Her Perfect Lies (ARC) Read online

  ‘Paul tells you correctly. I travel the world taking pictures of wild animals. It’s the best job in the world.’

  ‘It sounds incredible. But you must be away a lot. Does Greg come with you?’

  A shadow crossed Maggie’s face. ‘He can’t take the time off. You know what doctors are like. So I’m trying to cut down on travelling. Do more work locally.’

  ‘Are there many wild animals to photograph here in London?’

  ‘Not as many as I’d like. Instead I take family portraits, do a wedding every few weeks. It keeps me busy.’ Maggie sounded like a caged animal herself.

  ‘I’d love to see some of your work.’

  ‘I bought your latest African coffee table book,’ said Paul, interrupting the animated discussion he was having with Greg about the latest advances in open heart surgery he had learnt about at a conference in Vienna.

  ‘I’m glad someone has,’ said Maggie.

  ‘More juice, darling?’ asked Paul, turning to Claire. He was the perfect husband, kind and attentive. His arm was draped around the back of her chair and a smile never left his face. He was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance for the sake of his friends. Claire wanted to scream.

  ‘This lasagne is gorgeous,’ said Greg. ‘Did you make it yourself?’

  ‘Our housekeeper did.’ She fought a sudden impulse to apologise for not having prepared the food herself. Would the old Claire feel this way? Somehow she doubted it.

  ‘Finding a good housekeeper is an art,’ said Maggie. ‘And I should know, I’ve fired two of them in the last six months.’

  ‘Finding them is easy. It’s keeping them you seem to have a problem with.’ Greg turned away from his wife and towards Claire. ‘She’s fired the last one for wanting to take Easter off to spend with her grandchildren. And the one before for being too young and wearing a short skirt around the house.’

  ‘I bet you wanted to keep that one.’ Maggie stared into her lasagne with a face like a sour grape.

  ‘She was good at her job.’

  ‘What job are you referring to exactly?’ She flashed a killer look at her husband as ‘Killer Queen’ blasted from the loudspeakers.

  ‘So, Maggie, out of all the places you’ve been to, which was your favourite?’ asked Paul, clearing his throat and refilling everyone’s glasses.

  ‘Definitely Australia. It’s a fairy-tale land if there ever was one. So much beauty everywhere you look, a photographer’s paradise. I think I left my heart in Australia and I’m planning to return one day to find it.’

  ‘Did you know Australia is home to the most venomous snake in the world?’ asked Greg. ‘The inland taipan. Its bite can kill eighty people.’ He said it with wonder, as if he longed to get bitten by an island taipan.

  ‘That’s why I’d never go,’ said Paul. ‘Everything on the continent is out to kill you. The sharks, the snakes, the spiders. I’m happy in the safety of my home in London, thank you very much.’

  ‘Most Australian flora and fauna is unique. It can’t be found anywhere else in the world. Isn’t it fascinating?’ said Maggie.

  ‘I’d move there in a flash,’ said Greg, ‘if it wasn’t for our elderly parents. Just imagine the expanse, the wilderness. For thousands of miles, there’s nothing.’

  ‘You say it like it’s a good thing,’ said Paul with a smile. ‘Why would I travel all that way to see nothing?’

  ‘You’ve been to Australia, Claire. What did you make of it?’ asked Greg.

  ‘Have I?’ With three pairs of eyes staring at her, Claire wished she was invisible. She didn’t want to make small talk, answer pointless questions, smile to people she felt she’d never seen before. What she wanted was to speak to her mother. She had tried her number time and time again over the last couple of days but Angela never answered.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ Greg looked mortified. ‘I completely forgot. Of course you wouldn’t remember.’

  ‘Trust my husband to put his foot in it,’ muttered Maggie.

  ‘You went with your ballet company last year,’ Paul said to Claire. ‘You said it was the most beautiful place in the world.’

  ‘Have you thought of going back to work?’ asked Maggie. ‘I popped in yesterday with some proofs of the last performance and everyone was talking about you.’

