After the Lie: A gripping novel about love, loss and family secrets (11 page)

M
ark had insisted
on phoning my parents and inviting them for Sunday lunch. ‘Let’s celebrate the good times. I am so proud. When the pictures come out in
Surrey Life
, I’m going to put them in the shop window.’

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘I’m not anything to do with the kitchen shop.’

Mark sighed. ‘No harm in being associated with success.’

The children clustered round my dad, cupboard-loving for surplus pound coins and his bag of pear drops. Mabel took the opportunity to race out into the garden and do a welcome lap of honour. My mother bustled in, complaining about how cold it had been in church. Mabel charged back in, immediately wiping her muddy snout, fresh from digging up my tulip bulbs, across my mother’s skirt.

‘Go away! Naughty dog!’

Before I had a dog, I didn’t understand that hearing your dog receive a harsh telling-off rankled nearly as much as other people scolding your children. My mother ran to the sink and started scrubbing at her skirt. ‘Put that dog away. We don’t want her slobbering round us while we have lunch.’

Izzy sent her grandma a look of distilled hate. ‘She’ll settle down in a minute. If we shut her up, she’ll just bark.’

‘I don’t know why you weren’t stricter with that dog from the beginning. You should have shown her who is boss,’ my mother said, grabbing Mabel by the collar and dragging her towards the utility room. Mabel tried to wriggle free. She did a high-pitched woof at the back of her throat. Then unmistakably, she growled. Before I could react, my mother belted her. Mabel shot off into her basket in the utility room, a vision of dejected misery.

My mother smiled around at us, as though she’d demonstrated the lesson we’d needed to learn in a timely and succinct fashion. Izzy looked like lava was about to spurt out of her.

I ushered everyone through to the dining room. ‘Mark, you sort everyone out with a drink, Izzy, you come and fetch the plates.’

‘I hate grandma,’ she hissed at me.

‘Sshhhh. I know. Let’s try and have a nice lunch.’

Izzy snatched up the plates, muttering, ‘I’m not bloody sitting next to her.’ I’d never have dared swear in front of my parents. A bit more ‘shit, bugger, bastard’ might have stopped me going for the ‘smile for the birdy’ option though, so I didn’t bother to tell her off.

My dad wandered through. ‘Well done, darling. I am so proud of you. I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see you make a success of your life.’

I swallowed. Just that morning, I’d hidden in the bathroom responding to Tomaso’s texts. I’d answered ‘Never’ to his final question of ‘When can I see you?’ but my brain wasn’t satisfied, gnawing away for a different reply.

Everything about me felt rotten to the core. If I got run over, I was pretty sure my insides would smell like rancid courgettes festering in the bottom of the fridge. I forced a smile.

‘You okay, pet?’

I leaned into him. ‘I’m just a bit frazzled at the moment.’

He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘I hope you’re not working too hard. Take yourself off for a few days. You’ve always been the same – whatever you put your mind to, bringing up your kids, setting up the business, one hundred and ten per cent. You need a bit of a break.’

I didn’t deserve Dad’s praise. For a fraction of a second, I considered telling him about Sean reappearing. I was convinced he was stronger than my mother claimed but she was so adamant that he would go into a decline if I ever brought up ‘that whole to-do’ again.

With my head on Dad’s shoulder, I felt as bewildered as I had at thirteen. This time I really was old enough to know better. Even before Tomaso, I had to weigh up who knew what and which story I was presenting before I could open my mouth. It was like forcing my life through a filter, with great chunks of unpalatable reality catching in the bottom so that the pure version of a life well-lived dripped out into the world beyond.

‘You can talk to me, you know.’

I pulled away. I wished I could. But my mother’s catchphrase of ‘Don’t bother your dad with that, just in case…’ was second nature now.

‘Thanks, Dad. I’m all over the place at the moment.’ I rubbed my hands over my face. ‘Just pass me that bowl for the Yorkshires.’

Dad stood for a second, opened his mouth to speak, then did as I asked. I dug out my strong voice. ‘Take the carving knife through to Mark, will you?’

My mother was serving out the roast potatoes with precision division. ‘Jamie, pass your plate for some Brussels.’

‘No thanks.’

My mother acted as though she hadn’t heard and held out her hand.

‘I don’t like them.’

‘Don’t be silly. They’re a fabulous source of vitamin C.’

‘I’ll eat an orange afterwards.’

My mother puffed up like a toad in danger. She turned to me. ‘Lydia. Are you going to tell this boy to do as he’s told?’

‘Jamie, just have a couple.’ I hated the beseeching tone that had crept in to my voice.

