A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  My father’s deep burgundy bow tie that had given him a dapper edge earlier in the day is now stuffed into his breast pocket, and there’s a couple of red wine splatters on his dress shirt. ‘Really?’ I say, but I’m not surprised. Traditional weddings aren’t my parents’ thing. When Paul and Flora got married, they opted for the Old Marylebone Town Hall followed by a booze-up in the Rose Tavern on Marylebone High Street. I find it ironic that it’s now one of the smartest streets in London, but my parents are yet to see the funny side.

  ‘It’s been a wonderful day. Now it’s time for you young things to enjoy yourself. And Flora’s ready to go.’

  I look over at my mother, perched on one of the chairs that’s been pushed to the side of the room to make way for the dance floor. I see her glazed expression, vacant smile firmly set, body swaying not quite in time with the music. But this isn’t new. Flora is always drunk on occasions like this, when free booze flows and new drinking buddies spring up from every direction. No, her wanting to leave is about something else – those little wedding conventions that Dan insisted upon, but that make my mother’s skin itch.

  Dan pulls me closer. ‘No problem, Paul. I’ll make sure she enjoys herself.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you will.’ Even being an actor, Paul has never managed to hide his dislike for Dan. Both Flora and Paul were excited when I first told them about my new boyfriend. Dan and I met in a pub when I spilled my drink on his new suede boots. It was more instant attraction than love at first sight, but I didn’t leave his place much after that, and when he asked me to move in a week later, I didn’t hesitate.

  At first my free-spirited parents loved my impulsiveness, my whirlwind romance, but that was before they met him. When they visited his flat, our flat by then, its overt uniformity horrified Flora. Dan’s legal magazines, neatly stacked in issue order, clearly offended her too because she managed to spill her entire cup of tea on them. ‘You’re a fish out of water here,’ she’d whispered as I’d seen her out that day. ‘He will suffocate you.’ It’s a shame she never realised how much I was floundering when I lived with them.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Dan asks, as we watch Paul navigate Flora towards the exit.

  I turn to face my husband. I know looks shouldn’t matter, that what’s on the inside is more important. But I can’t help a surge of pride rushing through me as I stare at him, because he is so very handsome. His strong chiselled jaw, those deep brown eyes and perfect white teeth, always ready with a smile. People keep saying what a beautiful couple we make and today – all pampered and polished – I’ve been willing to accept the compliment. ‘Very okay,’ I answer, and rest my head against his chest, my long dark curls blending in with his dinner jacket.

  *

  ‘Is it crazy to admit I feel nervous?’

  Dan takes hold of my hand without looking at me, his concentration taken up by trying to slot the credit-card-style room key at just the right angle to unlock the hotel room door. ‘Yes, it’s crazy,’ he says softly. The door clicks and Dan raises his eyeline to meet mine. ‘But also sexy as hell.’

  Butterflies lurch in my tummy and I let him lead me into the unlit room, or honeymoon suite to be more exact. When we first started planning the wedding, we knew there’d be no financial help from either side of the family, so we had to make some sensible decisions along the way. But Dan wouldn’t compromise on our wedding night. The element that is purely for us.

  We stop in the middle of the room and look at each other. I know there’s a bottle of champagne resting in an ice bucket at the bottom of the bed and a bouquet of flowers stood upright on the dressing table, but they seem immaterial now. I don’t need any more reminders of how special this day is. Dan places his hands either side of my face and pushes his lips against mine. He’s both claiming me and protecting me; telling me I’m his, whilst promising to take care of me. This normally modern man is showing some caveman impulses, and in my virgin-white dress it feels nothing short of perfect.

  Except getting the dress off isn’t quite so movie-smooth. There are a hundred baby buttons and hidden hooks to work through, and equality reigns again as we both battle to get them open.

  ‘This better be worth it,’ Dan threatens, and I pick up on his fictional tale of pre-marital celibacy.

