Lies Lies Lies

by Adele Parks

  We’ve been through bad patches before. Awful, terrible times. And it has got better before. Surely it can get better again. It has to.

  For a moment, I’m brushed with a sense of determination. I can and must turn things around. What I feel is not the same as optimism but I’m a breath closer to being resolved. I kiss Millie goodbye and tell her to be good for India’s mummy, then I cross back over the road to ours. I will drive to the party tonight. I’m certainly not bothered about having a drink and if I have the car with me I can bring back the camping equipment. We could go away somewhere next week. We could press reset. Why not?

  14

  Chapter 14, Simon

  So now she wanted to go camping. Years, he had been trying to persuade her, and she’d never shown any interest. He’d finally proven his point. Millie had enjoyed their foray under canvas in the back garden and Daisy was convinced. He should be pleased. It should feel like a victory.

  But it didn’t. Nothing did.

  He couldn’t get Martell out of his mind. Fuck it. Fuck her. She had some nerve, stood there all done up – hair, makeup – beaming. She looked pretty. He could see that. But he wouldn’t admit it aloud. He wondered who she was dressing for. Not him. Was it still going on? No, that was impossible. But you heard of it, didn’t you? Affairs that lasted years. The other halves just bobbing along, ignorant, like fucking idiots. Fucking losers. He should ask her. Now. Just straight out. Straight up. That would take the grin off her face. Instead he took a gulp of his gin and tonic.

  Simon knew he hadn’t always been a perfect husband. It had been hard sometimes. All marriages were. It couldn’t be a bed of roses. Those years when they both longed for a baby were difficult. His mother used to tell him to count their blessings. He found it easier to count his units. Get pissed. Block it out. It was a shame that he’d ignored Elsie when she was still able to tell him things that made sense. ‘Look at what you have,’ she’d urged. ‘A lovely wife, a nice home, a good job.’ But he couldn’t focus, at least not on anything other than where the next drink was coming from. Even so, he didn’t deserve this. He’d been a good husband. Certainly, good enough. He used to do stuff around the house, bring home a decent salary, spend every weekend with her friends. He showered her with attention, care and compliments. He didn’t mess around with other women.

  So he liked a swift drink. That was it. That was his only – how should he phrase it? – his only drawback. He wouldn’t consider that a dealbreaker. Yet, she had. Apparently. She’d decided she had the right to screw another man and then pass off his kid as Simon’s. It was disgusting.

  It was difficult to look at her. His eyes used to pull up the length of her body; now he chose to stay entirely focused on the gin bottle on the table.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked brightly. ‘We could go to the New Forest.’

  He didn’t know if he wanted to go camping with her. Being cooped up in such a small place might make him want to kill her. He couldn’t think about it now. Next week or even tomorrow seemed a long way away. Instead, he clapped his hands together, ‘How about you join me with a little pre-party drink? G&T?’

  ‘I think we need to get going,’ replied Daisy.

  Puritanical, hypocritical bitch.

  15

  Chapter 15, Daisy

  Crisp, white bunting marks out Connie and Luke’s patch. The white triangles look like small yachts lining up to dock somewhere glamorous, Sydney Harbour or Monte Carlo, and whilst the bunting is not so much fluttering in the breeze – the early evening air is still, flat – the effect is stylish, captivating. The front door is wide open as Connie is the sort of person who doesn’t believe bad things will happen to her. She couldn’t imagine a scenario where someone might walk in, go upstairs and take whatever they liked. Ruin everything. I suppose the scenario is unlikely as lots of her guests are lingering in the hallway, spilling out of the open door, glasses in hands, laughter on lips but, all the same, keeping a vague eye on the comings and goings. I nervously scan these people, looking for a familiar face and at the same time dreading seeing one. I want to run back down the garden path. I want to go home.

