Untold Story

by Monica Ali

  Patience, he told himself. Put it together. There were a few more things he needed to get in place. He wasn’t going to open his mouth too soon. He wasn’t going to turn paranoid and rush in before he was ready.

  Out of nowhere he felt a pang that hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. Was he going to do this to her? The world at her feet, and she moved heaven and earth to get away from it.

  Since Wednesday he’d been in such a high state of tension that he’d hardly eaten. After breakfast he’d feel better. A waitress, the same one who’d served him before, came out of the diner and lit a cigarette. She squatted on her heels with her back against the wall.

  He should get out of the car and eat. In a minute that’s what he would do. He took his rosary from his pocket and examined the crucifix that hung off it, the silver-capped borealis blue beads. When his mother had given him the rosary, on the day that he left home at eighteen, he’d hugged her. To her he was still what he’d always been, a little altar boy.

  He worked the beads through his fingers and thought about Lydia. If he could let her be then he would. But it wasn’t possible. She was here. She was alive. She had lied to the entire world. To her own children who’d followed her coffin. And it wouldn’t be right, it would be wrong of him, to look the other way.

  “How are the waffles?” he asked the waitress. She had a safety pin in place of a top button on her blouse, but it didn’t look too safe, the fabric pulled apart and showed her bra.

  “To die for,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “For five bucks and coffee thrown in?” she said. “What do you think?”

  He ordered them anyway, with a side of bacon, and when he finished eating he opened his laptop and reviewed the shots he had of Lydia. There was a good one of her coming out of the clothing store, her hair was tied up and she was smiling and waving at someone across the street. She was wearing a camisole-style top, showing her swimmer’s shoulders. There was a series of shots of her getting into her car at the kennel. A brilliant clear shot of her face, straight on. He’d crop in on her eyes for the cover picture. The same blue as his rosary beads. Pictures of her house, from all angles. He didn’t have one of her coming out of the front door because there wasn’t a position from which he could take it unobserved. He had one of her at her bedroom window though, which he’d taken from the bushes. She still had the same habit, on waking, of looking out at the new day. When she’d taken her boys to Disneyland he’d got a shot of her in her dressing gown at six o’clock, drinking coffee standing at the window of her hotel suite. That single picture had paid for his entire trip.

  The waitress refilled his coffee cup. “That your girlfriend?”

  She’d flirted for England in the early days. That image she had, of being shy, was never real. She’d look down at the ground so it was difficult to get a straight-on head shot but that didn’t stop the banter.

  “Just a woman I know,” he said.

  The waitress bent down to get a closer look. Her shirt strained dangerously. She straightened up and noticed the camera bag on the seat next to him. “You a photographer?”

  “Tell me something,” he said, zooming in on Lydia’s face. “Does she remind you of anyone?” The waitress was probably in her mid-thirties, old enough to remember.

  “No. I used to do some modeling,” she said. “When I was younger.”

  They’d all been a bit in love with her. Then she’d turned on them. Why don’t you leave me alone? It was disconcerting when she’d scream like that. And the answer was so obvious it left you with nothing to say. To be honest, after all those years, it felt like a betrayal. How could she expect them just to go away? She’d given up her police protection too. What did she expect?

  “Nothing raunchy,” said the waitress. Her face was sweaty. She had open pores on her nose. The flesh that ran down from her armpit to her elbow swung slightly when she lifted the coffeepot. The way she lacked self-consciousness made her quite sexy. “I did some nudes. But nothing raunchy,” she repeated. “She’s pretty, your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not . . . not what you think.”

  The waitress picked up his plate. “Yeah?” she said. “In my experience, people rarely are.”

  What else did he need? He’d take it to the News of the World. No, The Sunday Times. Tell Gareth to negotiate an “exclusive” that would last a day. It was going to explode. The photos were the core. Then birth and death certificates. They didn’t exactly prove anything, other than that there was something suspicious about her identity. What he needed now were a few bits of titillating circumstantial evidence. A quote or two from her friends. Any snippet that could be tied to her past, any background information she’d slipped up on. He had to be cautious, but he also had to be quick.

  Was she actually following him yesterday? If so, she wouldn’t have seen anything suspicious. He was out taking shots of Kensington yesterday, which tied in neatly with his cover story.

  If she thought he was on to her, wouldn’t she simply skip town, vanish? If she did that, he’d still have the pictures, could still press ahead, and it would only add to the intrigue.

  Yes, she’d just go.

  Unless she wanted to get caught.

  Perhaps she’d had enough of living this dreary life.

  Grabowski sipped his coffee. He looked over at the waitress, filing her nails at the counter while a man in a baseball cap tried to chat her up. Something in her studiedly casual stance told Grabowski that the man’s luck might be in.

  If she wanted to go back to her old life, how could she go about it? Turn up at KP and pound on the gates? This way she’d create the fireworks, the circus, the mayhem she’d always kicked off. She was a perpetual manipulator. She was a puller of strings, and an expert in denial.

  It was more likely she had been running errands than following him. It was only his nerves playing up.

  How much surgery had she had done? Definitely the nose. Maybe the lips as well. What else had she gone through? Her voice sounded different, had she trained it? In ten years she hadn’t picked up an American accent but she’d lost her own, the accent of the upper classes.

