Lies Lies Lies

by Adele Parks

  Then he remembered glass on the road, the headlights. A thud. More than a thud. The brakes, the car skidding, turning. A crunch.

  Millie. He remembered Millie. He saw her bouncing off the bonnet of the car. Like a puppet yanked suddenly upwards by a puppeteer and then the strings were snapped, and she was dropped to the floor, a broken, ruined thing.

  Remembering was like pulling a thread on a jumper, a small tug had led to a complete unravelling. He was left with nothing.

  He started hammering on the door of the cell. He didn’t care how much more trouble he caused now. The damage was done.

  2019

  25

  Chapter 25, Daisy

  Saturday, 25th May 2019

  It was Rose’s idea that we all go to the beach. She knows that I prefer being outside, rather than in, that I have always had an aversion to confined spaces. When we grew up this was a mildly amusing quirk, the source of a bit of teasing, but over the past few years it has developed into something close to a phobia. Rose rallied the entire gang: Craig, Sebastian and Henry, Connie, Luke and their three girls. Rose knows I feel it’s important that Millie’s birthday is marked by a crowd. That I don’t feel lonely. Besides, everyone loves the wind to catch in their hair and the sound of the waves endlessly crashing against the shore. No one took much persuading.

  Millie has invited along four of her closest school friends as well. She wanted more, she’d have invited her entire class if I’d let her, but I was concerned about being responsible for all of them on the train and at the beach. This way the child to adult ratio is reasonable. I know that Sophie and India will spend the day silently battling for supremacy of Millie’s affections; each trying to out-do the other in a desperate bid to show their loyalty, their protectiveness. That battle has been ever-present but it only intensified given what happened. Sophie once tearfully declared that Millie would have stayed safe if she’d been at the party, and that it was all India’s fault for wanting to camp in our garden. Connie was mortified that I heard this emotional outburst, and swiftly hushed up her daughter, sensibly pointing out that it had been Millie’s idea to camp, not India’s; something she’d heard me say to reassure India. She didn’t mention the other bit, but I hold that fact close. Another what if. Another path I could have taken to protect my daughter. Another way I failed her. I shouldn’t have taken her to the party with me, but I should have stayed at home when my parents couldn’t babysit.

  I shouldn’t have let a drunk man drive a car.

  Once Lucy heard about the plan to picnic on the beach, she asked whether she could come along. Her daughter, Auriol, is best friends with Connie’s oldest, Fran. It isn’t easy to keep a secret in our gang. I asked Rose what she thought.

  ‘Yes. The more the merrier,’ she insisted.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I try to avoid Lucy when I can. ‘I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. I don’t want Lucy to spoil your day.’

  Rose waved her hand dismissively. ‘That hatchet has long since been buried as far as I’m concerned. Surely, anyone who wants to celebrate Millie’s birthday is welcome.’ I understand her point. Every child’s life is so precious, but awareness of that fact is intensified when it comes to Millie, as her life hung in the balance for so many weeks. Her birthday parties have to be joyful occasions. I can put my personal dislike of Lucy to the side for a day.

  Anyway, if there is a crowd of us, then maybe, just maybe we can hide the gap Simon’s absence always creates. He is not in a position to feel wind in his hair, hear the waves crash against the shore. He is in prison, serving his jail sentence for nearly killing our daughter.

  I don’t miss him. I’m too angry with him to miss him and I always will be. When I said this to Connie once she gave me a funny, sad look and said, ‘Oh I see, you still love him.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I’d snapped. She’s far too romantic for her own good. I hate him.

  I wonder if Millie misses him? We don’t talk about it. I’ve tried but it’s difficult. There was so much to talk about at the beginning and she seemed very young to hear it all; the collision, his drinking, the trial, prison. Every conversation we needed to have about him was complicated and painful. All discussions on these matters caused us to fall out, or her to cry or turn moody. It was just easier to stop having the conversations altogether. She hasn’t seen him for almost three years and that’s a long time for a child. I’m not sure how much she remembers of him. I’ve left one photo of him in her bedroom; I’ve taken all of the others down. I can’t stand to look at him. Or to think of him. I make an effort to push him out of my head right now. He is not going to ruin today. He has ruined enough of our days.