  ‘Oh, my naked body is quite something.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ Dan concurs, just as my dress finally slips to the floor. Then the giggling stops once again and he reaches for me. I feel a deep ache of love for this man who swept me off my feet and put me in the centre of his life. Our lips join together and my bony hips slot underneath his more musclebound ones. Our curves rise and dip so neatly against each other that it feels as though we were pre-moulded this way.

  ‘I love you, Dan.’ I need to say it, to be clear.

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll be this perfect forever?’

  ‘Of course we will. You and me, against the world.’

  He picks me up and lowers my naked body onto the four-poster bed. I pull him towards me and very quickly any thoughts of the wider world disappear.

  Chapter 4

  NOVEMBER 2019

  Ben

  Fucking unbelievable.

  Ben feels the familiar surge of rage flood his body. Adrenaline grabs at his muscles; his pupils dilate, and the red F blurs out of focus.

  He shouldn’t give a shit really.

  But it just doesn’t make sense; he’d actually tried in that geography essay.

  He hadn’t bothered much during his first year of A-levels, so two fails in his summer exams were understandable (while his A in art and design was so expected that it hardly drew comment). His parents’ reaction had been predictable of course: a mix of disappointment and sympathy laced up with a thread of we’ll always love you, however much of a failure you turn out to be.

  Ben could have taken them at their word. Left school, holed up in his room with his Xbox. But he hadn’t. He’d started Year 13 with something close to a positive attitude – and look where that effort has got him.

  Next to the letter F is an illegible paragraph of writing, also in red biro. Teacher’s tips for rising up the letter ladder. Well, fuck you. Ben drags his fingers along the essay, crinkling the paper into his cupped palm.

  ‘Moreton? Not a good idea,’ Mr Saunders calls out evenly. Ben stares at his teacher. He could – should – remove his hand and smile that fake apology he’s practised over the years. His teacher would pretend not to recognise his insincerity and the class could move on, giving him the chance to get his shit together. Or he could wrap the essay into a tight ball and throw it at the bastard.

  He sucks in air, then expels it slowly. ‘Sorry sir, just a bit disappointed, you know.’ Beaming smile, gritted teeth. He releases his fingers and rubs his clammy palms along the underside of his desk; no point sweating over a stupid essay.

  ‘No problem, Ben. Come and see me after and we can run through your paper together. Now, you lot, deforestation …’

  With the tension in his muscles starting to ease, Ben switches the class onto mute mode and lets his mind wander. While he is no great fan of school, he does prefer the anonymity of his life during termtime. The half-term holidays had been a different story, trapped with his family in Berlin for ten long days. Ever-perfect Rosie had steered the conversation away from school whenever their parents ventured onto the subject, but that had infuriated him as well, her constant do-gooder-ness. Thank God he’d managed to escape to the city’s Kreuzberg district a couple of times and lose himself in its mind-blowing street art scene for a while.

  The bell rings, breaking into Ben’s daydream. He’s got a free period next and had planned to revise for the next day’s chemistry test, but he’s not in the mood for that anymore. He trudges out of his geography classroom – avoiding eye contact with Mr Saunders in case his teacher plays out his earlier offer of help – and contemplates going to the art studio instead, adding more chaos to the oil painting he’
s working on for his portfolio. But he doesn’t make it further than a few steps down the corridor before he’s waylaid.

  ‘Hey, bro, you got a free period next?’

  Ben smiles at his friend. Jake only joined the school in Year 12 but has already gained himself quite a reputation for flouting the rules; it didn’t take them long to find each other.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Got plans?’

  ‘Well, I have a chemistry test tomorrow,’ Ben mutters vaguely.

  ‘Fancy a bit of hands-on revision?’

  There’s a glint in Jake’s eye and it doesn’t take much for Ben to work out what he’s suggesting. He can almost taste that first drag, feel the relief of it filtering through his body. ‘Any chance those chemicals involve THC?’ he asks in a low voice.

  ‘See? You know it already. You’re gonna beast that test.’