‘Mum, Brussels give you terrible wind. I’ve got to go to training later. I can’t be f—, er, parping on the pitch.’ My mother did a theatrical wince. Mabel chose that moment to start barking and whining.

My dad, as usual, tried to lighten the mood. ‘Lovely piece of beef, Lyddie. Which butcher’s did you use?’

Dad’s kindness made me want to cry all over again. ‘I went to Browns.’

My mother sat flaring her nostrils. ‘I always find them so pricey. They even charge for bones to boil up for stock.’

Mark, who usually left it to me to deal with my mother, found his voice. ‘We wanted a little splash-out today because we’re celebrating Lydia’s success. We’re all really proud of her, aren’t we, kids?’

My mother managed a nose wrinkle at the word ‘kids’. Izzy uttered a defiant ‘Yep!’, whereas Jamie was obviously far too mired in thinking up ways to organise a long painful death for my mother to join in any conversation. ‘Plus, I’ve had some fantastic orders for kitchens, so things are looking up financially.’

Dad smiled. ‘Brilliant. What’s caused the rush on kitchens? Economy on the turn? Or marketing paying off?’

My mother looked over at me. I froze, fork in hand.

Mark took a sip of wine. ‘There’s a bloke at the kids’ school who’s refurbishing a few houses and he wants high-quality kitchens. His daughter is in Jamie’s class and we went over to dinner there the other week. They live over on that new Latimer development, a guy called…’

I almost shouted. ‘All right, Dad doesn’t need every last detail. You’ve got a bloke buying three kitchens. End of story.’

Mark looked hurt. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be boring.’

‘I did ask the question,’ Dad said.

‘Sorry, maybe we’ve just been talking about the business a bit too much lately. Anyway, did you see anyone you knew at church this morning?’ I wasn’t too proud to fall on religion in times of need.

I pushed my food around my plate while my parents talked us through the gruesome details of the demise of half of the congregation until I thought my head would implode. Jamie had his elbows on the table, shovelling in food like a digger dredging for clay. Izzy was mouthing, ‘Can I let the dog out?’ as Mabel’s whining became more high-pitched.

I nodded. ‘Keep her in the kitchen though.’

I got up to fetch the crumble, massaging my neck muscles as I went. My handbag was next to the fridge. My mobile was in there, as enticing as chocolate cake to a dieter. I glanced into the dining room then whipped it out of the side pocket. My heart lifted when I saw the message:

I grabbed the cream out of the fridge. I couldn’t let myself go down that route. I mustn’t let my one-off mistake become a habit. I was just deleting the message when a huge scream rang out in the dining room.

‘For goodness sake! You filthy beast.’ My mother was on her feet, looking as though a naked man had burst into the room and waved his willy at her. I peered at her legs to see if the dog had laddered her tights.

Then I saw it. The trail of diarrhoea splodged over the cream carpet like brown mini-meringues. Thankfully, the saint of incontinent dogs was lacking in my mother’s repertoire. Mark was making faces and gagging sounds but not actually moving a muscle to help. Jamie was screaming with laughter and banging the table in merriment.

On the way to gather up the cleaning gear, I found my mother’s best gloves, her ‘church’ gloves, on the floor of the utility room. The right one was minus the middle finger. Highly appropriate. Mabel had an uncanny talent for turning difficult situations into out-and-out disasters.

I prepared myself for a good twenty minutes’ drama when I would have to say, ‘I didn’t see you bring your gloves in. Did you leave them in church?’

I flipped up the bin lid, tossed in the gloves and texted Tomaso.

T
he second I
walked downstairs that morning, Izzy sniffed the air like Mabel scenting a squirrel.

‘You smell nice, Mum. Is it the body lotion Dad bought you?’

I engrossed myself in whisking the pancakes for breakfast. ‘Well done, Inspector Clouseau. My skin’s a bit dry.’

I glanced at Mark. He was lost in
Designer Kitchen and Bathroom
magazine, Shreddies and Monday morning gloom.

‘Can I put some on?’

‘Not now, we need to get going. Have you got your sports kit ready? Anyway, your pancake’s ready. Put some blueberries on it.’

‘I want golden syrup.’

‘Blueberries.’ It suddenly seemed essential to achieve a superfood triumph, as though it would atone for today’s outing. At my current rate of sinning, the kids would be on black bean brownies and beetroot cake forever.

I had planned this. Sat down and deliberately thought out where I could go to avoid being seen. Vastly different from bumping into Tomaso at an events do. Premeditated. On the angelic side, I’d chosen a café so it was difficult to see how it could escalate into bed this time. This time. Christ.

