Lies Lies Lies

by Adele Parks

  I pour myself a second glass of wine. The first one has gone down surprisingly quickly, considering how cheap and old it is. A flash of concern shimmies through my body. I’m always hyper-aware of the dangers of using alcohol to unwind, to combat stress, to blackout anything awful. But then I remind myself that my consumption of alcohol is within the realms of normal, as is my attitude towards it.

  I search through the drawer where I keep passports, certificates and medical records, and other important documentation. I dig out everything I think might be useful but force myself to leave Millie’s swimming and ‘Kind Behaviour in Class’ certificates. My eye flits to the pile of old photo albums, stashed in the same drawer. Millie was born into a digital age and all her baby photos are on my computer or phone; these albums are pre-her. Pictures of me at university and then in my first flat. Ones of Simon and I on early dates. Our wedding album. Photos of our holidays and day trips. I hesitate, knowing that leafing through them brings me as much pain as it does pleasure. There’s no way I can carry these with me, it doesn’t make sense even wanting to. If I’m going to start again why should I want to look back? Yet, I wonder whether I might have time to scan the images, upload them to The Cloud and access them again somewhere halfway around the world. Scanning takes an age. Maybe I can just take photos of them on my phone. The quality won’t be great, but it’s something, better than nothing.

  I carefully pick up the top album, open it up. The tissue paper, between the pages, flutters, filling the room with the ghost of luxury and promise. There we are. So familiar yet so distant. I pick up my phone and start to take snaps of the photos. I tell myself I’m doing this for Millie. At some point in her life she will ask about her daddy, I know she will, and I haven’t yet worked out exactly what I will tell her to explain our flit, but I will at least be able to show her these pictures. Pictures of when her mum and dad were so in love and had a shiny future in front of them. I carry on for quite some time, inevitably pausing, studying photos for longer than necessary. A drop of water splashes on to the photo album. I look up at the ceiling, my first thought a leak. Then, I realise I’m crying. Seeing Simon today has been harder than I imagined. I had expected the environment to be brutal, to feel scared, for him to have changed, for me to feel distant. But I had not expected to recognise him. Recognise him in that deep, connected way people do if they’ve lived with someone for years and years. The smell of him. The way he moves his head. The way he shrugs. I hadn’t thought I’d still know him so well. But sober, he is the man I knew a long time ago.

  My doorbell rings. I jump, startled but then freeze. I won’t answer it. I can’t. Not tonight. I just can’t face Daryll tonight. He won’t start banging on the door, will he? He wouldn’t want to wake Millie. To date, he’s always been as careful as I have, to be silent, but I don’t know if that is consideration specifically or just part of the thrill. Daryll is unpredictable. My phone beeps. Again, I jump. I carefully reach for it, nervous about what the message might say. I let out a sigh of relief. It’s from Lucy.

  Are you in? I’m stood outside. I think you are in.

  * * *

  I’m so relieved that it’s not Daryll, I don’t spend any time wondering what Lucy can want with me. I stand up and answer the door. Lucy is on the step, holding an expensive-looking bottle of wine.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asks. Her coming here alone and uninvited is unprecedented and so I’m stunned into simply nodding and waving her through. I lock the door behind her. She stands in the small hallway and watches me draw the chain across the lock. ‘Do you want a drink?’ She holds up her bottle.

  ‘Yes. OK. Good timing actually, I’ve just finished off the bottle that I had in the fridge.’ If Lucy disapproves of my drinking alone, which is unlikely, she’s cool enough not to let it show. I expect her to confidently stride into the kitchen and search out glasses the way Daryll did the first time he visited, but she doesn’t. She hangs back and waits until I lead the way. I open the wine in silence and pour us both a large glass. It’s too late for moderation, at least for me.

  ‘I’ve brought snacks too,’ she adds, dipping into her large, leather bag, that is oh-so-artfully-artlessly slung over her shoulder. She produces salt and vinegar Pringles, my all-time favourite snack, which has remained my preferred choice despite the invention of Kettle Chips and other temptations. She also produces a large slab of Dairy Milk, the sort with hazelnuts in. I actually gasp. I can’t kid myself. These sorts of snacks have never passed Lucy’s lips. They are thoughtful gifts, bought to please me.

  I eye her warily.

  ‘I thought things were a bit odd between us all, today,’ she says, by way of explanation.

  ‘Things are always a bit odd between us,’ I comment, daringly. Then I stare accusingly at my wine glass. I’d never have been so blunt without the Dutch courage. To my surprise Lucy laughs.

  ‘I love that about you, Daisy. You refuse to pretend anything is something it’s not. You are refreshingly honest.’ Then she pauses and stares right at me. ‘Usually.’

  I blush. Her gaze is so penetrating I almost believe she can read my mind. ‘Shall we go through?’

  We sit at either end of the sofa. I wait to hear what she has come to say. She so clearly has something on her mind. Lucy glances at the TV and comments, ‘Oh, Audrey Hepburn. You’ve always loved her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I mumble, surprised she recalls something so trivial about me.

