Between the Lies

by Michelle Adams

  We pull up at the traffic lights and he reaches over, presses his fingers to my head. His touch feels heavy, the wound underneath still sore. The last time I looked under the dressing I found a thick scar, red and inflamed. I’m not looking forward to having the bandage removed. I turn away, glancing out to sea, where the skeletal remains of the West Pier peek through a misty sky.

  ‘I saw the scans,’ he says. ‘It was an extensive bleed you suffered. No wonder you are still struggling now.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ I say as he draws his hand from my head. The lights change to green and we pull back into the stream of traffic, away from the water’s edge. I don’t want to talk about the accident. ‘But what about that hotel? Why should I remember it?’

  ‘It was where the Roberta awards were held. The night you had that photograph taken with your family.’ He laughs, looks away. I notice his cheeks flush pink. ‘I didn’t want to confuse you by telling you at first, but we actually spoke that night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a bit embarrassing.’ He takes a breath, laughs again. He’s shy, I realise. Embarrassed to tell me. ‘I didn’t know that you were Dr Daniels’ daughter, and the first thing I said to you was a bit corny.’

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘Why, what did you say?’

  ‘That you looked too beautiful to be standing alone.’ I feel my face getting warm. ‘Pathetic, right? But it’s your hair that does it. You really stand out in a crowd.’ I become instantly aware of it, the mass of red curls, the shaved section bisected by a scar and a dressing. And then I remember how only moments ago he was pulling at it, his lips on mine. ‘And then who should turn up but your father to ask me if we had been properly introduced. Thank goodness your husband wasn’t there. I would have looked an even bigger fool.’

  And when I think of that kiss now it leaves me feeling as if there wasn’t something more to it than what I can remember, some history perhaps in the way he touched me. Muscle memory, perhaps. Now that I think there was something between Ben and me, I doubt everything. I doubt myself.

  ‘Guy, that night … we didn’t…’ I leave it hanging there, ashamed to finish the sentence, embarrassed that I know so little about my past and the kind of person I was.

  ‘We didn’t what?’

  I pause a moment, wet my dry lips. ‘I mean, was that it? We just talked?’

  He seems confused, unsure what I’m getting at. ‘We were at an awards ceremony, Chloe. You were with your family.’ He pulls a face, almost as if he is a little disturbed by the idea. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I just want to make sure there was nothing more to it.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Your father was with us.’ He raises his eyebrows, as if he’s waiting for me to see how ridiculous the idea really is. ‘I only spoke to you for a moment, and then I left you feeling stupid. Nothing more than that.’

  We continue along the seafront, passing the statue of an angel holding an olive branch in one hand, an orb in the other. She stands for peace, something else I now know; I suddenly remember learning about it on a school trip. They told us that the orb was an emblem of eternity, of something never-ending, but after everything that’s happened I view it through iconoclastic eyes, see it as nothing more than fantastical. I know now that nothing lasts forever.

  ‘So what did I say when you spoke to me?’ I ask as we turn right onto a leafy street of stucco properties, grand and emotionless as suburbia overtakes the nearby wilds of the sea. Children walk with their mothers, primary-colour raincoats dazzling in the headlights of the cars. School must have finished for the day.

  ‘To me or your dad?’

  ‘To you.’

  ‘That it was the worst chat-up line you’d ever heard. But you did laugh, so I didn’t feel too bad about making a fool of myself. After your dad turned up, you told him that we were already acquainted, and you gave me a bit of a wink. I didn’t hang around for long after that; found my way to my seat to lick my wounds.’

  ‘I don’t remember that at all.’ I can’t even remember the ceremony.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll come back to you at some point. We could go there together if you like, walk the corridors, sit in the bar. It’s important you do these sorts of things, Chloe; visit the places from your past. That’s why I was so keen to help you today. Exposure therapy. Your father isn’t a big fan, but I believe in it. It’ll help you recall the lost memories.’

  ‘You think it would make a difference? To go there, I mean.’

