His Perfect Lies

by Ruth Mancini

  “What are you talking about? You have to charge me rent,” said Helena.

  “No I don’t. You’re family. As good as.”

  “Auntie Zara.” Helena hugged her. “You’re the best.”

  Huh, I thought, indignantly. I was the best this morning. And then I thought how childish that sounded, even inside my head. Ah, I thought, then. The car.

  “What about your car?” I asked, as if that would lure her back.

  “My car?”

  “Yes. What would you do with your car?”

  Helena shrugged. “Take it with me?”

  “What? But they drive on the left in England,” I objected. “You’ve only ever driven on the right.”

  “Mum,” Helena laughed. “I’ve only ever driven on the right once! This morning!”

  “But you’ll be having driving lessons here.”

  “Mum,” said Helena again, patiently. “I’ve learned to speak two different languages, fluently. I’m sure I can negotiate two different sides of the road.”

  I sniffed and bent down to pick up Helena’s jumper and a pair of her socks, which were lying on the floor. Helena hates wearing socks, even when it’s cold, and she’s forever tugging them off, rolling them into a ball and throwing them at various objects round the room.

  “Can you house-train her while you’re at it?” I asked Zara.

  Zara was very clean and tidy, when she was well, and I thought to myself, ungraciously, that she’d soon get fed up of Helena’s mess. Then, what? I asked myself. She’d give up the course and come home? Hardly. Helena wasn’t fickle; she didn’t tend to talk about things randomly. Once she got an idea into her head, it was usually there to stay. I’d always thought of that as a good thing. She was decisive (if, at times, intransigent), but with that came hard work and dedication. She set her sights high and, once she was on it, rarely wavered from her path until she arrived. Intuition told me that this was something that was going to happen (provided she got in, got a place, of course) and I couldn’t deny that it was a good plan. I had no intention of letting Helena stay with Zara free of charge, but it was inevitably going to be cheaper to stay with her than to pay for private accommodation.

  “You won’t need a car really,” said Zara. “Anyway.”

  “I know. Look.” Helena had opened up Google Maps. “It’s a twenty minute journey on the sixty three bus, or three stops on the tube.

  “The Northern Line. And, hey, I’ve got a travel warrant,” said Zara. “I’ll be able to come and meet you.”

  “Of course!” Helena paused a moment as if she’d seen some sort of obstacle to the whole plan. “You’ll have to let me know when you’re coming though,” she said. “So I can warn them.”

  “Warn who?” I asked.

  “The men.”

  Zara gave Helena a shove.

  “Well,” I said. “It looks like you’ve got it all worked out.”

  “You don’t mind do you, Mum?” Helena asked, suddenly conscious that there was something more than empty-nest-syndrome at play here. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and burst into tears.

  “Lizzie, what is it?” Zara jumped up from her chair and put her arms round me.

  Helena got up too and snuggled against me. “What is it, Mum? What’s wrong?”

  Lily got up from the sofa where she’d been dozing, and trotted over. She pushed her nose into the palm of my hand. I patted her on the head, then wiped my arm on my sleeve and hugged the girls both back. “Oh, ignore me. I’m just being stupid. I don’t even understand it myself.”

  “Are you upset because I want to go to London?” asked Helena. “Or what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Seriously, ignore me. Your plans make perfect sense.”

  “This is just... the most interesting course, Mum. Really. It’s got everything: physiology, psychology, nutrition...”

  “The course sounds wonderful,” I said. “I’d be interested in taking it myself.”

  “Well, you could come too, you know,” said Helena. “If you wanted to, you know, spend some time in London?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I laughed. “I’m not going to come away to Uni with you!”

  Zara stroked my back and said nothing. I noticed a slight frown shadow her face.

  “Look. You’re both worrying about me, now,” I said. “Look at me, spoiling all your plans. I’m sorry.”

  “Mum, don’t be sorry,” said Helena, squeezing me. She never allowed me to apologise for anything and we always ended up having this ‘It’s my fault’, ‘No, it’s my fault’, ‘No, really, it’s my fault’ conversation, in which nobody would win. “It’s me,” she said. “I’m sorry that I’ve upset you. And at Christmas, too. I should have thought.”

  Christian poked his head round the door. “Wine, anyone?” he asked, mercifully ending mine and Helena’s imminent debate over who was the sorriest. His face fell slightly when he saw I’d been crying, but he said nothing until much later, after the meal, when Zara and Helena had gone to bed.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table with Helena’s iPad. Christian sat down next to me and stroked my hair. “You think she will go to him,” he said, simply.

  I breathed in sharply and put down the iPad. I put my hand over my mouth. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  I nodded. “It’s crazy, I know.”

  “Not really.”

  I looked up at him, alarmed. “What? It’s not crazy? You think she’ll look for him?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant. But it’s not crazy of you to think that. It’s understandable.”

  I breathed deeply again. “She doesn’t even know where he is. She’d have to find him.”

  Christian shrugged. “Not too hard these days,” he nodded to the iPad. “She knows his name.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel better?” I laughed, through my tears.

  “My point is... that she could have found him by now. If she’d wanted to. But she told you that she didn’t want that.”

