Never Tell A Lie

by Gail Schimmel

  It’s good advice; excellent, in fact. But I find it’s easier said than done every time I try to open my mouth to ask him.

  But the third time he sleeps over, and wakes up in my bed with his toothbrush in his toiletry bag in my bathroom, he turns to me and says, ‘Does this mean I’m your boyfriend?’

  And I say, ‘Do you want it to?’ and he says, ‘More than anything, really’, and that seems to be that.

  The thing about Joshua being my boyfriend is that it solves one of the looming complications about being friends with April.

  She’s been to my house often. Django and I have been to her house – not quite as often, but a good number of times. And her house is everything I expected it to be, but also not. It’s big and it’s beautiful, and everything is in its place and kind of . . . I guess ‘curated’ is the word I’m looking for. Which I sort of expected: I mean, I knew she’d have it more together than I do. But I also didn’t really expect it. Because April can be a bit all over the show. She’s always late, for one thing, except for the first few times when I now think she must have been really trying hard. She almost has lateness down to a fine art – she arrives just one second after you think, ‘Okay, this is annoying now.’ And she always seems to be in the middle of some crisis. She’s forgotten to do something, or to fetch something (or once, even, a child), or she’s left her phone somewhere, or her purse, or she’s spent too much on something, or failed to get a refund, or knocked the car on something; things that can happen to all of us, but seem to happen to her more.

  And the business of a job – she talks almost obsessively about how much she wants to work, but shrugs off anything solid I say. I send her links to courses and job offers that I think will suit her, and she always messages back ‘Thanks’ or ‘You’re the best’ or something like that. But she never says anything after that, and anytime I follow up, she glosses over it and says, ‘Wasn’t quite me’ or something similar.

  So the house, with all its careful perfection and well-placed scatter cushions that perfectly-but-not-too-perfectly match, seems more than April should be capable of pulling off. You’d expect her home to be a bit chaotic and quirky like her, and it isn’t. It’s almost a bit disappointing, insofar as an absolutely magazine-perfect home can be disappointing.

  The first time I’m there, I comment. ‘Your home is like something out of a magazine,’ I say. ‘I am so embarrassed comparing mine to yours.’ It’s true. I actually feel a bit sick at what she must make of my worn couches and mismatched scatter cushions, that I tell myself are edgy, and piles of endless laundry, because Nelly only comes twice a week and isn’t crazy about ironing.

  ‘Leo likes things nice,’ she says in explanation.

  She hasn’t talked about Leo much, and I’m fascinated by any snippet that she drops. I meet him once or twice when I stay a bit late for one of our play dates and he comes home unexpectedly early. April never asks me to leave, but something shifts in the air as his car pulls up to the gates, and I always remark on the time and say we should go, and she doesn’t argue. But she’s introduced me in passing.

  Leo is one of those men who dominates any room he is in. It’s not so much how good-looking he is – although he is; it’s more like he exudes a magnetic power. When I was a teenager, I read a lot of fantasy. Leo reminds me of a vampire from a book. Scary but compelling. And very, very charming.

  ‘Don’t leave on my account,’ he said that first time. ‘Perhaps I can pour a drink for the two of you?’

  I wasn’t sure that time what would be the polite thing to do, but April took the dilemma away. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she said, putting her arm around his waist. ‘Mary was just on her way. Maybe next time.’

  I agreed, but the next time he didn’t ask, and we just greeted each other. I’m fascinated by him though. It’s hard to picture him as a psychologist, especially a child psychologist. And although I can imagine him shaping policies and influencing people, I can’t really imagine him dealing with things like refugees and abused people, even though that’s what I know he’s famous for. I’d like to get to know him better, but so far, I haven’t had the chance.

  And this, in essence, is the problem with being a single woman making friends with a married woman. Because the friendship reaches that stage where now you want to be taking it to the next level, so to speak, and if she was a single woman, I would’ve invited her over to dinner or we would have gone out or something. But I’ve never really managed that step with a married friend, because it’s awkward for their husband because I don’t have a man. It’s probably why my friends are mostly single moms; and when I look at their friends, the same applies.