  Connie and Luke have done very well for themselves. Their stylish home in Notting Hill reflects as much; for a London property it’s a decent size. Even so, every room is heaving with guests; people are pushed against walls, some are sitting or standing on the stairways. Simon vigorously pushes his way through the crowds and heads for the kitchen. First thought, a drink. When the evening is beginning and Simon is heading out, he often puts me in mind of an urban fox. Feral, wily, determined, solitary. When he returns he’s more of a sloth. There’s a bar set up in the kitchen and two guys are mixing cocktails. I expected something like this, after all it is a party, but my heart sinks. A small crowd are gathered, enjoying the spectacle. People ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ as the cocktail shakers fly and twirl thorough the air like birds, the bartender twizzles 360 degrees, lemons and limes are sliced at a rate of knots. Simon looks impatient. I see his fingers drum on the counter as he must wait his turn.

  I can’t watch. I keep moving on, through the patio door and out to the dark wood deck. Connie doesn’t have grass or flower beds, she has a number of enormous, antique stone urns, out of which spout what she calls, ‘architectural plants’. They are purple or black, rarely anything so ordinary as green. Glistening white fairy lights hang in swathes along all three boundary walls and above our heads. It won’t be dark for ages yet, but when it is, they’ll look wonderful; whimsical, yet warm and inviting. Connie works hard at ensuring she lives in the sort of tableaus that are Instagram-worthy.

  ‘Daisy!’ I hear several familiar voices call out my name in unison. Rose, her husband Craig, and Connie wave enthusiastically. They’re clustered, chatting. I pray they haven’t been talking about us, but imagine they have. I guess Luke is somewhere nearby. He and Connie are great hosts and therefore you rarely find them together at one of their own parties; they’re always attending to the needs of others: making introductions, topping up drinks. I smile, hoping to convince people I’m pleased to see them. I should be, it’s not their fault I feel uncomfortable. I quash the sensation that I’m going into battle and give myself over to their welcoming hugs and compliments. I issue reciprocal compliments, commenting on Connie’s dress (she immediately tells me she got it in a sale), Rose’s necklace (she puts her hand to her enormous bosom, ‘Oh this old thing’). I’m talking too quickly, we all are. We hardly manage to answer a question before another one is asked. It seems no one wants any awkward pauses.

  ‘Are Sebastian and Henry here?’ I glance about, hoping to spot my nephews.

  ‘No, they’re at SuncéBeat Festival,’ says Craig.

  ‘I don’t know that one.’ This is not a surprise. I have never in my life been to a music festival.

  ‘It’s in Croatia,’ says Craig with a beam. He checks his watch. ‘They’re probably just applying body oil before they climb into the cages to dance.’ We all laugh except for Rose who looks mildly concerned that their step-dad might be spot on.

  ‘They’re with a friend of theirs, and his parents,’ she says, stiffly. ‘I’m sure they are doing no such thing.’

  ‘Right, they’re certainly looking at the finest examples of early Byzantine architecture in the Mediterranean region,’ laughs Craig. Then he puts his arm around Rose and squeezes her affectionately, aware she’ll be nervous about her boys being away, and probably not up to too much ribbing on the matter.

  ‘And your girls?’ I ask Connie.

  ‘They’ve all invited some friends of their own, so I guess they are somewhere about, up to no good or sneaking sips of the cocktails.’ Connie says this confidently because her three daughters are still young, lovely and very well behaved, so she has nothing to worry about. Rather than testing the boundaries, they are much more likely to be handing out vol-au-vents to the guests. Henry and Seb are good guys too, they may get a tiny bit drunk from time to time but we’ve never had
any police visits and their academic records seem solid. We just all play along with the idea that the teenagers are hard work because that’s what people expect. I’ve always thought this strategy is a bit daft. It almost implies the kids are letting us down if they are not taking drugs and falling pregnant, somehow failing to fulfil our expectations of teens.

  ‘Oh, there’s Lucy!’ Connie beams at her old friend. Lucy was once my friend too. I think it’s more accurate to say I consider her a frenemy now. I glance at Rose. She straightens her shoulders. Even after all this time, socialising with Lucy and Peter can’t be easy for Rose. Their presence here at the party must change the night for her. She won’t be quite as relaxed, quite as open.

