pretty pink bag and its black lacy contents were gone, he’d taken them with him. I doubt they were a gift for his mother.

I sit quietly at my desk as the rest of the cast assemble. Colleagues say, ‘Good morning,’ and I nod back, it’s like listening to a stuck record. I don’t feel like making conversation today, polite or otherwise, and my morning hasn’t been particularly good. When I think nobody is looking, I study the faces of the women in the office. They all look blinkered, a little weary, a lot lost. A collection of people treading water, trying to stay afloat in an unpredictable sea. They’re not my friends, not really; we’d all push each other under if it meant we wouldn’t drown. I conclude I have nothing to worry about; they can’t see the real me, they can’t even see themselves.

Madeline comes out of her office to bark at someone and I catch her eye. She’s talking to them, but she’s staring at me, and for a moment I’m convinced that she knows. There’s a terrible taste in my mouth that I just can’t get rid of. The nausea rises up through my throat once more and I head for the toilets, doing my absolute best to appear calm. As soon as I’m inside, I burst through a cubicle, flush the toilet and lean my head over the bowl just in time, hoping that nobody will hear me. It’s just bile, I haven’t eaten anything. I wonder if it’s nerves or guilt or both. Either way I need to fix myself and fast, I don’t have time for this. I hear Jo’s voice outside the door. She thinks I should pop to the chemist before we go on air, there’s one not far from our building. I think she’s right. I wait a while, to be sure that it’s over, then I open the door and wash my hands, relieved to see that I’m alone again.