  So Joshua is a godsend.

  Chapter 16

  It’s clear that April feels the same way, because she’s the one who brings it up.

  ‘Would you and Joshua like to come out to dinner with Leo and me sometime?’ she asks on the phone one day.

  We’ve fallen into the habit of either having a long WhatsApp chat, or an actual call, almost every day. And we probably see each other at least twice a week – just us for coffee, or with the kids. Sometimes we do things together that I haven’t done for years. Once, April phoned me in the morning and suggested that we see a movie. A freelancer like me can’t waste their time seeing movies in the little time there is for work while Django is at school, but April talked me into it, and we saw a wonderful art movie that nobody else in my life would have wanted to see with me. Another time, she persuaded me that we should go up in a hot air balloon. That one, we took the kids. April brought a bottle of champagne, and it felt as good as a holiday.

  The boys have got used to each other. They play on PlayStation, and have discovered a joint interest in starting fires, which April and I are both trying to be calm about and allow in controlled circumstances. We’ve agreed that it will be better if we don’t make a fuss, and it will pass.

  ‘I don’t know about that, babe,’ says Stacey when I tell her. But Aiden isn’t the same sort of child as Django and Zach. He doesn’t have that inbuilt need to push boundaries. April understands what I go through with Django more than Stacey ever could, because, truth to tell, her Zach is quite a peculiar little boy himself. Even Django thinks so, although he likes him.

  ‘He’s interesting, Mom,’ Django told me. ‘I’m never a hundred per cent sure where things will go when he’s around. That’s better than being bored, right?’

  I’m not sure Stacey would agree with that either, but I’m glad Django has a friend who stimulates him.

  Little Reenie skirts around the edges of their games and our chats, like a small shadow. But Django likes her too. Sometimes, when they’re watching TV or playing a game, Reenie will manoeuvre herself so that she is next to Django, and sometimes he will just make space for her, but sometimes he puts an arm around her. She looks at him with eyes dipped in worship. It makes me wonder if he would have been a happier child if he’d had a sibling, but April says not.

  ‘They are totally different when it’s their own sister,’ she says, and it is true that Zach treats Reenie at best with complete disinterest and at worst with quite startling aggression. I’ve seen Django step in front of Reenie in a fight between her and Zach, and my heart warmed. ‘Make no mistake,’ says April, ‘she can give as good as she gets.’

  So when April raises the idea of us going out as a foursome, I jump at it. It’s almost become a bit awkward that I know April so well, but not her husband. She says so little about him or their marriage – which is frankly a relief. Some friends do nothing but bitch about their husbands to their single girlfriends. And of course, I am a bit fascinated by Leo.

  We agree that we’ll go out on Saturday night – Leo, Joshua and various babysitters willing. April names a restaurant, saying that Leo loves it. It sounds fine – ‘upmarket Italian’, she calls it – and Joshua isn’t really fussy. I worry a bit about the paying part. When Joshua and I go out, he usually pays, but I’ve balanced that with cooking mor
e at my place for us. ‘Upmarket Italian’ sounds a bit like ‘overpriced Italian’ to me, and I feel a small worry that Joshua might resent it.

  I have to remind myself that Joshua is not Travis.

  I message him.

  Dinner at Al Parco with April and her husband on Sat okay with you?

  Joshua comes back immediately.

  Very cool. Amazing.

  It takes a minute for me to remember why he would be so keen, and then I do. April’s husband, Leo Goldstein, is a sort of hero of Joshua’s. Joshua had explained it to me once when we were talking about April. ‘If you’re at a human rights conference somewhere like New York or London, and you say “Leo Goldstein”, they all know who you’re talking about. It’s a matter of pride for us as South Africans that he lives here.’

  When I’ve asked April about Leo’s work, she’s done a tight smile and said, ‘Yes, he’s very important, if you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘Saving children’s lives?’ I’d said, amused. ‘That sort of thing?’

  ‘Everybody gets all worked up about Leo,’ said April. ‘Sometimes I wish they could see the real man.’

