A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  All scenarios are so awful that I don’t want to think about it. I start pacing the room, considering my options. I could chase after them; try to persuade them to keep quiet. But Flora is determined to tell Charlie the truth and I don’t want to cause a scene in front of him. I could phone the café, try to get him out of there. But what would I say? He’ll just go back to thinking I’m crazy.

  I wish I could call Flora, try to reason with her somehow. She’s got a mobile phone, but she never carries it with her. It will be shoved in some drawer somewhere gathering dust; the landline sees more movement in this house. I stare down at my own cheap Nokia sitting next to me on the sofa. I’m the opposite; I take it with me everywhere. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. There was a time when Dan would text little messages, I love you maybe, or more often: Can you pick up shirts from dry cleaners? But that was all a long time ago.

  For no reason other than to occupy my hands, I pull a bottle of wine out of Paul’s antique French wine rack. The contraption looks like it belongs in a torture chamber rather than a living room, with its iron spokes rising out of a series of metal rings, but Paul loves it. He found it in a flea market in Montpelier one holiday and managed to fit it in the back seat of our Ford Cortina somehow. There was a time when it would be full of interesting bottles from across the globe, but now there are just a few screw-tops from Sainsbury’s.

  I don’t usually drink in this house if I can avoid it; seeing the effects of my parents’ dependency is enough to put me off. But tonight is different. There’s a bottle opener sitting next to the advent calendar on the mantelpiece and it’s not long before I’m holding a large glass of some cheap Portuguese merlot in my hand. I’m greedy for its numbing effect so I don’t stop until the glass is empty. I stare at my reflection in the tarnished mirror. Is this it? The day that the future I’ve been so carefully constructing comes crashing down?

  While the wine hasn’t slowed my thoughts, it has relaxed me enough to sit back down. I slump on to the sofa; bottle in one hand, glass in the other. Maybe I should just give up on being reunited with my son. Kick back with Flora and Paul and drink myself into oblivion. Right now, that doesn’t feel like such a bad idea.

  *

  I’m on my second bottle when they walk through the door but it hasn’t had the effect I was hoping for; I still feel wired. I search their faces for clues, but Flora’s glazed mask and Paul’s stony expression reveal nothing.

  ‘Well?’ I spit it out.

  ‘He looks like you.’ Paul says it as an insult. Like I’ve ruined Charlie by giving him my eyes.

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘He works hard. He’s a credit to his family.’

  ‘ANSWER MY QUESTION!’ The adrenaline has found an outlet and I can’t stop it.

  ‘He remembered Flora. I introduced myself.’

  ‘Oh God! How could you? Don’t you care what you’ve done to him?’

  ‘What we’ve done to him?’

  Paul’s voice is mocking. I can’t stand the sound of it. Why the hell do I have to shoulder the blame for everything? ‘You’ve done this! THIS is on you.’ I jab my finger at him.

  ‘Oh, darling, don’t you see?’ Flora has chosen a wounded tone; she knows exactly how to rile me. ‘This is ALL on you.’

  I pick up the wine rack then. It’s only in my hands for an instant. Then it’s sailing across the room, heading for Flora’s accusing face. The few remaining bottles fly out midair. Most thud on the carpet but one smashes against the dusty sideboard. Flora screams as she ducks down, trying to avoid the iron spokes. The sound of metal meeting wall is glorious.

  I feel hands grab at me. All the adrenaline has gone now, and I let myself be dragged along like a rag doll. When we get to the kitchen, Paul lets go of my jumper, pushes me away from him.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?!’

  ‘You told him. You ruined everything.’

  ‘You could have killed her!’

  ‘You have no right.’

  ‘Phoebe, we didn’t tell him.’

  I look up, try to focus my vision amidst the swirling fog of tears.

  ‘I wanted to, but Flora persuaded me to give you more time.’

  ‘He doesn’t know?’ The wine, the fear, it’s jumbling my thoughts.

  ‘And this is how you repay her.’

  Chapter 25

  SEPTEMBER 2005

  Phoebe

  I look in the mirror and try not to be disappointed. Pregnancy doesn’t just give you a bump, it changes every part of your body. For nine months, you’re a warrior, protecting your baby with every biological weapon available to you. But you do this covertly, under the mask of tired eyes, puffy skin, and an expanding waistline.