  ‘It might do.’ And then, suddenly, all the joviality is gone. ‘But when I say you should visit places you used to go, I also include in that the site of the accident. At some point you will have to face it, see if you can remember what happened there. It’ll help you move forward.’

  ‘I’m not ready for that.’ Seeing the pictures with DS Gray was bad enough. The thought of having to visit the site where Joshua lost his life is terrifying.

  ‘We could go together, on the way back, if you—’

  ‘I said I’m not ready.’

  I’m staring out of the window, my eyes following the line of the houses, yet I can sense him nodding along in agreement. ‘OK, Chloe. Don’t worry about it for now. Whenever you feel ready, I’ll be here to help.’ He waits for me to recover, for our eyes to meet, before he smiles. ‘Here we are,’ he says as he pulls up at a nearby kerb. He yanks on the handbrake, unclips his seat belt. ‘This is the place we’re looking for.’

  I step from the car, walk towards the bonnet, the car engine still idling, warming the surrounding air. I see a row of shops nearby, catch the scent of mustard in the air, mixed with the smell of fresh meat. When I turn, I see the deli from which I used to buy my sandwiches, the place I used to come every day before going to the beach to swim, as I remembered in my dream. I dip under the awning and the man inside notices me. He smiles, waves, leaving me in no doubt that he knows me. I wave back. It feels so good to be recognised.

  I look along the road at the shops: first a hairdressing salon, the window misted over with condensation. Next to that a linen shop where I suddenly remember I once bought a Christmas tablecloth. It sparks a memory of a dry turkey crown, mushy sprouts, and sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Happy memories of Andrew and Joshua. Yes, we had those times, I think. It wasn’t all bad. Further along there’s an independent bookshop, which glows softly in the encroaching dark, somebody in the window creating a display. And it’s above the bookshop that I see a sign reading Fresh Starts, alongside a telephone number and website address.

  I turn to speak to Guy, only to realise he isn’t there. I look at the car, see he is still sitting in it. I open the passenger door and lean down. Gentle rain strikes the back of my neck. ‘Aren’t you going to come?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t need to, Chloe. These people are your friends. I think it would help for you to do this alone.’

  A wave of nerves hits me, a fear of being alone, of wandering lost into my past. I look at the sign and then back at Guy. ‘Maybe I should call ahead? There might not even be anybody there.’

  ‘There are lights on, see?’ He points up at the building, and I realise he is right. ‘Just go and knock on the door,’ he says. ‘You do work there, right? They must be expecting you at some point.’ He hands me an umbrella. ‘I’m going to wait here. Take as long as you like.’

  I shut the door and take a deep breath, stepping off the kerb to cross the road. My heart is pounding, the anticipation of returning to a place I might once have belonged. I pop open the umbrella and the sound of the rain intensifies as I bring it over my head. I pass the bookshop and then start up the external steps on the side of the building.

  By the time I arrive at the top, my right leg is sore. I shake the umbrella dry and turn to the door. And that’s when I realise that the light we could see is only an external light, working on a sensor, no doubt disturbed by the wind and flyaway leaves. A sign on the door has the working ho
urs written on it. The place is closed until tomorrow.

  I return to the car, dodging the puddles, not bothering with the umbrella. I find Guy dragging on a cigarette, and the urge to smoke hits me again, just like it did in DS Gray’s poky little office.

  ‘It’s closed.’ I slam the door shut and he tosses his half-smoked cigarette out of the window. ‘I’ll have to come back tomorrow.’

  ‘OK. No problem.’ For a while we sit there in silence, neither of us sure what to suggest. It’s Guy who speaks first. ‘Where do you want me to take you now?’

  And in that moment I really don’t know. Here I am, away from my father’s grip and on the edge of my old life, but still I have absolutely no idea what to do. There should be a mental list of places I feel safe, of people to whom I could turn. But there isn’t. I don’t feel as if I can return to my parents’ house, but where else can I go? I am homeless. Lifeless.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you are absolutely drenched.’ He takes the folded umbrella from me and throws it onto the back seat. ‘Why don’t we go back to mine? It’s only a few roads from here. You can have a shower and we can stick your clothes in the tumble dryer. We can even order a pizza if you like.’