  I didn’t know whether I’d touched on a nerve, so I left it. April obviously had some issues about her husband’s career. Thinking about the dinner plan, I hope Joshua won’t overwhelm Leo – or April – with his fan-boy crush. Not that Joshua is exactly a slouch in the human rights arena – I’ve read up about his work, and he’s talked to me about cases, and the more I learn, the more I like him. Leo and Joshua have a lot in common – and I hope it will translate into vibrant dinner conversation, because a friendship between the two men would make things so much easier.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had to think about this aspect of friendship. The ‘Can we become couple friends?’ thing. At the beginning, with Travis, we both had our own friends. And then slowly, over time, I drifted away from my friends. I look back, and I can’t believe I allowed it to happen, but Travis was big on taking against people. He’d suddenly announce that Charlotte was a slut, or that Mandy looked at him funny, or something equally unlikely. And I’d try to arrange something with them, and he’d glare at me and say, ‘But I told you I don’t like her,’ so I’d see her alone once or twice, but it was never quite worth the battle. So slowly Charlotte or Mandy or Susan or Tess would fade from my life.

  And then we had Travis’s friends – although he wasn’t above taking against them either. ‘Johno thinks he’s better than me,’ he would announce one night, after what had seemed like a perfectly nice evening, and I’d know that was it. We’d never see Johno again. For a while, I thought I could make new friends, and that would solve the problem. Maybe he’d be fine if it wasn’t someone I had a shared history with. So I’d get to know someone – a mom at school, or someone I met through work – and establish that they had a partner who wasn’t too successful or intimidating (Leo Goldstein would’ve been a non-starter with Travis, that much is sure) and then we’d maybe go to their house, or out to dinner. And Travis would be awful. Not just afterwards. At the actual dinner. The first one or two times, I convinced myself that he was actually right; that the person or the husband had some terrible character trait that I hadn’t spotted. But after the third time, with the most lovely couple, who basically could not believe the way Travis treated them but remained calm and polite throughout, I realised that they weren’t the problem. And I wasn’t the problem. Travis was the problem.

  I am pretty sure that Joshua is a whole different ballgame from Travis. I am staking my and Django’s well-being on that assumption. But I am still a bit nervous. I still don’t quite trust Joshua not to suddenly turn on me. Travis was quite charming at the beginning too.

  In the lead-up to the dinner, Joshua is uncharacteristically anxious. ‘What should I wear?’ and ‘What if he doesn’t like me?’ are just two of the questions that he asks me. It’s endearing, and it makes me confident that Joshua is definitely not going to pull a Travis on me, but it also makes me worry. What will we wear? What if Leo doesn’t like Joshua? Or finds me boring? This is probably my biggest fear.

  What will an interesting, well-travelled, ethical man like Leo Goldstein see in a person like me, who fakes descriptions of whisky for a living?

  Chapter 17

  It’s probably the whisky story that makes me know the evening has been a success.

  Leo is charming from the beginning, of course. He and April are there first, which I wasn’t expecting, and they have drinks in front of them when we arrive. We catch a glimpse of them before they see us. Leo looks serious, and April is gesticulating. But they both stand up with a smile as soon as they spot us. April hugs me warmly, and then Joshua – after all, she already knows him from school and the reunion. After an awkward moment, Leo and I hug too. Then we all sit down.

  We order drinks – fancy gins all around (I try to quell my worries about the bill) – and the conversation immediately takes off. As it turns out, Leo is familiar with Joshua’s work too. I don’t know if he deliberately researched Joshua, or if he’d actually heard of him before, but he asks him about a particular case where Joshua was the lead lawyer, and I can almost feel Joshua relax next to me.

  April and I turn to each other, roll our eyes and laugh. We start talking about an app that everyone has been discussing at both our schools. Some parents are raving about the educational benefits, and some are convinced it’s the devil. I’m thinking about writing an article about it, so I’ve done some research and I’m telling April what I’ve discovered when there’s a lull in the conversation between the men. I turn to Leo.