I planted a kiss on Jamie’s head. Through a mouthful of pancake, he said, ‘Get off,’ then started patting his hair as though I’d disturbed the carefully arranged strands.

I ran back upstairs and finished my make-up. Mark came in, asking for socks.

‘They’re in the airing cupboard.’ When I got back tonight, I would pair them all up. Every single one of them. Traitorous wife penance.

I gave him a hug. ‘I’m off, then. Don’t know how long it will take me to get to Guildford at this time of day. Bound to be a complete waste of time as the bride is bringing the man as well. In my experience, the bloke never wants to spend the money.’ I needed to shut up. I couldn’t believe that I was actually laying the ground for being seen with a man. I could imagine myself waving away the mention of it.
It turned out the groom was more interested than the bride. She kept disappearing off to make phone calls…

Mark tucked his shirt into his trousers. ‘You never know. You’ve got to throw a bit of bread on the water and see what bites.’

‘You sound like Sean bloody McAllister.’

‘What is it with you and that man?’ Mark banged the wardrobe open.

I snatched up my handbag. ‘I’ve got to go.’

Coffee, I’d said. Coffee couldn’t go wrong. I’d just see him and then that would be it. Make sure that he realised that I couldn’t get involved.

I’d picked Pret. Nowhere snuggly or suggestive. Just sushi and Swedish meatballs. I was early, but Tomaso was earlier. A big bolt of shyness coursed through me as he stood up. He was wearing a blue open-necked shirt that matched his eyes. He kissed me on both cheeks, a waft of something gorgeous reaching me. And making me not want to let go.

‘Lydia. Great to see you. I ordered you a very specific Americano with soya milk.’

‘Thank you.’

I must have looked surprised.

‘It’s what you ordered at the dinner.’

Mark still asked me if I wanted tea most mornings, which I hadn’t drunk since I was pregnant with Izzy.

‘How have you been?’

‘Fine. How about you?’

I couldn’t take my eyes off his mouth. That perfect mouth, which knew how to do such perfect things. He had one canine turned at a slight angle. With his bedhead hair, it gave him the air of a posh ruffian.

Tomaso smiled. ‘Fair to say I don’t know much about the working of a woman’s mind but I think even my Neanderthal brain recognises “fine” as code for something else.’

‘Honestly, it’s not code. I am fine,’ I said, ignoring a strong urge to cry.

Tomaso leaned forward. ‘How did you get on going home, after, er, the awards ceremony?’

I rarely gave a straight-from-the heart answer. I usually formulated the ‘correct’ response rather than a spontaneous reply. Tomaso had a way of pushing the override button on that particular character trait.

I hurled it all out there, my guilt at having sex with him – though I called it ‘sleeping’ with him. My fear that my carefully constructed life was about to blow apart like the proverbial straw house. My hopelessness, my fury at my mother for behaving like such a cow and at myself for letting her get away with it. I didn’t mention Mark once.

Tomaso didn’t say much. Halfway through, when the genie was not only liberated but swooping between the skinny cappuccinos and Earl Greys, his foot nudged mine. Hard to believe how sexy the simple pressure of shoe against shoe could be. In between rafts of truths that I struggled to recognise after living a lie for so long, I had moments of thinking:
Christ, there he was imagining he’d met a no-strings shag.

I ground to a halt. ‘Sorry. I don’t suppose this is what you envisaged.’

‘I didn’t envisage anything. I just wanted to see you.’

Tomaso spooned the froth out of the bottom of his coffee cup. ‘For what it’s worth – and speaking as an execrable parent myself – the person who let everyone down was your mother. You were a child. Yes, you made a mistake, but she should have offered you a path out, not trapped you in a quagmire of recrimination.’

I fidgeted in my chair. ‘Do you really think so? I’ve taken it for granted that feeling guilty for the rest of my life was just the price I had to pay.’

‘Put it this way. If Jamie messed up – say, accidentally ran someone over when he’d first learnt to drive – you would try your best to help him move on from that, not remind him about it every day for the rest of his life.’

I shrank away from the thought, while recognising the accuracy of Tomaso’s statement. There was no way, whatever Jamie or Izzy did, that I would want their guilt about the past to prevent them embracing the future.

The waitress collected our cups. I didn’t want to go.

‘Shall we walk along the river?’ Tomaso asked.

I couldn’t pretend he was a groom if we were walking along the river. But I couldn’t leave now. It was as though I’d been opened up on the operating table and the guy with the needle had gone on a tea break while my heart was spurting into the ether.