  Part of me is desperate to say yes. The idea of being free, being out on my own: I like that. It feels like life. But I’m not sure that going back to his house, after what happened earlier, is such a good idea. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Oh come on. So we kissed. Big deal. We’re both adults. We can share a pizza, can’t we? Unless you like ham and pineapple?’ He winks. ‘Then you’re on your own.’

  I nod, knowing I have nowhere else to go. He starts the engine; pulls away into a steady stream of traffic.

  ‘Once we get there, we’ll call your parents, let them know you’re with me. Your father will be all right with that, I’m sure. We’ll say we met for a coffee, something simple. He knows I’ll take good care of you, Chloe.’

  THIRTY

  He parks the car in one of the spaces outside a large Victorian building. It’s tall and narrow, looks like it will have a lot of stairs. My leg hurts just thinking about it.

  He pushes open the heavy door and checks his mailbox for post, pulling out a couple of letters, which he tucks under his arm. Inside it feels warm, cosy, and I can feel the blood rushing back into my extremities, my toes tingling, fingers waking. The walls are painted a toasty shade of yellow, like early morning sunshine. I follow him as he walks towards the stairs, thinking how strange it is to be here, just witnessing normal things. Even the collection of his letters suggests a connection to the outside world that I don’t really share, life continuing all around me. I feel so far removed that I can’t help but wonder how I’ll ever make it back to some degree of normality.

  ‘You go first,’ he says, stepping aside to let me pass. The hallway is wide, big enough for an art deco table along one wall with a huge mirror above it, but still our bodies are close as I move past. ‘That way if you get stuck on the stairs with that dodgy leg of yours I can give you a nudge in the right direction.’

  We take it slowly, stopping for a short break on the second landing. When we arrive on the third floor, he tells me to wait, edges past me to get to his front door. The space is narrower here, and this time as he moves past me his body brushes mine, the heat almost instant. He pushes open the door, and as he steps inside a woman comes out from one of the other flats. She’s wearing sports gear, a rainproof jacket and a woolly hat with earbuds already in place. ‘Hi,’ she says, waving.

  ‘Hi,’ I reply, taken aback by her friendliness. I look to Guy, who’s holding the door open. I see him smile at the woman but he doesn’t say anything, offering a quick motion with his chin and a brief raising of his eyebrows to acknowledge her.

  ‘Well, see you,’ she hollers as she skips down the stairs two at a time. I lean over the banister to watch her. Jealousy rises in me, longing, the hope that one day I will achieve something as simple and easy as that: leaving my home, heading confidently out towards life. Guy is right. I need to work on facing up to things on my own.

  He closes the door behind me as I move into a large open-plan living room. It’s quiet inside, not a sound from the outside world. No heating pipes or household appliances rattling into action. No television or radio to give the impression we aren’t alone.

  ‘Why don’t you take a seat,’ he says, setting the mail down on a table. He pulls off his coat and tosses it across the back of a chair before pointing to the sofa along the far wall. After the stairs I find my leg is sore, my head woozy and light. I can feel even the smallest of my muscles trembling with the effort. ‘I promise it’s comfier than it looks.’

  I sit as instructed on the modern replica of a mid-century-style sofa, cold black leather, shiny and uninviting. I can hear Guy moving about in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. I look round the room. The walls are white, interrupted only by the window and a large flat-screen TV. No paintings hang here like they do in my parents’ home. A couple of shelves house a limited selection of books, a half-built model boat, and a picture of a man with two boys in a thin-edged silver frame. I stand up, take off my coat and place it alongside Guy’s, then cross the room towards the photograph. The boys in the picture have dark hair. Is one of them Guy? I pick it up, gaze at their faces, both of them happy, kissed by the sun. The man behind them has wrinkles stretching deeply across his cheeks, much like Guy does now. I set it down quickly as I hear him arriving from the kitchen.

  He’s carrying two mugs and hands me one decorated with a picture of Brighton Pier. ‘You don’t need to stand on ceremony,’ he says. ‘Come on. Take a seat.’