  ‘I look fat.’

  ‘You’re twelve weeks pregnant – you’re allowed to look fat.’

  I glance at Dan perched on the side of our bed, his head dipped down, eyes squinting at his Blackberry. It took me a full day of traipsing round different shops to find something appropriate to wear, an outfit that said high-flying theatrical agent rather than new mum-to-be; the least he could do is look up. I change tack, soften my voice. ‘Do you think the dress makes me look fat?’

  A small sigh escapes from his lips, like I’ve interrupted something more important, but he lifts his head dutifully. Then I feel his eyes roll over me, appraising my ice-blue Fifties-style swing dress with its low-cut V highlighting my deeper than usual cleavage, and I see his expression change, his interest shift. ‘Wow, you look amazing.’

  With his words, a worm of excitement squirms in my belly. I still can’t quite believe I’ve made the short list for Theatrical Agent of the Year, my welcome-back news when I returned from Greece, let alone Richie’s confidence that I’m a dead cert winner. But this evening, as I twirl in my new dress, the reality of my achievement is coming into focus. Husband, son, new baby, and now my career at an all-time high. It almost feels too good to be true.

  Of course, the awards ceremony also means a glamorous evening out with my husband. He’d been unsure about the date at first – apparently some big anniversary for his firm – but when Richie had paid for the tickets and then surprised us with a luxury hotel room to finish off the night in style, he’d promised to sort something out. Cara had agreed to have Charlie, and I’d gone shopping.

  ‘I bought new lingerie too,’ I add, finding a sexy tone to match his expression. Over the last week or so, my morning sickness has started to subside, and I’ve felt more able to deal with the exhausting mix of work, childcare and keeping the house in some sort of order. Second pregnancies are not like your first, when everyone treats you like a princess and demands that you put your feet up, but I don’t mind. My hand slips to my belly; we’ve been toughing this one out together. And now, finally, I have the energy for something more fun.

  ‘It feels a bit weird, having a dirty weekend when you’re pregnant.’

  ‘It’s a night at the Ritz,’ I remind him. ‘Not exactly seedy.’

  ‘Maybe my priorities have changed.’ He sees the hurt flash across my face and grabs my hand. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. I just mean the baby comes first now, protecting it.’

  ‘Protecting her,’ I murmur, almost without realising I’ve spoken. I’m certain that we’re having a girl and calling her it feels wrong, offensive even. But he takes my comment as acquiescence.

  ‘Exactly.’

  I look into his eyes. ‘So where do you get your kicks while you’re protecting our daughter?’

  He drops my hand, leans back further on the bed. ‘Shit, Phoebe. That’s not fair.’

  He looks hurt and I instantly regret my words. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We agreed, that’s all behind us now.’

  ‘I know; I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘You promised you’d moved on. We can’t make a success of this marriage if you’re still angry with me.’

  ‘I guess I just want tonight to be special, romantic. Free champagne, a room a
t the Ritz. I want to feel like an irresistible wife, not a sensible mother.’

  He reaches for my hand again and pulls me down next to him on the bed. He kisses each of my fingernails, their new French polish shining in the low September sunlight. ‘You’re right, I’m being stupid. This is your night, and I’ll make sure it’s perfect.’ He leans over and kisses my lips, nibbling and exploring. I close my eyes and feel a shiver of anticipation tingle on my skin. Tonight will be special. I can feel it.

  Eventually he draws away. ‘I better get in the shower, spruce myself up. What time are we leaving?’

  Brought out of my reverie, I look at my watch. ‘Cara could be here any minute to pick up Charlie. He’s so excited; he’s already sat on the stairs with his bag packed. Then we’re free to go.’

  ‘Well, it’s good that it doesn’t take me long to look gorgeous then.’

  I roll my eyes, pretend to scoff, but we both know it’s true. It’s so much easier for men, especially ones gifted with natural good looks like Dan.

  ‘Shall I book a cab?’ he asks, his brow furrowing slightly. I know he’s weighing up the substantial cost of a taxi into the West End against the free rolling he’s going to enjoy for the rest of the evening.