  ‘Do you remember when we went shopping for your wedding dress? You wanted a dress like the one Audrey Hepburn wears for the ball in My Fair Lady. Or, more accurately, you wanted your own transformational moment. Not quite guttersnipe to duchess, but Daisy to Audrey.’

  I nod. I do remember the occasion very well. Doesn’t every woman remember hunting for her wedding dress? No matter how many years pass. I’d initially been quite unrealistic about what might suit my curvy figure. Some might say delusional. Connie, Rose, Lucy and Sam all accompanied me on my wedding dress hunt. I remember emerging from the changing room in a wholly inappropriate gown. It was so tight I could barely move in it. I thought I might cry with disappointment when I looked in the mirror. Not so much elegant as elephant. Humiliated and frustrated I’d waited for Lucy to lash me with her caustic tongue. But she surprised me. She pointed out that Simon loved my curves. She reminded me that he was marrying me. A woman he’d seen in thermals and with greasy hair, that whilst everyone wanted to look their best on their wedding day, no one was expected to change into someone altogether different. It was, I have to admit, very kind of her. She saved the day. She was a great friend.

  Of course, that was before I knew she was sleeping with my sister’s husband.

  I can still recall what she said. I was struck by her wisdom. ‘This marriage isn’t about the wedding day, it’s about you and him, not a dress.’ She then encouraged me to buy a dress that suited my body shape, rather than squeeze myself into an unrealistic ideal. I would like to dismiss the incident, put it down to Lucy simply being unable to allow a fashion faux pas on her watch, but I don’t honestly believe that to be the case. She thought I should pick a different style because, I suppose, thinking about it, Lucy has always been keen for people to be true to themselves. She wanted me to buy a dress that flattered an hourglass figure, because I have an hourglass figure.

  As though Lucy is following my thoughts she starts to quote herself. ‘How often has he told you that he loves your hips, your bot, he hangs on those massive tits.’

  These were the very words she said to me when I stood in the bridal shop, starring hopelessly at my own refection in the far-too-tight, inappropriate dress. Right now, she delivers the punch line with a huge guffaw. I can’t help it, I laugh too.

  ‘I was so shocked that you said tits in a wedding dress shop.’

  ‘You were!’ Lucy laughs again. ‘I had to promise not to say anything rude in the church. Not that I actually made it to the church,’ she adds ruefully. ‘Since you uninvited
me.’

  ‘Well, that was your own fault for seducing my sister’s husband,’ I snap back, the happy moment instantly banished.

  Lucy stops laughing and rolls her eyes, ‘Are you ever going to let that go?’

  ‘Probably not,’ I mumble, although right now, eighteen years later and three huge glasses of wine down, I think it hardly matters. After all, Rose is happy. She called me this evening from Greece. ‘Just checking in,’ she’d said. She meant just checking up – on me. She told me about the turquoise waters with towering cliffs, the whitewashed villages packed with culinary delights. She said that she and Craig had spent most days lounging on the fine sand beaches, reading books and just chatting. She sounded breathlessly happy, as she has done for a decade. Maybe it is time to let it go – my resentment at Lucy and Peter’s infidelity. It’s not like I’m short on things to feel indignant about. Things to feel furious about.

  Lucy tucks her feet up under her bottom. She leans back, clearly ensconced on the couch for the night. ‘So, you asked for a divorce?’

  ‘Yes. Surely you haven’t got a problem with that.’

  ‘Me? No.’ Lucy replies with a shrug. ‘If it’s what you want.’ ‘Why wouldn’t it be what I want, considering everything?’ She shrugs again, but I’m not fooled. She’s only pretending to be disinterested. ‘I don’t know. I always had you down as someone who was in it for good. You know, someone who would go the distance, no matter what.’

  ‘Well, you were wrong. Everyone has their limits.’

  ‘And you want a divorce to pursue your relationship with Daryll Lainbridge, right?’ I nod, briefly. Not quite able to say the words. ‘Now, that I’m confused about, because last time we talked about him, you described him as an arrogant prick.’

  I blanch. Then rally. ‘Well, things change.’

  Lucy sits silently for a few seconds. It feels longer. Eventually she asks, ‘What’s going on, Daisy? It doesn’t add up.’

  I swallow back another slug of wine. I’m at the stage of drunk that feels careless and invincible. I pour some more and make a thing of topping up Lucy’s, although she’s barely touched hers. The fresh glass gives me permission. I throw caution to the wind. It’s going to come out at some point, that point might as well be now. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘It’s one of the top skills on my CV.’

  ‘I’m serious, Lucy.’

  ‘OK.’ She smiles, but there’s caution in her eyes.

  ‘You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. I mean anyone. Ever. Not Peter, not Connie. No one. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You promise? You swear?’

  ‘On what, a bible?’ Lucy looks sceptical.

  ‘On Auriol’s life.’

  ‘You think that’s necessary?’

  ‘I do. Swear?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘On Auriol’s life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I know I’m making her uncomfortable. I pause. Hesitate, and then can’t hold it back. ‘Millie is Daryll’s child.’