  We have woken up to a rare hot day for May. The bright sky and decent temperatures are a gift on her birthday. Although, it’s England, so it might be gale force winds by lunchtime, it seems we often get four seasons in a day, but it’s the optimistic start that matters.

  We all travel to Brighton in separate groups, so despite agreeing to meet at the beach, to the right of the pier at 11 a.m., our guests’ arrival is staggered. I’m prompt but when we arrive, Rose is already there, settled on the pebbles, facing out towards the sparkling sea. She’s set up not too close to the public loos or the noisy amusements, but not too far away from either facility either. Perfect. Rose is good at that sort of thing. My money is on Lucy arriving next and Connie bringing up the rear. She’s never been known for her time-keeping.

  Craig has already set to work erecting windbreaks, and Henry and Sebastian have been instructed to set up deckchairs. However, they have abandoned that job in favour of kicking around a football. Since they immediately invite Millie and her gaggle of friends to join in the game, neither Rose nor I complain. We lay out a series of blankets, placing them so that they overlap at the edges, to make sure we stay one big group and don’t splinter into factions. Next, we start to blow up orange and green balloons and then tie them around the windbreak to demark the fact that we are a party area. Millie no longer likes the colour pink. I tell myself that every little girl grows out of pink, but the brightly coloured balloons bother me a tiny bit. Millie’s rejection of pink wasn’t gradual, it was overnight, when she came home from the hospital. By then, she knew that her dreams of being a dancer were over. A girl with screws and pins holding together bone fragments can’t expect to ever become a prima ballerina. She threw out all her tutus, leotards and slippers, she demanded that I take down the ballet posters from her walls, she threw out every Angelina Ballerina book, trinket, and toy she owned. She eradicated the colour pink that was so closely associated with her dreams. Six years old is a very young age to have your dreams crushed. Or your pelvis, hip and femur, come to that.

  The balloons bob and are lifted when there is a gust of wind, but they don’t float constantly upwards as I imagined. I’d have needed helium-filled balloons for that and I couldn’t manage those on the train, it was enough carrying the enormous day bag and shepherding the girls. I am very grateful to Rose for transporting the party food. I don’t like travelling long distances by car anymore. Not since – I catch myself – I won’t think about that today.

  My bag is bulging, full of the usual day trip essentials: towels, sun cream, bats and balls and a change of clothes, as well as a few extras because it’s Millie’s birthday. I’ve brought candles and matches, in case Rose forgot them (which I admit is unlikely), prizes for the games, party hats, and I’ve brought along all the cards people have sent Millie, although I left her gifts at home for her to open this evening.

  ‘You should have given more to me, I could have brought all of this in the car,’ says Rose when she sees me unpack the towels.

  ‘Oh, these microfibre towels barely weigh anything,’ I assure her. In fact, the straps of the bag have dug into my shoulder and I can still feel the weight of it even after offloading it on to the pebbles. I hadn’t realised how long it would take to walk from the station to the front. I should have asked for her help, but
I don’t like to be a burden. Rose does so much already to cushion and comfort, I don’t want to exploit her kindness. I call over to Millie and her friends. ‘Have you all got sun cream on?’ One or two of them reassure me they have; largely I am ignored. They are more interested in scampering to the sea, jumping over waves and squealing with laughter.

  We wait until the others arrive before we unpack the food. I am relieved when Lucy and Auriol arrive without Peter. ‘He’s playing golf,’ Lucy explains. I’m not surprised, Peter always plays golf on a Saturday morning and when I say always I mean he’s been known to miss weddings because he has an 8 a.m. tee time. ‘He’s going to try to join us later this afternoon.’ My heart sinks a little to hear she’s staying for the duration. I had thought she might show her face and then dash off after an hour or so. I say nothing but manage to smile politely.

