The Truth

by Naomi Joy

  His girlfriend observed me for a moment, then turned sharply to whisper something to her brunette friend, stopping abruptly when Anthony regained his voice.

  ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. This is the first in a series of talks I’ll be giving on the Roman Cult of Mithras, a little known people who worshipped a bull-slaying God in dark, underground temples.’

  I sucked in a breath through my nose, raised my hand to my heart and touched it, as if to reassure myself: everything’s OK, just a false alarm. Nothing had changed, nothing tectonic had shifted.

  *

  ‘Emelia, I’m so glad you could make it!’ Anthony sought me out after the talk, finding me sat in the corner of the front row of seats trying not to get in the way. He’d been busy mingling with friends, colleagues and admirers since his lecture ended. I’d even noticed a huddle of people queuing at a nearby table to buy copies of Anthony’s books so I’d been waiting patiently, prepping for our interview, while he’d been signing autographs and talking to each person in line.

  Nerves flooded me as I watched him approach in my periphery, unsure for a moment whether to look directly at him as he neared, or to pretend I hadn’t seen him and act as though I’d spotted him at the last moment. I could even jump slightly. Oh! You gave me a fright!

  Wait. Why was I even thinking about this?

  Stage directing my movements wasn’t exactly resounding evidence that I was absolutely fine with Anthony Lyon’s relationship status. Snap out of it. I forced myself to look at him, gentle lines appearing on each of his cheeks as our eyes met. I stood up and felt a comforting palm on my waist as he leant in to greet me with a kiss on each cheek.

  ‘What did you think?’

  I traced my mind back to the mythical story behind the excavation: Mithras had killed a bull in a cave, met with the sun, shook the sun’s hand and, together, they’d dined on bull parts.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I stuttered, reaching for something to say that was light hearted, observant, just the right amount of funny. ‘Bullish.’

  I smiled, expecting a gentle laugh to come back my way but I’d reached too far, been too cryptic. My cheeks flushed.

  ‘You think I overstepped?’ he asked, taking me seriously.

  ‘No, I just – I was joking,’ I stammered. ‘Because of the bull thing…’ My sentence petered out just as we were interrupted.

  ‘Anthony,’ chided a voice I already knew belonged to the woman with swishy blonde hair and a fierce Roman nose. I fixed a smile on my face and turned towards her, noticing her friend’s arms were crossed tight to her waist. ‘We’re going to be late for dinner with Clara and Richard.’

  Anthony shot me an apologetic look, then turned away, putting a barrier between me and this woman. ‘Heather, I have an interview.’

  ‘Who with?’

  Heather deliberately didn’t meet my eye – because I couldn’t possibly be a journalist worthy of interviewing Anthony – her question a thinly veiled attempt to belittle me. I shuffled between the high-heeled boots I was wearing, over aware that my carefully curated outfit – sweeping, shin length camel coloured coat atop a sheer blouse and skinny black jeans – was somewhat inappropriate in present company. I felt guilty. I hadn’t known.

  Despite this, I decided to assert myself – I hadn’t done anything wrong – not keen to let Anthony answer Heather’s question for me, I took a step towards her. ‘The Tambridge Times, it’s a local in Kent. I’m the history and culture correspondent and the Mithras cult was found right in the middle of our community, hence…’

  Heather reluctantly batted spider-leg lashes in my direction, her tongue running along the top of her teeth, the bulge of it visible beneath her skin. Though I was certainly cooling towards her, part of me felt bad for Heather; clearly she was insecure about her relationship with Anthony and, obviously, I wasn’t helping things. Though, if it wasn’t me, I suspected her rage would be directed at someone similar. My mind traced back to her ‘leash’ comment from earlier.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ Anthony cut in. ‘Heather, Emelia. Emelia, Heather.’ He introduced us and I stretched a hand towards Heather. She shook it back, though her grip was limp and disrespectful. ‘Heather’s a dear old friend from university,’ Anthony added, to muted reception.