  I put my hand over my mouth again, this time to conceal a smile. Christian spoke excellent English and in fact it was his language of choice, when we were together. But he always pronounced ‘want’ like ‘ant’ with a ‘w’ in front and it made him sound like a character in a French comedy, or like a caricature of himself.

  “I know she said that,” I told him. “But surely she must be curious. I know I... would be.”

  “Would you? Really? After what he did?”

  I avoided Christian’s gaze. There was in fact no trace of Martin on the Internet. I knew that, because I’d looked. More than once, in fact. In fact, numerous times. He wasn’t on Facebook, it seemed, and he didn’t appear to have done anything that was newsworthy, which would have got him onto the Google rankings for all to see. He obviously wasn’t a famous swimming coach yet and maybe he didn’t want to be publicly recognised at all, and wasn’t going to be. But still, I’d search the Internet, over and over again. I’d do so secretly, at night, or when Helena was out. I got no pleasure from doing this. I’d be filled with dread and anticipation at the thought of it, and then I’d breathe a sigh of relief when my search was over and he was still incognito, out of our lives, nowhere to be found. I’d then set about clearing my search history, being careful to remove any trace of what I’d been doing on both the computer and the iPad. The last thing I wanted was for Helena – or even Christian – to discover what I’d been doing and, in that moment, nor did I want to go back there myself.

  His lack of web presence should have made me less worried and should have made me let go. But the relief was always short-lived. A few days later, I’d convince myself to try again, just one last time. One more time, and a couple more pages, just to be sure. It was like some sort of shameful addiction. Every time I searched I’d tell myself that this would be the last time, that I would put this compulsion to rest along with my fears. But then two days later I’d have to have another go. After all, there was always the ne
w possibility that his swimming team had won an award or something and that his name would crop up, even if just in his local paper. And, according to the stats, hundreds of new people joined Facebook every day.

  “What is the worst thing that could happen?” Christian asked me. “What do you fear the most?”

  I looked up at him. “You seriously wouldn’t want him back in our lives, Christian. Trust me.”

  “I know that. I understand.”

  I shook my head. “He turned Catherine against me. My best friend. We were so close, we supported each other, shared everything. And yet, he convinced her that I was the one to be mistrusted, despised. So think what could he do to Helena?”

  “You gave her the choice, though. When you told her about him, you said that she could find him if she wanted.”

  “I know I did. I felt I had to. She was asking about him and she needed to know the truth.”

  “Yes. She needed to know, and you gave her the choice. Now she accepts what you say. She doesn’t want to know him.”

  “But what if she changes her mind?”

  Christian took my hand from where it sat on the table. “It’s unlikely.”

  “Is it?”

  “Helena’s happy,” said Christian. “She’s only interested in her future, in her sport, in her studies. She’s a great kid. She accepts what you told her, about what happened. She’s with you on this.”

  I looked up. “You really think?”

  “I do think. Catherine believed Martin’s lies because she wanted to. Because she wanted him more than she wanted you. But Helena loves you. More than she loves anyone else in the world. No one could ever convince her that you were to blame in what happened.”

  I looked up at him and smiled. “You’re right. People believe what they really want to believe, don’t they?”

  “Yes. And Helena doesn’t know him. She knows you. She knows your character. Her loyalty is with you.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” I breathed a sigh of relief. What he was saying made sense. I’d never given Helena cause to doubt me.

  “You ask her to trust you. You have to trust her too,” said Christian. “She’s not stupid. That’s one clever girl you’ve got there.”

  “I know.” I patted his hand. “And you’re right.” I felt as though a weight had been lifted.

  I kissed Christian’s cheek and picked up my wine glass. I was exhausted. It was late, nearly one o’clock on Christmas morning, and this was way past my usual bedtime. But first, a new resolution was needed. The new year wasn’t upon us yet, but it was time, all the same. No more anxiety. No more Internet searches. That’s it now, I resolved. Case closed. Time to move on.

  I raised my glass. “Cheers,” I said, gratefully. “And Happy Christmas.”

  “Happy Christmas, my darling,” answered Christian, smiling. “And here’s to a happy and wonderful New Year.”

  3

  Helena left for England in February, at the start of “hiver”, the traditional mid-term winter holiday of her school year. It was sunny but freezing cold in Paris, and the roads glistened with frost as she drove us onto the slip road down to the N170 and into the city in her little car. She’d been driving at every opportunity and wasn’t put off by the weather, although it was in fact only fifteen minutes on the train from Eaubonne to the Gare du Nord, when the trains were running on time. They’d announced delays today, though, and Helena hadn’t fancied waiting in the cold. I didn’t mind driving into the city with her, as I needed to take a trip into the office.

  The motorway led over the bridge to the Seine, which snaked around the north-western edge of Paris before making its well-known journey across the city. A long boat carrying two huge piles of sand chugged gently down the river with seagulls following. I could see Montmartre in the distance. I gave Helena directions to move into the right hand lane for St Denis and the Porte de Clignancourt, before we joined the Périphérique and entered the outskirts of Paris. The frost had begun to thaw and I relaxed a little, although Helena had been unfazed by the slippery conditions and had driven well. To our right were narrow streets flanked with shiny antiques or dusty old wooden furniture under flimsy shelters, and I saw that we’d reached the flea market of St. Ouen. Rows of run-down shops stuffed with out-of-date leather garments lined the road, which led away from the market. Groups of men sat at small tables or stood haggling or gambling on the pavements.