  Even though Rose and I have catered for everyone, Connie and Lucy have brought extra, which is always exciting and welcome. It’s clear that Connie has been planning her contribution to the picnic for a while. She’s Millie’s godmother and takes the role seriously. She has brought along a platter of a delicious-looking tricolore salad, rounds of herbed ciabatta, and she’s baked a batch of gooey chocolate cupcakes. Lucy has brought three bottles of champagne and the most enormous punnet of fat, rich raspberries. She tells us she handpicked them from an organic farm. ‘Spent all afternoon doing so, yesterday.’ I can hardly believe it. ‘I know Millie adores raspberries,’ she explains simply. From anyone else I’d see this as a notable act of thoughtfulness; Lucy most probably identified an Instagram opportunity. I bet her feed is full of pictures of her picking the raspberries.

  I glance up and take a moment to watch my daughter and her friends play in the waves that swish and crash on the shore. The girls continually dash towards the waves, then run away laughing. For now, they are allowing themselves to be little girls. I’m glad I resisted the pleas to have a pop princess party, which is inclusive of a make-up demonstration and a choice of each guest having either false eyelashes or a fake tattoo. Fran, Flora and Auriol are lounging about on towels. The oldest two are chatting, Flora’s head is buried in a novel, as usual. All three girls are always keen to get a tan and the pursuit of said tan is taken very seriously. It starts in March and even if it’s snowing they insist on being barelegged. Craig, Luke, Sebastian and Henry are playing a paddle and ball game in the shallows. The ball is tapped between them, consistently hitting the mark. The boys and Craig are in swimwear, but Luke didn’t get the opportunity to change. He was recruited into the game almost the moment he arrived at the beach. He’s in shorts and a T-shirt and he’s getting wet and hot but doesn’t seem concerned. He’s laughing and chatting as usual.

  My eyes drift back to Millie, as they always do. I notice that she has fallen over three times in quick succession; the waves don’t knock any of the other girls off their feet, she’s getting tired. Possibly her leg or hip is hurting, but she’ll never admit it. I become aware that Luke’s eyes are on her too. He seems to have noticed she’s struggling, but he knows better than to make it into a thing. Drawing attention to her struggles makes her embarrassed and angry. Suddenly, he swoops down and hoists her on to his shoulders. She’s tall but light. Her legs trail down the front of his T-shirt, towards his hips. She is far too big to be carried anywhere but she squeals with joy all the same as he runs her deeper into the sea and then throws her into the water. Rose, Connie and I look on, vaguely concerned, but she emerges laughing. Lucy comments, ‘She loves that he refuses to treat her with kid gloves.’ Now Luke picks up the other girls and starts throwing them into the water too, to prove he doesn’t treat her any differently at all. The volume of shrieking intensifies as Henry and Sebastian dash up the beach and try to pick up Auriol and Fran, clearly with the intention of dunking them as well.

  About fifteen minutes later everyone is sat on the picnic rugs, shivering but wrapped in towels and demanding food. Frolicking in the sea and general mischief-making clearly creates appetites. I notice that Luke is drenched but he holds back and waits until everyone else has a towel before picking one up.

  The day passes in a glorious series of happy vignettes. The kids are aged between nine and nineteen but get on all the better for that. They naturally group and regroup throughout the day depending on the activity and energy levels. We play some traditional party games that Millie initially pronounced lame but are in fact fun, something she can’t deny when her friends insist they are going to be sick with giggling. We eat candy floss and ice creams, we visit the amusement arcade on the pier and Fran, Flora and Auriol peel off to have a mooch around the Lanes. Sebastian and Henry say they are doing the same, but they are almost certainly going to the pub or to chat up girls. People are shy about saying they are going for a drink in front of me. I swore that once Millie was released from hospital I would give up drinking altogether and for a year I did. But then I started to allow myself the odd glass on special occasions. I realised drink wasn’t my enemy just because it is Simon’s.

  By 5 p.m. Sebastian and Henry return from the pub. We are all starting to feel peckish, which is extraordinary considering how much food we ploughed through at lunch. We laugh and explain away our greed: the sea air creates appetites, we’ve had a very active day, we ate ages ago, at least three hours since. Craig suggests we pack up and find a fish and chip restaurant. His idea is met with unanimous approval. As I start to push sodden towels and costumes back into my bag, I remember Millie’s birthday cards.