  Connie, Lucy and I met as undergraduates, I introduced my friends to Rose, who had already graduated and had a job but visited me regularly at weekends. We were an unlikely gang but glued by Connie, the common denominator. We did everything together at university and for quite some time beyond. We went on holidays and we briefly flat-shared. Rose then married Peter and they had Henry and Sebastian, but Lucy had a sneaky, adulterous affair with Peter and now they are married and have a daughter, Auriol. It’s officially messy.

  Connie stayed friends with everyone throughout. She can always see both sides of the story and, anyway, argues that the Rose and Lucy stuff is ancient history. True, Rose and Peter split up sixteen years ago. She’s been happily married to Craig for almost a decade. I adore Craig, he is a lovely, lovely man and I’m so pleased that my sister has found such complete and comfortable love, but has Connie forgotten the years when Rose struggled as a single mum of twins? Doesn’t she think about those things when she issues party invites? I’m not a prude. I know people have affairs, make mistakes and then make amends. I, more than most, understand that we’re all human, we’re all weak, vulnerable or silly sometimes. There has to be a place for the second chance – I honestly do believe that. But Lucy ate Christmas lunch at my sister’s house whilst she was screwing my sister’s husband, and now we are all supposed to pretend none of it matters, that we’re all still great friends. I think it would be much more normal if there was a level of resentment or anger. A sense of embarrassment or regret. Something. Look, there are goodies and baddies. Rose is my sister, Lucy is a home-wrecking bitch.

  Lucy heads towards us, waving majestically, smiling broadly. Peter is trailing behind her.

  The only good thing about their arrival is that it means I’m certainly not the centre of attention anymore. Lucy is always that. She’s too beautiful – and I must admit, although it kills me – too clever, to be anything other. Lucy announces they are taking the summer off. I guess they must have savings that will allow that sort of thing. Naturally, they are shunning package holidays and instead plan to visit somewhere in Mexico to volunteer their time and work in schools for orphans. It appears that Henry and Seb are going along too; Rose and Craig don’t look startled by this news. I wonder when it was agreed and why no one has told me.

  I’m asked about our holiday plans, I say that we are going camping. I ask Connie if I can borrow her kit. She agrees, readily, which makes me love her, but then she adds, ‘You might need to buy a new stove. Ours has a piece missing.’ Which makes me loath her. I know I’m not being fair or consistent. She’s just stating a fact. But it’s being here, at her party, it’s putting me on edge. I’m agitated. Defensive. Anyway, why should I be fair? Life isn’t, is it?

  Simon appears from nowhere. He greets everyone with huge enthusiasm. The conversation bobs along, Simon affably nods his head at pretty much everything everyone says but I can tell he’s not following what’s being said. He has no interest in the new Ghostbusters movie, the Conservative party leadership election or the final stage of the Tour de France.

  ‘Hot evening, isn’t it?’ he comments. He knocks back his cocktail as he makes this remark. ‘Thirsty-making. I think I’ll get another. Anyone else?’ In unison our friends look at their glasses and make demure sounds.

  ‘No thanks, buddy.’

  ‘I’m OK with this, pacing myself, you know.’

  ‘It’s going to be a long night, I’m taking it steady.’

  I hear what they’re saying. They are willing him to be cautious, to be careful. They’re trying to lead by example, but it won’t work. Simon shrugs. ‘Suit yourselves.’ He heads back into the kitchen. We all watch his back in silence.

  16

  Chapter 16, Simon

  Simon spent most of his evening talking to new people. He needed new friends, his old ones were boring and judgemental. Annoyingly, they were judging the wrong person, weren’t they? All he did was enjoy a drink. But Daisy, well she… He wondered what they knew. More than him, no doubt. They told each other everything, those women. Always whispering and gossiping. They’d be laughing at him. They probably had been for a while. Daisy and her sister and the other women were as thick as thieves. They didn’t judge each other. One rule for them, another rule for everyone else. Look at how things were with Lucy and Peter for example. They had an affair, under everyone’s noses. OK, there was a fuss at the time, but it quickly died down. They are back in the bosom of the pack now. Everyone was keen to carry on as before.

  He sighed and jostled his way through the partying people, inching ever closer to the cocktail bar.