  ‘You must have some thoughts on this?’ I say. ‘Doesn’t it fall squarely into your expertise?’

  Leo’s about to speak when April says, ‘Leo’s expertise is really more starving and abused kids than middle-class moms’ neurotic app worries.’

  I’m not sure if she’s trying to tell me not to waste Leo’s time with my nonsense, or if she’s having a dig at Leo, or if I’m being oversensitive. Joshua squeezes my leg quickly, so I think that I’m right that there was something odd in her tone.

  ‘Of course,’ I say with a laugh, looking at Leo. His expression is hard to read.

  ‘So, you’re a writer, April tells me,’ he says.

  ‘Freelance. Magazines and newspapers mostly,’ I say. I don’t mention the novel, which has been growing. Something about April’s inability to get herself a job or start something has made me determined to write it. I’m not going to be like her and let life float by. I adore April; she’s funny and clever and interesting. But every time she says, ‘Yes, but’ to an idea that I have, I want to give a little scream. One day, when someone says to me, ‘Didn’t you always want to write a novel?’, I don’t want to say, ‘Yes, but.’ In a funny way, April is my greatest inspiration. Maybe I will dedicate my book to her. If I ever get there.

  ‘Tell them about the whisky magazine,’ says Joshua. ‘It’s the funniest story.’

  I feel slightly side-swiped. The story doesn’t, ultimately, reflect very well on my morals. When I told Joshua, I didn’t feel like I had to tell him not to tell anyone else. But he’s looking at me with big expectant eyes, the laugh already lurking, ready to come on cue. And April and Leo are turned to me like flowers looking for sunlight.

  ‘Oh God, Joshua,’ I say. ‘It really doesn’t make me look very good.’ I say this with a laugh, but I can see that Joshua immediately knows that I am genuinely a bit upset about the position he’s put me in.

  He squeezes my hand. ‘It’s just so funny, love,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’ He’s never called me ‘love’ before. ‘I’m sure Leo and April won’t judge you.’

  I look at them.

  ‘Definitely not,’ says April.

  ‘And you have to tell us now,’ says Leo. ‘Or we’re going to imagine the worst, you know.’

  I laugh. ‘Okay, fine.’

  I tell them the story about my whisky reviews, drawing it out, hamming it up, and exaggera
ting slightly. I know how to tell a good story.

  I get it bang on, because both April and Leo find it hilarious. Leo, in particular, loves the descriptions that I make up. He’s almost holding his stomach, he’s laughing so much.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ he says, wiping away an actual tear of laughter. ‘You never told me she was so funny, April.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ says April. ‘I told you she was hilarious.’

  There’s something about laughing, properly laughing, that cements a new friendship. From there, we take off. Funny story tops funny story. We’re all comedians. We’re all hilarious. We may all also be a bit drunk. Leo keeps coming back to my story though – it becomes a running joke as we describe our food and the wine as having ‘a soft odour of goat’s paws’ or ‘the tantalising zing of a septic toe’. Some of them are so good that I pull out my notebook and scrawl them down, which delights Leo.

  ‘I’m going to subscribe to the magazine,’ he says. ‘Give me the details.’ And then he actually makes me message him the details, right there at the table.

  ‘He will, you know,’ says April. ‘Subscribe to the magazine.’

  ‘That will bring their total subscriber base to seven,’ I say, and everyone laughs again. I feel a bit bad. They are actually incredibly popular for a niche title. There must be many more than seven subscribers. Maybe even double that.

  By the end of the evening, it feels like we are all going to be best friends. As we drive home, a sort of glowing friendship montage of the future is playing out in my head – dinners, and lunches, and holidays. I stop fantasising abruptly when I imagine Leo as best man and April as bridesmaid at our wedding.

  ‘I think that went well,’ says Joshua, who is driving. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I had fun,’ I say. ‘I hope they did too.’

  ‘I liked them both,’ says Joshua. ‘He’s even better than his reputation.’

  I laugh. ‘Now you can say that when people mention him: “He’s even better in real life.”’