  ‘Do you want to open your cards first?’ I ask. I know they will get damp if they’re next to the towels, or maybe even lost as I cart things back to the station. Thinking about it now, it wasn’t the best idea to bring them with us.

  ‘Oh yes!’ she cries excitedly, aware that a fair number of them will hold cash or vouchers. She carelessly rips open the envelopes and I scoop up the waste paper, determined not to allow rubbish on the beach. As she hoped, there is quite a haul. She has a sizable cheque from my parents, lots of other people have slipped her a fiver or tenner or vouchers for books, Claire’s Accessories and Topshop. She has never bought anything in Topshop and looks fit to burst with the thought of it. Her face is bright with happiness, her smile is stretched across her entire face. I feel something inside me relax a little. It’s been a great day, a success. Millie has had the sort of birthday celebrations most nine year olds might hope for. I sigh with relief because it’s not always a given. Birthdays and Christmases can be fraught. Most days the two of us rub along very well, on some days we simply aren’t enough.

  Connie reaches into her bag, ‘I have two more. Mine and—’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ screeches Millie, who now seems incapable of managing a normal pitch such is her exhilaration. I can’t imagine what she’ll be like this evening when she opens the pile of bath bombs, stationery, jewellery and hair clips that are nestled in the numerous small packages in our living room.

  ‘Well there’s a story behind this gift,’ says Connie. I try to politely give her my attention but I’m keeping one eye on Millie too, she’s already ripped open the envelope and I reach for the discarded paper. Connie’s story gets snatched away on the wind, as Millie and her friends continue to laugh and chatter over one another.

  ‘What is it?’ India asks, peering over Millie’s shoulder.

  ‘Is it a voucher?’ asks Sophie, leaning on her friend.

  ‘No,’ Millie looks confused. ‘It’s tickets for Sadler’s Wells. A ballet, Giselle.’ Millie reads the words slowly, all light fading out of her face. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she says stiffly. She won’t look at Connie. I quickly snatch the tickets and card out of her hand and put them in my bag.

  ‘No, sweetheart, you don’t have to.’ I manage to smile at her and glare at Connie almost simultaneously. Quite the feat. ‘Come on, let’s get packed up. I’m so ready for fish and chips,’ I say in my jolliest tone.

  Everyone makes a big show of being hungry and we try to drown Millie’
s pain in chatter about whether we should add pickled eggs or pineapple fritters to our order. As we walk towards the shops and restaurants I collar Connie.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ I snap.

  ‘I just never imagined, I should have checked.’ Connie looks horrified. ‘I want to slap myself in the face,’ she adds.

  I want to slap her in the face too, but she’s my friend and I know she would never deliberately hurt me or Millie. It was a misjudgement that’s all. Still, I’m so infuriated I can’t quite let it go. I add, ‘You know she hates anything to do with ballet. She doesn’t want to be reminded of what’s no longer possible. Why did you get her tickets to see Giselle?’

  ‘That’s not my gift,’ says Connie.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That was what I was trying to tell you before Millie ripped open the card. It was sent to my house but addressed to Millie.’ My heart freezes. ‘Do you think it’s from Simon?’ she asks. ‘I’m really sorry, Daisy. I should have checked. I didn’t recognise the handwriting and it wasn’t like the usual prison post, so I didn’t imagine it was from him. But it must be, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply firmly, and then start to walk a little faster. ‘Come on girls, stay close together,’ I yell over my shoulder at Millie and her friends, who it seems are always dawdling or skipping ahead, never simply safely at my side.

  Connie looks confused. ‘But how? Those tickets cost a fortune and how did Simon get hold of them?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone must have helped him,’ I reply stiffly.

  ‘And there were three tickets. Why would he send three? What does it mean? Has a release date been set? He never said.’

  I don’t answer her. ‘Look both ways before crossing over, girls.’ We’re at a zebra crossing and they are already walking in twos, holding hands, as I’ve long since instructed them. Everyone follows my road crossing rules to the letter, no one dare do otherwise. The girls wait for the traffic to stop, and then check for bikes a second and third time, before Sebastian and Henry finally beckon them over the road like youthful lollipop men. People understand that I’m extremely fearful of crossing roads and if I exasperate them, no one says so, not even the perky kids.