  Ben smiles again, wider this time because this is exactly what he needs, a chance to dispel the anger still bubbling under the surface. And to do it with someone who feels close to being a kindred spirit. Of course he couldn’t expect Jake to have the same life history as him – that would be too fucked up. But having a 28-year-old stepfather who regularly posts topless pictures of himself on Instagram is pretty messy too. And Jake isn’t blessed with the same amnesia about his sordid past that Ben is.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they wander down the noisy corridor, but instead of turning left into the sixth form centre they carry on out of the main exit.

  ‘Science block?’ Jake asks, pausing to check Ben’s willing to take the risk. They could disappear off site, but that means a walk across the rugby pitches to get to the back gate, and the sky’s already threatening rain. The science block is much closer, but the chance of getting caught is higher too.

  ‘Works for me,’ Ben answers without hesitation.

  The school grounds are quiet as they stride across the playground, the rest of the school now sucked into the final period of the day. They arrive at the modern redbrick construction and Ben concentrates on the wall in front of him.

  ‘I’ll go first, follow me,’ he instructs, with a rare confidence saved for distinct occasions like this. After three miserable years underperforming on a football pitch followed by a season doing the same thing – yet more painfully – on a rugby pitch, Ben’s parents finally surrendered to the realisation that their son wasn’t into traditional sports like his sister. So at 12 years old Ben had started spending his Saturday mornings climbing. It wasn’t always fun. He would get so angry with himself if he couldn’t make a particular climb or grabbed onto the wrong colour hold, disqualifying him from whatever level he was trying to conquer. But making it to the top gave him such a rush that the sport proved addictive in the end, although nowadays he tends to use his skills away from the climbing centre.

  With Jake falling in step behind him, Ben squeezes his toes into a gap in the brickwork and powers up with his legs, pushing his hips square against the wall. Four grabs are all it takes for him to reach the roof overhang and then he swings his body to get the momentum, before thrusting an arm and leg in one dynamic movement onto the roof. He’s made it. He manoeuvres the rest of his body onto the asphalt surface and rolls onto his back, enjoying the sensation of his heart racing.

  ‘Smooth moves,’ Jake pants as he appears next to him. ‘You’re stronger than you look.’

  ‘Can’t promise the same precision on the way down.’

  Jake responds with a loud laugh and Ben wonders if they’re being stupid, smoking their illegal drugs up here. There are four labs underneath him, and all of them will be full of students right now, staring into Bunsen burner flames or throwing acid blanched litmus paper at each other. He imagines getting so stoned that he decides to drop through the skylight like some psychedelic Messiah. The fuss that would cause.

  ‘What you smiling about?’ Jake asks, handing Ben a well-packed spliff.

  Ben takes a long pull and feels the sweet aroma fill his mouth, and then his lungs. He takes a couple more puffs, then hands the joint back to his friend, his world nicely spinning. ‘Getting off my head, I guess,’ he finally answers.

  ‘Yeah, life’s good when you’re fucked.’

  Ben considers that. He vaguely knows that Jake is talking rubbish; that there’s no meaning behind his words. But what if he’s right? Does being fucked give you a unique insight into life? Something regular people will never know or feel? Is being constantly slung with shit actually life-enriching?

  ‘My life must be frickin’ rosy then,’ he answers, with what he planned on being ironic laughter, before accepting the proffered spliff back and filling his lungs one more time.

  *

  The bell goes and Ben stuffs his empty chemistry notes into his bag, trying not to make eye contact with anyone in case they notice how bloodshot his are. After smoking and talking shit for half an hour, he and Jake had managed to get off the roof without anyone noticing them, and into the sixth form centre with only a passing look of suspicion from their Head of Year. But now that everyone is heading for the exit, he feels more exposed. He keeps his head down and manages to make it outside without having to engage with anyone.

  He’s passing the main school building, a looming sixteenth-century mansion, when fingers pinch him at the elbow. With a sharp intake of breath, his arms fly skywards, as if they’re programmed to over-react by some outside force.

  ‘Whoa, steady!’ Rosie ducks neatly under Ben’s arm as it comes back down to earth.

  Ben tries to focus on his sister, while slipping his hand back down to his side. If his physical rejection disappoints her, she shows no sign of it.