  Claire stared right at Paul and said, ‘Soon, I hope. I get bored sitting around the house all day.’

  If Paul understood the anger behind her glance, he didn’t let up. Averting his gaze, he stood up. ‘Everyone ready for dessert? Nina makes the best cheesecake in London.’

  The guests nodded happily and Claire jumped up, almost knocking her chair over, eager to escape to the safety of the kitchen where she could be herself, where she could let down the mask and no one would see.

  ‘No, stay here, talk to Maggie. You’ve done enough. Greg and I will bring the cake,’ said Paul. Claire sat back down, shaking.

  Paul and Greg disappeared into the kitchen, and Claire was left alone with Maggie, who chatted excitedly about people Claire didn’t remember. After five excruciating minutes she got up and said, ‘I’ll just go and check if the men need any help.’

  On the way to the kitchen, she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. Locking herself in the bathroom and trying to stop her hands from shaking, she reached for it. It was Gaby, wanting to know how it was going. Assuring her everything was fine, Claire said goodbye and then dialled her mother’s number, listening to the long signals.

  She wished she could stay hidden away in the bathroom forever. But the Peters were waiting, expecting nothing less than a flawless pretence from Claire, just like the two of them were pretending they had a perfect marriage, like Paul was pretending he had a perfect marriage. Claire splashed some water on her face and made her way back to the dining room, like she was walking a tightrope, tense and trembling, her fake smile firmly in place.

  Soon the dessert was gone, and so was the coffee. One bottle of wine turned into two, then three. The news came on TV and the dark living room lit up with mute images. Greg mentioned how attractive the female news presenter was, while Maggie turned away in disgust. Claire remained mute like the TV, sipping her juice and nodding in all the right places, like a puppet following other people’s lead. What was everyone talking about? She had no idea. All she could think of was her father alone in the hospital. All she could hear was her husband’s voice when he demanded she take her meds in front of him. It was after midnight already. What time did these things usually finish?

  When the couple finally left, she gathered the plates and the glasses, carrying them to the kitchen sink. Her headache was back, and she felt dizzy as if she hadn’t slept in days.

  ‘Leave it, Nina will clean up in the morning,’ Paul told her.

  But she couldn’t leave it for Nina to clean – even though she suspected it was exactly what the old Claire would have done.

  Soon she was ready for bed, out of the Gucci and into her favourite comfy pyjamas. She could hear Paul in his room, talking on his phone (at midnight?), turning the light on, pacing. She crossed the corridor and stood in the doorway to his bedroom, suddenly nervous. Paul was still wearing his shirt. His tie was loose around his neck. His shoes were off, his hair messy. ‘Paul? Can I ask you something?’

  He looked up expectantly but didn’t say a word.

  ‘I wanted Nina to drive me to the ballet studio today but she refused.’

  He didn’t seem fazed by that. Like his keeping her as a prisoner in the house was nothing out of the ordinary. ‘I asked her not to take you. I don’t think you are ready.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be up to me?’

  ‘Clearly not. All I want is for you to get better. The doctor said to take things slowly. And that’s what you will do, whether you like it or not.’

  Back in her room, she slid to the floor and slumped against the wall, her head resting against it. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird against its cage. She could hardly breathe. Was she having anoth
er panic attack? But no, she was not going to scream. She didn’t want to give Paul the satisfaction. The last thing she wanted was to prove him right and show him that she wasn’t well enough to make decisions for herself. She wondered how her father was doing in the hospital, whether he felt like her, sad and alone. She reached for her phone. She needed his voice to pull her away from the abyss, to remind her she was not alone.

  And then she noticed that her phone was blinking. She had a new voicemail message.

  ‘Claire, this is Mum. How are you, darling girl? Daddy told me what happened. I’m frantic with worry. I will call you again tomorrow.’