  Heather’s face coloured a shade darker, broken capillaries on the apples of her cheeks suddenly visible. Even I knew Anthony and Heather were more than friends. The tension between them neared breaking point.

  ‘We can do it over the phone, if it’s easier?’ I said to Anthony, hearing my turn of phrase back a little too late. Do it over the phone – Jesus – I’m making this worse. ‘The interview,’ I added, for clarity.

  ‘No, Emelia, you’ve come all this way and Heather, I’m sorry, I double-booked. You know I’m awful at keeping plans. You’ll have more fun without me, anyway.’

  No, she won’t.

  The terrible atmosphere hugged closer, the conversation claustrophobic, and I watched Heather’s hands shake as she felt Anthony’s rejection hit. I’d been there, I’d been that girl so many times. I wanted to disappear.

  ‘You know,’ she snarled, her stare on the floor, her hands locked tight to each other, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised by your behaviour, I really wouldn’t, if I was anyone else.’ Her eyelids flicked up. ‘But I’m not anyone else. This is me you’re speaking to, Anthony. Me. You can’t just blow me off, we’ve been friends for years. Do I really mean that little to you?’ She leant in towards him, nose first. ‘Do I?’

  ‘I think you’re taking this the wrong way…’ Anthony started, holding her arm and guiding her to the side of the room in an attempt to finish their unfinished business.

  The cross-armed brunette – who I deduced was Clara of ‘we’re going to be late to dinner with Clara and Richard’ fame – and I stood in tentative silence as a frank exchange of views broke out to our side.

  ‘You said you’d give us a chance,’ I heard Heather say, desperation dripping from her every word.

  The auditorium was still packed so, luckily, Anthony and Heather’s raised voices went unnoticed by most.

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry, but we’ve already been through this. We’re excellent as friends – the best – and I don’t want to lose that with you, it’s too precious.’

  I raised my eyebrows at Clara and her red lips pursed.

  ‘Wow,’ I mouthed, trying to defuse the tension. ‘Interviews with local historians are usually profoundly mundane affairs… but not this one.’

  Clara smiled back and drew closer. Though her arms were still crossed, she tilted her body towards mine, eager to share.

  ‘Heather and Anthony have had a will-they-won’t-they thing since university,’ she explained, rolling her eyes slightly. ‘We’d all hoped it was about to become official; Anthony’s single for the first time in ages, so is Heather.’

  I nodded, leaning in, fixated, though pretending not to be.

  ‘They went on this trial date the other night to some Italian place. Heather said it was the best night of her life and the start of something special; Anthony said the evening was nothing more than friendly. Now he wants to cool things off just as she was about to declare her undying love.’ Clara bit her lip. She was loving every second of this.

  ‘Messy.’

  ‘So, are you two…?’ She paused, leaving a pregnant note in the air.

  ‘Oh, God, no!’ I said, spluttering, choking on my words in my haste to deny the accusation. ‘I met him, what, a week ago, on site. I’m a professional journalist,’ I explain. ‘We haven’t spoken since. Anthony and me, it’s strictly professional, trust me.’

  I cringed over my abundant and unnecessary use of the word professional.

  To our left, Heather and Anthony’s conversation finished up and Heather, tears rushing to her eyes, grabbed her friend’s arm and ushered her out, quick-pace.

  ‘Bitch,’ she spat, aimed unfairly in my direction.

  It hurt. I didn’t deser
ve that, whatever she’d gone through with Anthony had precious little to do with me.

  She’d regret that later, once Clara had the chance to tell her I was a professional journalist.

  ‘Sorry,’ Anthony said, moments later. ‘You didn’t need to see that.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Heather and I, well…’ he stuttered, as he spotted my eyes widening, shocked that he felt the need to explain his predicament to me in any more detail than I’d already been privy to. ‘This isn’t really appropriate, is it?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I insisted, though, quite frankly, I didn’t exactly need to know the ins and outs of his ongoing love-drama with Heather.