I put on my coat. Once we were out, there was no pretence. Movement made our conversation less intense but our bodies more so. We walked, our coat sleeves brushing against each other. Tomaso told me about his latest hotel inspection where the chef kept a box of condoms in the spice cupboard and I realised with regret that laughing had become something I’d grown out of, a bit like listening to Radio 1. The drizzle was turning my hair into an old-fashioned mop but I was too embarrassed to put up my hood in case I rocked my inner gnome.

When we reached the railway arch, Tomaso stopped. He took my hands in his. ‘You’re cold.’

I didn’t want him to suggest going home. ‘I’m okay, I always have cold hands.’

‘Can I warm you up?’ He pulled me to him. That kiss blanked out everything. I was vaguely aware of a train rattling overhead, as Tomaso’s kisses moved from gentle and delicate to hungry and urgent. I couldn’t remember feeling desired this much, ever. I was leaning against the railway bridge, the damp cold against my back a direct contrast to the heat between us. Through my thick coat, I could feel the pressure of Tomaso’s body and I longed to feel skin on skin.

Tomaso broke away, breathing out. He took my face between his hands. ‘Did it feel funny going back to your husband?’

I closed my eyes, then stared directly at him, defying him to ask anything else. ‘Yes.’

I’d let Mark down. Let the children down. I wasn’t going to compound it by discussing Mark with, who? His rival? No. Not his rival. Tomaso could never be part of my life. He would never love the children like Mark did, would never understand my role in the whole family dynamic.

‘Lydia, I don’t want to be nosy…’

‘Don’t be, then.’

He ignored me. ‘Do you love him?’ His fingers were twisting a lock of hair on the back of my neck.

‘Yes. I do.’ The irony of my answer sat between us.

Tomaso leant forward to kiss me again, murmuring, ‘One hundred per cent?’ as his lips found mine.

‘Well?’

‘I don’t love anyone one hundred per cent.’

Frustration flashed across his face. ‘Are you capable of a straight answer? I’m not about to go and ring him up.’

‘It’s true. I keep enough back to survive if it all goes wrong.’

Tomaso had somehow made his way into my coat, caressing my breasts through my shirt. ‘So you could never love, flat-out, no holds barred?’

‘No.’

‘You heartbreaker.’

‘Just practical.’ I tried to silence him with a kiss.

He wasn’t going to let it drop that easily. ‘But wouldn’t you love to give up control, let someone else take the strain and know that they are going to catch you?’

‘Too late, Tomaso. I’ve lived the life I’ve lived. I don’t know how to exist any other way.’

I shivered.

Tomaso cuddled me close. ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Lydia. You do something to me. I don’t know what it is. On one level, you are so damn vulnerable, on another, it wouldn’t surprise me to see you on telly leading a revolution.’ He dropped his head and kissed my neck.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman cycling towards us. I pulled back, turning away to conceal my face. As she cycled past, her face impassive, I felt a fresh wave of embarrassment. Groping under the railway arches, on the wrong side of forty, with a man over a decade younger, who was not my husband.

Sordid. Far, far worse than Jamie. Do as I say with whistles and pompoms on it. I hoped he’d never discover my hypocrisy.

As much as I tried to smother that thought, I couldn’t. ‘I’d better go.’

Tomaso groaned. ‘I’d love to see you again. We don’t have to do this,’ he said, his tongue finding mine and managing that clever trick of tightening every nerve ending from my breasts to my pelvis. He broke off. ‘We can just be friends. You can have the luxury of knowing that I’m here, delighted to see you for an Americano with a drop of soya milk but equally delighted to have lots of lovely sex with you, should the occasion arise.’

That Italian cheek was so appealing. Mark and I never spoke to each other in such an honest way. By the time we met, I was like a cat burying bad feelings in a litter tray and hoping mind-reading would take care of the rest.

I laughed. ‘Tomaso, I don’t think we can be just friends.’

‘Great. I’d prefer to be having sex with you as well.’

We walked back towards the town centre. Now there was no physical contact between us, my body was squealing out for his touch.

As we got to the steps that would take us back to the main street, our pace slowed. He glanced round and gave me a final kiss, so intense that I knew I would feel the sweet pressure of his mouth all the way home.

I could see how teenagers made mistakes. So hard to tell your body that something is wrong when the brain feels so deliriously happy doing it.

‘I’ll see you again soon, then.’

I gave him a little push. ‘I can’t. You know that.’

‘I think you will.’ He sounded cocky, but his eyes were kind.

I wondered if he was right.