  ‘No don’t worry. I was planning on driving.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s not like I can take full advantage of the free champagne.’

  ‘The car’s been a bit temperamental lately,’ he muses. ‘What happens if we break down?’

  It’s true that our 1997 Jeep Wrangler – a legacy from Dan’s bachelor days – has had a few issues. A crack in the manifold that meant a new exhaust. Steering issues when the car picks up speed, known rather ominously in the trade as the death wobble. Dan loves it though, won’t hear of replacing his precious Jeep with something more akin to a family car, and secretly I’m quite fond of its iconic status too, if not its reliability. ‘It’s a six-mile journey,’ I say to placate him. ‘And if I reach thirty miles per hour in rush hour traffic it’ll be a miracle. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He stands up and releases the buttons on his shirt, exposing his solid torso, still tanned from our trip. ‘And I guess it means we won’t have to wait for a cab at the end of the night.’

  ‘Quicker to our hotel room.’

  ‘And then we’ll see what’s more attractive after a night in those heels,’ he says, nodding at my new strappy stilettos, ‘my body or those plumped-up goose-down pillows swathed in freshly washed Egyptian cotton.’ He winks at me, but doesn’t wait for a response before heading out of the room.

  As I turn back to the mirror to apply the finishing touches to my make-up, my phone buzzes next to me. I read the text from Cara and my heart drops. I tap in her number and she picks up on the first ring.

  ‘Chickenpox?’ I ask.

  ‘I know, can’t believe the timing. Doctor said I need to keep him at home, definitely no sleepovers. I’m so sorry.’

  I close my eyes and try not to let the scream of frustration leak out. Charlie is at nursery with Jude twice a week. Chances are he’s caught the illness already. But I can’t ignore the instructions given by a GP. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I would come to you, except Tim’s away overnight. I know how big this is for you, Phoebs. Could your mum look after Charlie?’

  Cara has met Flora a few times, fleeting encounters in the park or local play zone. Not long enough to understand how unreliable she is. ‘Perhaps. I’ll sort something out,’ I promise, before ending the call and throwing my phone onto the bed. What now? Charlie has plenty of other friends at nursery, but none that he would feel comfortable staying the night with, especially at this short notice. Paul is away with a new theatre group he’s joined, so Flora is on her own. Could I ask her? In some ways she’s a brilliant grandparent, happy to play with Charlie for hours. But how could I trust her not to drink herself into oblivion, to ignore my son’s cries if he woke from a bad dream?

  Dan walks into the room, towel around his waist. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I sigh and sink down onto the bed. ‘Jude’s got chickenpox; Cara can’t have Charlie.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know, what a nightmare.’

  Silence hangs in the air for a while as I rock between two grim options – risking Charlie’s safety with Flora or giving up the night I’ve been so looking forward to. But it’s Dan who speaks first.

  ‘I’ll stay. It’s your night, not mine, and Richie will look after you.’

  I look up at him. He was so ready with the suggestion, that I wonder if he would prefer to stay. But I see the regret in his eyes, mixed with concern for our son, and my suspicions subside. ‘I want you to be there.’

  ‘Me too, Phoebe, I really want that. But what choice do we have?’

  I pause, listen to the thud of my heart. ‘We could ask Flora.’

  His response is immediate, horrified. ‘I’m not leaving Charlie overnight with that lush. Honestly, I think I should stay.’

  Whether through frustration or the sting of his words, anger surges inside me. I know I have no right to defend my mother; Dan’s description is exactly right. But she had made more effort with her grandson than I would ever have imagined – a lot more than Dan’s father – and Charlie loves spending time with her. She also raised me for eighteen years and I managed to survive. Maybe it’s time we gave her a chance. ‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t drink.’

  ‘And you think she’ll listen to you?’

  ‘It’s one night.’

  ‘She hasn’t been sober in ten years.’

  ‘She’s my mother, Dan. She won’t let Charlie come to any harm.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I stand up, run my hand down Dan’s bare arm, still warm from the shower. Am I sure? Can I rely on her, just this once? I think about the alternative, sitting next to an empty chair, slipping into a super-king-sized bed alone. ‘I would never put Charlie at risk.’