  I do as he asks, and watch him as he moves about the room. He sets his mug down on a glass table in front of the sofa and then fiddles with a thermostat on the wall. I listen as the radiators kick in. Next he crosses to a narrow table that runs along the wall underneath the window. The sky is so white outside that if it hadn’t been for the frame I would barely have noticed the break in the surface of the walls. He presses a button on an answering machine before going over to lock the door. I listen as a woman’s voice crackles through after the beep.

  ‘Hey, Guy, it’s Julia. I was just wondering what time you wanted to meet this evening and—’

  He rushes back to the machine, presses at buttons until the recording stops. He scratches his head, covers his mouth with one hand. He takes a moment to compose himself, to find the right words. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ is all he manages to come up with.

  ‘You really don’t need to be.’ I feel I have intruded, even though it was him who invited me here. I have heard something private that I shouldn’t have. I perch on the edge of the sofa, willing it to swallow me up. ‘I can leave soon,’ I tell him, thoughts of his plans going around in my head. Of a woman called Julia. Of where I will go next. ‘I can call a taxi if I’m putting you out.’

  ‘No, no, don’t be stupid,’ he says, waving his hands at me. He sits down next to me on the sofa. The way he lies back makes it impossible for me to see him behind me. So I sit back too, although I hold myself stiffly. I can’t relax here with him. ‘I’ll call her later and cancel.’

  ‘You really don’t need to do that. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.’

  He laughs, quiet and warm, his legs spread wide across the couch. Then he speaks. ‘Of all the things you’ve said today, that’s the silliest.’ Despite his efforts to appear relaxed, I can tell that he too feels somewhat uncomfortable about the message I heard, struggling to make eye contact with me. ‘Really, it’s no big deal. I’m not in the mood to see her anyway.’

  The shift in atmosphere makes me feel out of place. Like I shouldn’t be here. I’m the antithesis of this cool, sterile room, the white walls and monochromatic furniture. I feel torn and filthy, unkempt and patched up. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my appearance and the intrusion I have created in Guy’s life. Who am I to make demands of his time, beg for his he
lp to drive me about in search of a past I know so little about? I think back to my memories of who I was before the accident: a grown woman with a job, a husband. Marital problems. A car. A child who adored me, although I was unable to shield him from his father’s problems. A habit of swimming in the sea. All of those things are gone. I never realised how loosely the elements of my life were held together until it all unravelled. One broken stitch and it came spiralling apart, leaving me with almost nothing recognisable to help me find my way forward.

  ‘Well I’m sorry to ruin your evening, anyway.’

  ‘Really, it’s fine. You didn’t ruin anything,’ he says, but I notice a cherry blush creeping up his neck. ‘In actual fact, and at the risk of sounding inconsiderate, I’m glad to cancel the plans I had with her. Now, why don’t you finish your cup of tea and go take a shower. It will do you good to get out of those wet clothes. I’ll find you something to wear. After that you can call your parents if you like, let them know where you are.’

  * * *

  He shows me to the spare room, hands me a fresh towel. I look about the room, the spotless bedside table, the bed with crease-free sheets. Everything is so neat and tidy it only serves to make me feel like even more of a mess.

  ‘Here’s some shower gel, shampoo.’ They are feminine products and remind me of Julia from the message. Has she been here, in this shower, in his bed? Are these her things I’ll be using now? ‘Take as long as you like,’ he says, leaving me alone in his bathroom.

  I peel my clothes away like an old wet skin until I’m standing in my underwear. It’s impossible to avoid looking at myself, a wide floor-length mirror completing one of the walls. I look down, gaze at my scarred leg, then up at the cuts on my face. I finger through my hair, the thing Guy said he noticed the first time he met me. And despite my earlier reservations about the mess, I realise something here with my whole self on display: I look better than I did when I first left the hospital. I have put on weight, have more colour in my skin. I’m damaged, sure, still healing, but I’m not broken beyond repair in the way I thought I was. The idea gives me hope that perhaps my life, just like my body, can also be rebuilt.