  They weren’t his friends anyway, not really. They were her friends and they were all like her: insistent, hypocritical, clearly pursuing agendas. It was obvious that they were all itching to ask him about his drinking and losing his job. All that crap. It was blatantly apparent by the way they avoided the subject. Normally, Craig would ask, ‘How’s work?’ It was the usual icebreaker with men. That or sport. Simon didn’t give a fuck about sport. Or work. Or Craig, come to that. He wanted a drink though. He’d been stood at this poncey cocktail bar for ages. It was all very well making a performance out of making a drink, but a man could die of thirst.

  ‘Well hello, Simon!’ Simon turned to see who was speaking to him. He didn’t know the bloke, although the bloke clearly knew him, not an unprecedented situation. He grabbed Simon’s hand, pumped it up and down. ‘It’s been a while. How are you keeping?’

  The fact he’d asked made Simon feel more secure. This man didn’t have a clue because anyone who knew how he was keeping didn’t ask. ‘Not bad, very well,’ Simon replied with a grin. Then added wryly, ‘I’ll be much happier when I get to the front of the queue.’

  The bloke laughed as though Simon had just said something really funny, not really mediocre. Then he endeared himself further to Simon when he added, ‘Too damn right. Thing is, not worth the wait, these cocktails. Gone in a gulp. Come with me.’

  Simon wracked his brain for a name or a context. Fricking blackouts. Names got lost, nights got lost. He usually didn’t mind much. There were things it was best to forget, and his nights out were often that. But not remembering someone’s name was a bit frustrating. He followed the man because he was tall, friendly, good looking. The sort of bloke that knew what he wanted out of life, knew where to find a good time. This proved to be the case when suddenly he was holding up a bottle of tequila. ‘Shots?’ he asked.

  Simon would have preferred wine or whisky, but shots were fine by him too. Even though they were certainly gone in a gulp, like the cocktails. That was the point of them. He followed his new friend outside to the bit of space that passed as a front garden in London. Simon was relieved that his new friend hadn’t headed towards the back garden. Since his name was still eluding Simon, it’d be impossible to introduce him to the gang, and besides, Simon didn’t want to talk to the gang. He wished he could remember something about this fella though. He was vaguely familiar. He looked like any one of a number of Connie’s guests. Tall, fit, strong, good looking. Simon was enough of a man to be able to say when another man was good looking.

  They sat on the wall, facing the house, allowing the evening warmth to envelope them. The party was happening all around them, the place was messy with bowls of torti
lla chips and upended beer bottles. His new friend laughed, ‘Bugger, I forgot to bring glasses.’ He scouted about. There were a few discarded wine glasses scattered on the ground or stood on the wall next to ashtrays full of cigarette stubs. Ants crawling inside them. Simon knew that his pal was considering picking up a couple, tipping the dregs onto the wood chippings and using the glasses, unconcerned about germs, unconcerned about mixing drinks. Simon felt he’d found a fellow committed drinker, and something loosened inside him, unknotted. He felt comfortable. He made friends this way, often enough. In bars and pubs throughout London. The company was easy and transient. He’d probably drunk with this man before. The man seemingly recalled it, Simon didn’t. No biggie. Eventually, his friend rejected the idea of retrieving the scattered glasses, perhaps he thought it was too much effort to stoop down and pick them up. Instead, he took a swig from the bottle and then offered it to Simon. Simon took it. Glug, glug.

  They started talking about The Walking Dead and Game of Thrones. Their reviews were forensic in detail. Time slipped. Slid away.

  ‘How’s the lovely Daisy?’

  Simon was surprised by the question. His companion apparently did know him better than he’d first imagined. Not just someone he’d passed time with at a bar, perhaps he was one of Daisy and Connie’s university friends.

  ‘Yeah, good, fine thanks. She’s here. Somewhere about.’

  ‘I haven’t seen either of you for years.’ Simon felt this useful bit of information was quite comforting. He hadn’t necessarily forgotten this bloke because they’d recently drunk themselves into a void; he was just as likely to have slipped Simon’s mind because it had been a while. Normal middle age stuff. Although, even if it had been a while, alcohol was most probably involved.