  ‘But Flora … really, Phoebe?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  He stands still for a moment, his mind wavering, but finally he gives me a small nod. His consent. I know he’s not convinced, but I can’t let him talk me out of this; I want this night together too badly. I pick up my phone and make the call. I’m not going to let our perfect night be ruined.

  Chapter 26

  DECEMBER 2019

  Ben

  Ben can hear his family talking in the kitchen before he even opens the front door. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but he can tell the conversation is achievement-related by the pitch of their voices. He sighs behind the wooden panels. He’s already apologised to his mum for Thursday’s disaster, and even managed to stay calm when his dad added his two pennies’ worth, so he knows there’ll be no more fallout from that. But still, he’s been on his feet for the last seven hours and isn’t in the mood for being congratulatory. He knows he won’t get away with going straight upstairs though, so he steels himself for the onslaught of positivity.

  ‘Is that you, Ben?’

  No, it’s a burglar. On a Saturday afternoon. With a key.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Don’t disappear upstairs, Rosie’s got some news.’

  Of course she has. Rosie attracts good news like bluebottles to a dead rat. He saunters into the kitchen. They’re all sat around the island unit, fingers clasped around novelty mugs, the remains of a Waitrose lemon cake sat between them. He looks at the writing on his dad’s mug. Silver Fox. It was a present from Rosie on Father’s Day; Ben remembers him opening it, pretending to be offended while puffing out his chest, probably secretly comparing himself to George Clooney.

  Rosie has a healthy glow. Her cheeks suit her name and the remnants of a ponytail are hanging over one shoulder. She’s dressed in their school tracksuit and smells of outdoor exercise, reminding Ben where she’s been, where they’ve all been. There was some netball tournament going on and Rosie was captaining the first team. That honour had caused a
fair amount of excitement in the house, now it looks as though her team did well. Ben’s mood sinks lower.

  ‘Go on then, Rosie, tell him.’

  ‘Mum, the poor guy’s just got in.’ She turns to face him, dulls her tone a bit. ‘We’re having a cup of tea, Ben. You want one?’ She stands up, walks towards the kettle; looks at him expectantly.

  God she’s so nice. And he’s such an arsehole. ‘I’m okay thanks. How did you get on?’ It’s an effort asking, opening the floodgates to more Rosie worship. But he owes her, he supposes.

  ‘Yeah we won.’

  ‘Out of twelve different teams!’ his mum adds. ‘And I think Rosie scored the most goals – is that right, sweetie?’

  ‘That’s great, well done,’ Ben mutters.

  ‘That’s not the best part though,’ his dad chimes in. ‘Winning today means they’re through to the national championships. It’s the first time Wandsworth College has qualified since 2011.’

  ‘Awesome.’ Ben wonders if his response sounds enthusiastic or mocking. It’s a fine line.

  ‘When is it, Rosie? January? Will it be a weekday?’ His mum is now scrolling through her iPhone X, already trying to work out how she can retain super-mum status while keeping her position as the world’s greatest architect. He feels a jab of sympathy for her. It must be hard, having to be brilliant at everything.

  ‘It certainly is awesome,’ his dad agrees, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘In fact, I think a bottle of champagne is in order.’

  Ben watches his dad leap off his bar stool and duck down behind the island unit. There’s always at least one bottle of champagne in his wine fridge, chilled and ready for celebratory moments like this. Rosie knocks them out pretty regularly, so it’s good to be prepared.

  ‘How was work?’ As always, it’s his sister who steers the conversation back to him.

  ‘Busy. But fine.’ It had been too. While he never likes the idea of working weekends, of having his free time stripped away from him, the reality is always at least fine, sometimes better than that. On Saturdays he works alongside Jo’s friend Sammy, a single mum with a toxic sense of humour. It’s always quite amusing listening to what she’s got planned for her cheating tight-arse of an ex-husband. Although Fiona had gone all tight-lipped when Sammy started ranting today. It made Ben wonder if there was a husband in her past. In fact, she’d been quite reserved all day. Maybe it was mentioning her parents’ visit the night before; they clearly embarrass her because she never talks about them. It’s funny; he hardly knows anything about her life, while he can’t stop telling her stuff about his own.