  He groaned, widened his warm, sparkling eyes, put his firm hand to his mouth and shook his head, as though unbelieving of the situation he’d found himself in. He really was gorgeous. I could see why Heather didn’t want to give up on him.

  ‘We’ve been such good friends – and for such a long time.’

  OK, he’s going there, I thought to myself as he led me through the doors of the auditorium and into a quieter room across the hall.

  ‘Since college, in fact. We had one of those pacts, you know: If we’re both single at forty we’ll get married.’

  I nodded. The rest of our interview was going to be a real let down. How would we find any excitement in discussing fossil fragments after this?

  ‘Anyway, forty’s on the horizon – though I’d rather it wasn’t – and we went for dinner a couple of weeks ago to discuss it.’ His fingers ran through his dark hair. ‘I guess I thought it was a joke, a platonic “companionship” arrangement that we’d laugh about but, I suppose, looking back, she didn’t see it that way. We got blind drunk – though we always do – and ever since I’ve been trying to explain that I don’t want our relationship to change, but she’s hurt and slightly delusional, I think, about what the situation is. It’s chaos. I need to make it up to her. We’re best friends but we’d be awful as anything more. I really thought she knew that. At university we were like a bickering old married couple. Why would she want that for the rest of her life?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, breathing out, pushing my own feelings of relief to one side, ‘I hope you can make things right.’

  ‘Me too,’ he replied, sighing, visibly strained.

  *

  Perhaps things would have ended there for Anthony Lyon and me, spark extinguished before we’d even lit the match, if it hadn’t been for his persistence in the weeks afterwards: an enormous bouquet of pink, green and blues landed on my desk the same day his interview ran in the paper; then a letter – an invitation to dinner; then a proposition: Egypt. Did I want to accompany him to the mecca of ancient history? Would that be something that might interest me? Would I like to take a month off work to explore it with him?

  I didn’t have to think too hard about my reply.

  I got lucky, too – the paper agreed to give me a four week sabbatical. I had to file my pieces in advance so, if anything, I was doing them a favour taking my salary off the books for a while.

  Thus followed a whirlwind romance that I lived in the eye of the storm. I couldn’t believe that Anthony was really interested in pursuing me. I’d talked myself down at every stage – he only wants to go to Egypt in a professional capacity, the dinner was a one off, he’s got too much to worry about with Heather, he can’t be looking for anything serious, he knows all about the condition of my weakening heart, why would he want to take that on? – but things had turned romantic and affectionate while we’d been in Cairo. Between private dinners, spa days, expeditions planned just for the two of us, close contact, tactile touches, well… when we arrived home, I couldn’t deny it any longer: I was properly falling in love with Anthony Lyon, and he was with me, too.

  Back in London, things had taken a temporary dip. The paper terminated my contract and made me redundant – taking four weeks off had the unfortunate effect of making my seniors realise that things wouldn’t be so bad without a full-time history and culture correspondent. Kelly, who dealt with entertainment, was to take over – excuse me? – but they’d ‘be grateful to receive my freelance commissions’ if I was interested. Fat chance. They couldn’t just take my job away, then make out it was acceptable to pay me two hundred pounds a week for the same work I was doing full-time. Under their deal I’d be looking for stories, researching and writing them for free, the only thing they’d have to pay for was the final text. Absolutely not.

  Instead, I’d gone straight to the Tambridge Times’ main rival and placed a six week series of articles about the ancient Egyptians – inspired by my recent trip – peppered with insight from Anthony, stunning photography and thoughtful commentary. They’d gladly received it and I was generously rewarded. It gave me six weeks to look for something new and, during that time, Anthony made me an offer: move in with me.

  Whether I’d have been so quick to accept if I hadn’t just lost my job and wasn’t drunk on our rose-coloured young love is up for debate but, at the time, it hadn’t felt rushed. It was what he, and I, wanted. We were following our hearts. I’d told my parents the same when I called to fill them in on my recent trip, and new relationship. They’d been overjoyed for me; they’d wanted me to find someone as much as I had, and they encouraged me. Go for it, Emelia, you deserve to be happy.