  ‘Who did you think it was? Is that Arabella girl stalking you again? Don’t worry, she freaks me out too. Shouldn’t be so damn pretty, should you, little brother?’

  Ben vaguely considers pointing out that he actually towers over Rosie now. She’s tall, but over the last year, it’s like he’s been sleeping on some sort of torture rack. Rosie gave him the nickname when he was a mute 5-year-old, during that car ride back from the courthouse. It was her way of reminding him that she was the eldest, if only by five months. And maybe a note on her status. The biological child. In the end, the nickname stuck, and even his new height hasn’t persuaded her to change it.

  ‘Nah, Arabella moved on pretty quickly.’ Ben chooses not to mention the way he brought that situation to a close, the shock on the girl’s face when he couldn’t take her constant whining anymore. ‘You heading home?’

  ‘Yep. Netball practice was cancelled so I thought I’d make a start on my history essay instead.’

  ‘Do you ever let up being perfect?’ Ben asks with more resentment than he’d intended – clearly the numbing effects of the marijuana are wearing off – and her hurt expression rouses a guilt he’s never quite managed to shake where Rosie’s concerned. ‘Sorry, sis. Bad day.’

  ‘Jesus, Ben,’ Rosie responds impatiently. ‘You’ve just won that art prize, out of like fifty million kids, and you think I’m perfect?’

  Ben shakes his head at his sister’s wild exaggeration – there were actually about 500 entries in his category of the Wandsworth Young Artist of the Year Award. Secretly he was proud to win the top prize, but he’s not admitted that to anyone else. He knows his parents aren’t interested in his artistic talent and the thought of their fake congratulations is enough to put him off saying very much.

  ‘All that means is I’m allowed to be imperfect,’ Ben responds, his mask firmly back in place. ‘I’m clearly just too creative for geography, or chemistry, or chores, or being civil—’ But he can’t finish goading his sister because she starts whacking him with her sports bag.

  ‘You’re such a dick,’ she giggles, and Ben can hear the affection in her voice. Pride, relief and resentment all flood through him at the same time, one jumbled shot of emotion that could have knocked him off balance if he hadn’t learned to cope with his mixed feelings for Rosie many years ago.

  Her mood actually
proves quite infectious and Ben feels his earlier weed-induced good humour return as they reach their home on Milada Road – a large Victorian terrace, unremarkable from its neighbours with its perfect frontage guarded by iron railings. But as Rosie unlocks the door, his heart sinks. Their mother is back from work.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ she calls out, all bright and breezy, like she hasn’t been sat in an office for most of the day, appeasing clients with bigger egos than budgets. ‘Good day? Any news on that geography essay, Ben?’ All casual, unconcerned, like she hasn’t got her fingers crossed underneath the work surface.

  ‘Yeah,’ he answers, not willing to lie, not caring enough to keep her hopes up. Why the hell is it so important anyway? He hasn’t even had a chance to take his shoes off.

  ‘Netball practice was cancelled today, Mum,’ Rosie calls out, seemingly desperate to share her own news all of a sudden. ‘I reckon Miss Guthrie’s pregnant. Either that or hungover. She looked properly green when she told us it was off.’

  Ben knows Rosie is trying to divert their mother’s attention to give him time to disappear upstairs. He feels that familiar indecision grip at his stomach. Of course he should take this opportunity to avoid an argument, give himself the chance to calm down like he did in his geography class. But the tension isn’t letting up this time.

  ‘Well, calling it morning sickness has to be one of life’s greatest inaccuracies if my experience was anything to go by,’ their mother calls from the kitchen. ‘Is she married?’ she continues.

  Rosie smiles and rolls her eyes at him. The tightness between his shoulders releases a little.

  ‘And sorry, Ben, what grade did you say you got?’

  ‘Don’t rise to it,’ Rosie whispers urgently. ‘She’s been brainwashed by all those alpha mums at their annoying little coffee mornings. You’ve got more talent in your little finger than all of their darling offspring put together. She knows it too, really. She just forgets sometimes.’