Sometimes I Lie

I get off the train and make my way along the quiet, suburban streets towards home and Paul. I’m still not convinced anything can be done to save my job, but maybe this will at least buy me enough time to do what I need to do. I won’t tell him. Not yet. I might never need to.

It wouldn’t be the first job that I’ve lost since we’ve been together. My career as a TV reporter came to an abrupt end two years ago when my editor got a bit too friendly once too often. He had a rather hands-on approach. One evening his hand slipped right up under my skirt and the next day someone keyed his BMW in the staff car park. He thought it was me and I never got on air again after that. I never got groped again either. I quit before he found an excuse to fire me and it was a relief to be honest, I hated being on TV. But Paul was devastated. He liked that version of me. He loved her. I got under his feet at home all the time. I wasn’t the woman he married. I was unemployed, I didn’t dress the same and I no longer had any stories to tell. Last year, at a wedding, the couple sat next to us asked what I did. Paul answered before I had a chance to. ‘Nothing.’ The somebody he loved became a nobody he loathed.

He said it made it hard for him to write, me being at home all the time. He had a fancy shed built at the bottom of the garden, so he could pretend that I wasn’t. Claire spotted the advert for the Coffee Morning job six months ago, she sent me the link and suggested I apply. I didn’t think I’d get it, but I did.

I stumble up the garden path and feel inside my handbag for my key. I’m puzzled by the sound of music and laughter inside the house. Paul is not alone. I remember that I tried calling him this afternoon but he never answered and didn’t bother to call me back. My hands shake a little as I open the front door.

They are sitting on the sofa laughing, Paul in his usual seat, Claire in mine. An almost empty bottle of wine and two glasses pose for a tedious still life on the table in front of them.

She doesn’t even like red.

They look a little shocked to see me and I feel like an intruder in my own home.

‘Hello, Sis. How are you?’ says Claire, getting up to kiss me on both cheeks. Her designer skinny jeans look as though they’ve been sprayed on, petite pedicured feet protruding beneath them. Her tight, white top reveals a little more than it should as she stands up. I don’t remember seeing it before, must be new. She dresses as though we are still young, as though men still look at us that way. If they do, I don’t see them. Her long blonde hair has been straightened within an inch of its life and is tucked behind her ears as though she is wearing an invisible Alice band. Everything about her appearance is neat, tidy, controlled. We couldn’t look more different. She stands too close, waiting for me to say something. Her perfume infiltrates my nostrils, my throat, I can taste it on my tongue. Familiar but dangerous. Sickly sweet.

‘I thought you were going out after work tonight?’ says Paul from his seat.

His eyes narrow slightly at the sight of my shopping bags, some new outfits folded neatly in a cradle of tissue paper inside. I silently dare him to say something. It’s my money, I earned it. I’ll spend it on what I like. I put the bags down, noticing the deep red grooves the plastic handles have carved into my fingers.

‘Something came up,’ I say in Paul’s direction, before turning to Claire: ‘I didn’t know you were coming round. Is everything all right?’ I know what’s going on here.

‘Everything’s fine, David is working late, again. I came over to see you for a girly chat, but I forgot that unlike me you have a social life.’

She’s trying too hard, her smile looks like it’s hurting her face.

‘Where are the children?’ I ask. Her smile fades.

‘With a neighbour, they’re fine. I wouldn’t leave them with anyone unreliable.’ She turns to Paul, but he just stares at the floor. Her lips are stained from the wine and her cheeks a little flushed; she has never been able to handle her drink. I see it then, the look in her eyes; that flash of danger that I’ve seen before. She knows I’ve spotted it and that I haven’t forgotten what it means. ‘I should go, it’s later than I thought,’ she says.

‘I’d invite you to stay, but I need to talk to my husband.’ I meant to say Paul, but my subconscious deemed it necessary to change the script.

‘Of course. Well, I’ll see you both soon. Hope everything is OK at work,’ she says, picking up her coat and bag, leaving her half-drunk glass of wine on the table. As soon as the door closes, I am overwhelmed with regret. I know I should go after her, apologise, so she knows I still love her, that we’re OK. But I don’t.

‘Well, that was awkward,’ says Paul.

I don’t respond, don’t even look at him. Instead, I double-lock the front door without thinking then pick up Claire’s glass and walk out to the kitchen. He follows me and stands in the doorway as I tip the crimson liquid into the sink. Dark red splashes stain the white porcelain and I turn on the tap to wash them away.

‘Yes, it was a little strange coming home to find my husband and sister enjoying a cosy night in together.’ The memory of the wine I drank myself earlier slurs my words a little. I can see from Paul’s expression that he thinks I’m being ridiculous, or jealous, or both. It isn’t that. I’m scared of what this means, finding them like this. I’m pretty sure she knew I wouldn’t be here and she’d offloaded the kids, so she’d planned it. I can’t explain it to him, he wouldn’t believe me, he doesn’t know her like I do or understand what she’s capable of.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I meant you, just telling her to leave like that. She came round here to see you, she’s feeling really down.’

‘Well, maybe she should phone first if she really wants to see me.’

‘She said she did, several times. You didn’t return any of her calls.’ I remember that Claire did call today, twice. The first time during my chat with Matthew, as though she had known something was wrong. I turn to face Paul but the words won’t come. Everything about him in this moment seems to irritate me. He’s still an attractive man but elements of the life he has chosen have left him worn and used, like a shiny piece of silver that becomes dull and tarnished over time. He’s too thin, his skin looks like it has forgotten the sun, and his hair is too long for a man his age, but then he never did grow up. I can see from the set of his jaw that he’s angry with me and for some reason that turns me on. We haven’t had sex for months, not since our anniversary. Maybe that’s how it will be from now on, an annual treat.

I turn to face the oven, my fingers forming the familiar shapes. I didn’t used to do this in front of him, but I don’t care any more.

‘Did something happen at work today?’ he asks.

I don’t reply.

‘I don’t know why you stay there.’

‘Because I need to.’

‘Why? We don’t need the money. You could try and get a job in TV again.’

A layer of silence spreads itself over the conversation, smothering the words we always think but never say. Radio killed his TV star. I continue to stare at the oven and start to count under my breath.