  Three months later, I invited Anthony to meet them: my very ordinary parents. Like Anthony, I’m an only child but, unlike Anthony, I didn’t grow up in the lap of luxury to an absent mother and father. I have a relationship with my folks, especially my dad, the person responsible for igniting my fierce interest in archaeology with a book for my twelfth birthday all about ‘leading your own treasure hunt’. I’d found an old sixpence on that expedition and felt as if I’d won the lottery. To my relief, they got on like a house on fire. Anthony impressed my dad with his knowledge of medicine – my dad’s a nurse – and let my mum fuss over him, accepting every offer of store bought goods that she wafted under his nose in unappealing plastic packages, coloured with every E-number under the artificial food rainbow. When it was time to leave, they had both been thoroughly won over, the three of us head over heels for the new man in our lives.

  Afterwards, I played dumb, hoping Anthony would confirm what I thought I’d seen. ‘What did you really think, were they too much? Dad chews anyone’s ear off about his job, sorry, and Mum’s always so flappy when she has guests.’

  ‘They were perfect. Everything I could have wished for and more.’

  ‘Really?’ I grinned, reminding myself that Anthony’s relationship with his own parents was non-existent. Given what has happened since, I’m guessing he was just happy he’d found a new family in mine, not bothered by how normal we were compared to the way he’d been brought up.

  We were about to leave when Anthony had an idea and asked if I wanted to visit the heath now that the dig – where we first met – was being repurposed as an in-situ museum, complete with an underground walk-through of the Mithras shrine.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said and we walked, drunk on each other’s company, towards the twinkling night lights of the construction site. When we arrived at the entrance, we ducked under the closed-to-the-public notice and headed into the smell of damp earth and cut grass.

  ‘Emelia,’ he said, once we’d walked down into the space and he’d switched on the exposed lightbulbs overhead, a vista of beautiful glass cabinets housing the treasures collected by the cult, their troves of gems twinkling emerald and ruby and sapphire, a kaleidoscope of colour against the walls. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’ I turned to him and watched him drop to one knee. ‘Would you do me the great honour of marrying me?’

  He held out a delicate gold chain, a diamond in the middle, and I recognised it immediately: the necklace he’d shown me the first time we were down here. A priceless, ancient antique that belonged in a museum, not round my neck.

  He stood then, perhaps sensing my hesitation, and lifted my hair to one side to
clasp it in place, his fingers tracing the ridges of my collarbone.

  ‘I had it modified and got a jeweller to affix the diamond.’ Why would you deface a piece of history? I almost asked, but changed my mind, quashed the thought. ‘I’d been thinking about what to get you, ring-wise, when it hit me: why get a ring when I can give you something like this?’

  I looked at him again, into the kind eyes that had tried so hard to make this moment perfect, that had gone above and beyond and, admittedly, lost their way slightly in the realm of criminality, to give me a piece of jewellery that I would cherish forever. I changed my mind. This was it, this was right. I couldn’t have dreamed of a better proposal than this.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed. ‘I can’t believe this is happening!’

  ‘I’m sure about this, about you, I feel as though I’ve known you forever.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said, high on the moment.

  ‘So?’ he said, looking down. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course I will! Yes!’ I chirped. We kissed then, and the diamond round my neck pressed against his chest. ‘I can’t believe it! I need to start thinking about venues and guests and dresses and…’

  ‘Ah-ha!’ he said. ‘I already have the perfect venue in mind. Right here, on the heath, just before the exhibition opens to the public. I’ve checked it out with the organisers, pulled a few strings, and they’ve agreed. Your parents are over the moon that it will all unfold right on their doorstep, and the hotel round the corner is big enough for a hundred and fifty guests. And, don’t worry, I’ve already insisted that I’ll foot the bill, I wouldn’t dream of accepting any money from them.’