  Chapter 5

  In the middle of the night Claire woke up screaming. Shaking and in tears, she shot up in bed. Her right hand throbbed like it had been caught inside a mouse trap. She must have hit it on her bedside table. Dark shadows danced a terrifying tango around her, and suddenly the walls came alive, threatening to swallow her. There were blotches of light, too, appearing as if out of nowhere only to disappear a few seconds later. Her voice died down to a whisper and in silence she sank back into her pillows.

  Suddenly she was in Paul’s arms, and he held her close, whispering, ‘It was just a bad dream. It’s alright, just a bad dream.’ He switched on the little lamp on her bedside table, peering into her face. She recoiled from the light, whimpering like a frightened animal. ‘Look at you, you’re terrified. It’s okay, you’re safe now, nothing to worry about.’ His pyjamas were on inside out, as if he had pulled them on in a hurry.

  She flinched away from him and he let go of her, retreating to the edge of the bed. Relaxing into her pillows, she wanted nothing more than to believe that everything was fine, that it was only a dream, to feel safe again and to forget her fear. But it was impossible – the dream lingered at the back of her mind like a ghost. It felt so real, this nightmare, as if it wasn’t a dream at all but a terrifying memory.

  ‘Do you remember what you dreamt of?’ Paul asked and she shook her head. But as if through a mist, she could still see it – an angry man, her alarmed anxiety, a sudden violence. If she closed her eyes, she felt she could reach out and touch her vision.

  She didn’t want to talk about her dream, didn’t want to ever think of it again. She asked, ‘Tell me about my mother. What is she like?’

  ‘She’s the kindest person I’ve ever met.’

  ‘That’s what everyone says.’

  ‘That’s because she’s wonderful to everyone around. She has respect for everybody.’

  ‘What did she do? For work, I mean.’

  ‘Many years ago she was a music teacher. She didn’t need the money. I think she donated everything she made and more. But she’s passionate about her music and she loves children.’

  A music teacher! That explained Claire’s ability to play the piano like it was second nature, without a conscious effort on her part. ‘Was a music teacher? What about now?’

  ‘She doesn’t really do anything anymore. Just stays at home. She always looks so sad when I see her, like she’s got a huge weight on her shoulders.’

  ‘Tell me something about her. A memory that stands out.’

  ‘She taught me how to dance.’

  ‘She did?’

  He nodded. ‘I was so nervous about our first dance as husband and wife. I’d never danced in my life and here I was, about to do it with a professional ballerina. What would people think when I stepped on both your feet? Your mother taught me how to foxtrot. She said it was the easiest sequence of steps you could ever learn. If you can walk, you can foxtrot, she told me. And our first dance was beautiful. My sister said we looked like Beauty and the beast on the dance floor.’

  Through her tears Claire smiled. ‘That’s a beautiful memory. So you had a good relationship with my mother?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘You didn’t argue?’

  ‘Your mum has never argued with a living soul.’

  She watched him intently, trying to read the expression on his face. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, large, tall, his hair wild. His smile never faltered and his eyes never looked away. He sounded absolutely sure of what he was saying and she wanted desperately to believe him. She would have, if only Nina didn’t sound absolutely sure of what she had said, too.

  ‘I didn’t have time to tell you earlier but I spoke to your father’s doctor today. They can’t keep him in hospital any longer. There’s nothing else they can do for him. He suggested facilities—’

  ‘Facilities?’

  ‘He’ll need professional care for the rest of his life.’

  ‘We could hire someone. Have him live with us,’ she suggested, her heart filling with hope. She would give anything to have her father home. If Tony was here, this desperate dark hole inside her would disappear. Her father would fill it with love and laughter. She would never feel alone again.

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘Absolutely. The thought of him all by himself in that hospital room … It breaks my heart.’

  ‘I’ll start looking for a nurse.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, grateful and a little less afraid.