  ‘What? You had an affair?’

  I should just say yes. That’s what I’d planned to tell her and everyone. Daryll’s right, she would understand that, but I can’t. Because it’s not true. I have never been unfaithful to Simon.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I mutter.

  ‘What then? He’s your sperm donor?’

  ‘That’s how I’ve always thought about it.’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re not being clear.’ She stares at me in a way that makes me think she knows before I say it. Somehow, she understands.

  ‘He forced me.’

  ‘You mean he raped you?’

  I can’t say the words. Even now. All these years later. If I say them, it’s true. My beautiful miracle girl was born as a result of brutal violence.

  ‘Daisy?’ And if she’d reacted angrily, indignant or shocked, I might have clamped up. I might have found a way to close it down, backtrack, deny everything I’d just confessed. But she doesn’t, she sounds concerned.

  ‘He’s still forcing me,’ I whisper.

  ‘Daisy.’ I can’t look at her, but I hear the horror in Lucy’s voice now. ‘Are you saying he is raping you on an ongoing basis?’ The words she picks are straightforward. Almost clinical. And they are the ones I need. She’s trying to establish fact. I’ve been wading through a quagmire for years. Alone.

  I nod.

  ‘Oh, my poor love.’

  I don’t recall Lucy ever calling anyone ‘Love’ before, although I assume she must use endearments when speaking to Peter and Auriol. She doesn’t move closer to me. She doesn’t try to pull me into a hug, as I’m certain Rose or Connie would have if I’d told them this awful thing. I’m glad. I don’t want to feel another person’s weight, not so much as a hand on my shoulder, not even a tentative squeeze of my arm. Any physical contact scares me. Repulses me. These past few weeks I haven’t even wanted Millie to hug me. If I could peel off my skin I would. If I could stop being a body and just be my mind, I would. Actually, if it wasn’t for Millie, I might stop altogether. Just be done with it. Done with me. I have thought about that. At night, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. I’ve wondered whether that’s the only way to escape this. But I won’t leave her. Never.

  I force myself to look at Lucy. It’s important I read her face as well as hear her words. I’ve long since doubted what people say; what they do is all that counts. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I believe you,’ she replies fiercely, and her face twists into an expression that is one hundred percent authentic.

  Oh God, the relief, the relief. Slowly, I roll up my sleeves. I show her the bruises on my upper arms. I unbutton my blouse and let it slip over my shoulders, with shaking legs I stand up and turn around, to show her the marks there and on my back. Bruises, where he’s held me down or tied me up and I’ve silently struggled.

  ‘We have to go to the police.’

  ‘No. No, I can’t, and you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone,’ I say forcefully. I pull up my blouse quickly, as though I can rub out what she’s just seen.

  ‘But I didn’t know you were going to tell me this.’

  ‘No buts. You swore on Auriol’s life,’ I insist. I can’t do that. Doesn’t she see? Telling people won’t help. ‘I don’t want Millie to know she’s a product of rape. Not ever. You can’t tell anyone. You promised.’

  I know she is sweeping her mind to think of the right thing to say. I wish she’d leave. I should never have said anything to her. I’ve kept the secret this long. I should have just kept my mouth shut for a few more weeks. I had a plan. She didn’t need to know. No one did. What is wrong with me? It’s too late for anyone to help me, so why have I opened my mouth now? ‘You need to leave,’ I tell her. I want to just curl up inside my own hopelessness for a while.

  ‘This can’t go on,’ she insists.

  ‘No, probably not, especially as he’s escalating things. He wants me to move in with him. He wants to be her father.’

  ‘But he’s a rapist.’

  ‘Only if I keep saying no. If I say yes, he’s something different.’

  ‘You can’t place yourself and Millie in that position.’ Lucy gazes at me with a complex mix of emotions: horror and compassion, frustration and fire.

  ‘I know,’ I admit.

  ‘Then what are you going to do, Daisy?’

  ‘Run. I’m going to run.’

  46

  Chapter 46, Simon

  Sunday, 7th July 2019

  That very next night Simon received a delivery. He had not expected things to move so fast, but thinking about it, he supposed the cell searches meant things were floating about and needed new homes, quickly. Vagabond contraband. Or maybe the Dales just needed him to know they owned him now, there was no getting away. He was stood in the supper queue. He’d been hoping for a small carton of orange juice, because he was thinking he could stash it and may
be risk making his own hooch. Even as the thought half-formed in his mind, he acknowledged doing so would be stupidly risky and wondered at himself for even contemplating the idea. Still, he couldn’t shake it. His addiction was creeping over him, choking him. Leaving him vulnerable, helpless and hopeless again. However, as soon as the con on hatch duty slid the small cardboard carton on to Simon’s plastic tray, he knew that he wasn’t getting orange juice. The con was making too much of an effort to look casual; he was actually whistling. There was something about the weight of the drink carton – which he could estimate as it was slid onto the tray – that was wrong, it was too light. He walked straight back to his cell, sat on his bunk, carefully tore open the carton. It was weed.