  Parking at the Gare du Nord was tricky, so we quickly swapped seats and said goodbye.

  “Call me when you get there,” I told my daughter.

  “I will. And look after my little baby.” Helena patted the car bonnet. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

  I drove down rue La Fayette to my employer’s office and took a detour, as I often did, through the rue du Faubourg St Denis where I’d lived in the first year after my arrival in France, eighteen years ago. Pregnant and adrift, with no plans other than to escape what had happened in England and to start a new life on my own with my baby, I’d lived a happy day-to-day existence here. These old narrow Parisian streets, flanked with jewellery and flower shops and open-fronted Indian épicieries with their piles of fruit and vegetables, huge sacks of rice and pungent spices, could recapture in an instant the sensation of both loss and joy that I had experienced as I walked the streets alone, preparing to bring my daughter into the world.

  I parked the car outside the tiny office of the agency that provided me with translation work. Working from home suited me well – I enjoyed the freedom to organize my own life and to work as much or as little as I pleased (though I rarely turned down work) – but I enjoyed my little trips into the city too, and in some ways missed the social aspect of working in an office with other people.

  The agency was housed inside one of the traditional old shuttered buildings that had been bought up by North African landlords and filled with sewing machines and illegal immigrants in the years that I’d lived in the area. The owner, Juliana, was on the telephone, waving a cigarette in the air as she talked. The small office was thick with tobacco fumes, as usual, and it crept instantly down my throat and into my lungs. Juliana looked up and smiled and nodded at a pile of manuscripts on the table opposite. I picked them up and waved to her, crooking a finger towards the street, where the car was double-parked. I headed back outside and shut the door behind me, glad to breathe in the fresh air again. Much as I loved her company, I could never have worked in that small space with Juliana and the permanent stench of smoke.

  I placed the pile of manuscripts onto the car seat beside me, pleased to have plenty of work to occupy me while Helena was away. I drove back, once more, through the rue du Faubourg St Denis and looked around me at the streets I’d wandered, both before and after Helena was born. I resolved, once again, not to worry about her while she was away, about something that was beyond my control and that, indeed, may never, ever come to pass.

  *

  A few days later Zara phoned. I was sitting at the kitchen table, flicking through my old Collins Robert French-English dictionary, with my various projects spread out around me.

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s good. Helena’s fine. She loved the open day at the University. I went with her for the guided tour.”

  “Yeah, she said. She seems pretty excited about everything.”

  “She really wants to go there, Lizzie. The Academy of Sport is amazing. There’s a gym there that the public can use. I’m going to start going too.”

  I laughed. “Zara, you’ve never been inside a gym in your life.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m starting now. I need to get fit.”

  I laughed again. “You need to ogle at fit men, you mean.”

  Zara was silent.

  I said. “Okay. Well, anyway, I’m glad it’s all falling into place.”

  Zara still said nothing.

  “So,” I said. “Everything okay with you?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t tell
me,” I said. “You’re upset about Oscar Pistorius.” Oscar Pistorius had been Zara’s obsession since the London Olympics last summer. That he was a celebrity with a glamorous and beautiful model girlfriend had been no obstacle for Zara; celebrities were the ideal love objects for her – attractive and unavailable being the two main criteria. But the fact that he had no legs appeared to be what made him stand out from the crowd – the crowd consisting primarily of famous footballers, Zedane, Ronaldo, and Fernando Torres to name but a few. Pistorius had a special place in her heart, though. I guessed that his semi-vulnerability appealed to Zara’s caregiving side. Either that, or there was something kinky about prosthetic legs in Zara World.

  “I know. I can’t believe they think he did it deliberately,” she said. “I believe him. He didn’t mean to shoot her. It was an accident.”

  “Maybe you should be a character witness.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.” She was silent again for a moment before she said, “Lizzie, I need to tell you something.”

  “What? What’s happened?”

  She paused for a moment. “I met Catherine again. I bumped into her in Borough Market. On the South Bank. You know, near London Bridge.”

  My heart leaped. “What? When? When did this happen?”

  “A couple of days ago. When Helena went to the Open Day, at the Uni. I went down to the river with her and then I went to the Tate Modern while I waited for her, and then...”

  I interrupted her. “Was Helena with you?”

  “What? When?”

  “When you bumped into Catherine.”

  “No. No, she was at the Uni, at the open day. I was walking back to meet her. It was freezing, and snowing a bit. I decided to go via Borough Market, to get some Turkish sweets, and some baklava and that lovely almond honey cake they sell there. But the stall wasn’t there – there was hardly anything much there in fact – and that’s when I saw her. She was buying a wrap from the Spanish place on the corner by the cathedral that has that big pan of stew and the enchiladas and stuff... and I nearly didn’t see her but then she saw me, and she called out my name, and I turned and recognised her straight away.”