  * * *

  The next morning, the nightmare still haunted Claire. Even though her beautiful house was filled with sunlight, all she could see were shadows. Slowly she creeped from her bedroom to the shower and back, her head low, her eyes down, petrified of things she couldn’t remember or understand. Her hands trembled, her palms were sweaty, and every sharp sound startled her, even the peaceful noises of playing children in the park. She needed to hear the voice of one person who loved her unconditionally. She called her father.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Of course not. You and I are early risers. It’s your mother who likes to sleep in. I bet you’ve been up for hours.’

  ‘You bet wrong. I’ve been asleep until half an hour ago. What are you up to today? Still playing chess?’

  ‘Reading. I’ve finished the book you brought.’

  She thought of the large volume she had left at the hospital only yesterday. ‘Were you up all night reading?’

  ‘It made a nice change from being up all night staring at the ceiling. Bring me something else to read.’

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I was thinking the Bible.’

  ‘Won’t the hospital have a copy?’

  ‘I don’t want just any copy. You borrowed your mother’s Bible a couple of years ago. See if you can find it for me. It’s a very special book.’

  ‘I’ll have a look. What’s for breakfast today?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘More gruel? Well, you won’t have to eat gruel for much longer. We’re bringing you home, Dad.’ She wished she was there to see his face. Maybe she should have waited to give him the news in person. But she didn’t want him to go on one minute longer than necessary thinking he was in the hospital to stay.

  His voice broke when he said, ‘You are?’

  ‘Of course we are. Paul and I will look after you. You don’t have to worry about anything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. He sounded like he was about to cry.

  Fighting her own tears, she said, ‘We’ll come and visit you later today, okay, Dad?’

  She was ready to hang up when she heard, ‘Claire?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t worry about the Bible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All my prayers have already been answered.’

  Claire had been right – hearing her father’s voice was the best medicine. It was as if he was here, next to her, ready to protect her from anything, even the horror of her dream. But once he was gone, so was the illusion of safety. The house was filled with terror. Everywhere she turned, it was waiting for her. In the kitchen where she tried to eat but couldn’t. In the living room where the TV was on but its sound scared her. Even in the studio, where she played the piano but the music she produced was sinister and heavy to her ears. She couldn’t stay
in this house, walking from room to room aimlessly, afraid to sit still, so she threw on a jacket and a scarf, put her shoes on, grabbed her keys, made sure Nina wasn’t there to stop her and ran out of the door.

  Although it was cloudy and wet, the daylight blinded her and the sounds startled her. She realised she had never been outside alone. Not that she could remember, anyway. Overwhelmed for a moment, she stood still, taking in the noise, the rush hour traffic, the buses slowly peeling off the curb and the motorcycles racing past. It was like a different universe, moving to its own mad tempo, with people brushing past, cars honking, shop signs flashing. Before she could change her mind, she started jogging down the street, as if running away from something. As she ran, darting in and out of the crowd, narrowly avoiding bumping into people, she forced herself to read every street sign she could see. If she could fill her head with nonsense, she would have no space for feeling. And that was what she wanted most of all. Not to feel.

  There was a Waitrose and a chemist, and next to it was a jeweller, and next to the jeweller was a bakery. Beside the bakery was a psychologist’s office. As soon as she saw it, Claire slowed down and came to a complete stop. Dr Matilda Brown, she read. Hypnosis, hypnotherapy, regression therapy. The woman on the sign was smiling invitingly. Come in, she seemed to say, and I’ll solve all your problems. Wouldn’t that be nice, to have all her problems solved at once? Claire hesitated only for a second before pushing the door open.

  A world that was a far cry from the grey outdoors greeted her in Dr Matilda’s reception room. It was almost unbearably warm. Claire found herself undoing her scarf and unbuttoning her jacket. A thick smell of incense tickled her nose until she sneezed. The incense sticks were artfully arranged in a vase on the floor.

  ‘Can I help you?’ came a disembodied voice from behind the curtain.

  Claire strained her neck to see the person talking. Seconds later the beads parted and a small woman emerged. Claire recognised her as the therapist from the sign. Before her courage left her completely, she said, ‘I’m here to see Dr Brown.’