  He had to stop this daydreaming and sharpen up his plan. This afternoon he’d go into the clothing store, pretend to be buying something for his wife, and see if he could strike up a conversation. She seemed to be close friends with the woman who ran it. There might be a way to turn the talk around to Lydia. Saturday today. On Monday, when she was safely out of the way at work, he’d break into her house. There’d be something in there to spice up the proceedings. Something she’d taken with her, a recognizable piece of jewelry perhaps, a family photograph. Something that nailed the story to the front pages. The second he got out of there he’d have everything uploaded and ready to e-mail from the bed-and-breakfast. A call in to Gareth first. Shit or get off the pot. It was Gareth who’d be soiling his trousers.

  He watched the boutique for a while from across the road, pretending to browse at the florist. Best to go in when there were no other customers. He scanned the street again to make sure Lydia’s car wasn’t there.

  Cathy wouldn’t have him back. She’d never got along with his mother. Never made the effort. This was going to change his life anyway. And who knew what he’d want himself when it was over?

  First time he’d met Cathy he’d been in a pub brawl the night before. How it had got started he couldn’t even remember by the next day. His fighting days, thank God, were over a long time ago.

  The clothing store was empty now, except for the owner who was rehanging clothes from the changing room. He wasn’t sure how to run the conversation. He’d have to play it by ear. Of course he’d tried Mrs. Jackson, but she hadn’t given him anything useful. The same vague details that Lydia had supplied herself, about having moved to America with her husband, living in several different states, getting divorced, settling down in Kensington. Mrs. Jackson wasn’t intimate with Lydia and even if she had been, she was too firmly en
throned at center stage to be capable of reflecting the bit players.

  “Are you looking for something special?”

  “Something to take back to my wife.”

  “My name’s Amber. I’ll let you browse. Just let me know if you need help with anything.”

  Grabowski picked up a beaded cardigan. “This is nice.”

  “Oh, that’s pretty,” said Amber. “It’s a safe bet. What size is your wife?”

  He considered. “She’s tall and slim. Size ten, maybe.”

  “That a UK ten? That’d be a size six here. Are you staying over with Mrs. Jackson?”

  “I am.” She was going to be talkative. He might get something. But maybe his timing was off. Wouldn’t it be better to wait another day or so, then tie it up immediately with a swift visit to Lydia’s house?

  “Lovely,” said Amber. “Did you meet my friend Lydia? Mrs. Jackson invited her over for scones.”

  “I did. We had the famous scones.” He walked over to a rack of long gowns and picked one out.

  “That’s my favorite,” said Amber. She was a pocket-size blonde, a little bland, a little babbly. “Lydia has that very one. She looks absolutely stunning in it. What kind of coloring does your wife have? Does she have dark hair?”

  He lifted the gown and examined it front and back. This Amber was definitely a talker. And she’d repeat this conversation to Lydia the second she saw her. “My wife’s a blonde,” he said, “very pale.”

  “Ah,” said Amber, “well, what about this blue taffeta, here, take a look. What do you think?”

  It would be better, as well, to get something on tape. He’d have to buy a digital recorder and have it switched on in his pocket. He should have thought of that already. For a ha’penny worth of tar, his mother would say. Well, he wasn’t going to spoil this ship. He was going to make sure it set sail.

  “That’s very nice,” he said. “Could I have a look at some others?”

  Amber showed him all the gowns, pointing out details, naming fabrics, explaining how they sat at the neckline. “Lydia’s one is stunning, though. Did you have a good chat about London?”

  He evaluated two dresses distractedly, holding them up for comparison. He wasn’t going to show any interest in her friend. When she relayed the conversation there would be nothing to make Lydia twitch.

  “What do you think?” she said. “Do you have an instinct about what would be right?”

  He had an instinct that what would be right would be to wait until Wednesday afternoon. If Lydia had an initial suspicion he’d have done nothing by then to strengthen it, quite the opposite, stayed right out of her way. She took every Wednesday afternoon off work and spent it here, in the boutique. That gave him a clear run at the old woman at the dog place. If he played it right he’d get something useful out of her, a quote from the employer. Then he’d go to the house. Four more days and he’d have what he needed. And not long after that this town would be on the map for all time. This was Chappaquiddick, Roswell, and Dealey Plaza rolled into one. This was twenty-four hours a day, worldwide saturation coverage.

  “I can’t decide,” he said to Amber. “I’d better think about it.”

  “Oh, please do,” said Amber, smiling sweetly. “It’s never good to rush into things.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  After brunch at Tevis’s house on Sunday, her boyfriend and Suzie’s husband began dragooning the kids for a hike in the woods. Lydia wondered if she should go with them. She was restless. She didn’t want to sit still. But she couldn’t make up her mind to get out of her chair.

  “Maya,” said Mike. “Get your ass in gear. We’re hitting the trail.”

  “Why can’t I stay here?” said Maya. “I hate walking.”

  Mike grinned at her. He was tall with sandy hair and freckles and he always had the bit between his teeth. Just looking at him right now made Lydia even more exhausted. “Don’t make me cuff you,” he said.

  Maya turned to Lydia. “Always the same lame old jokes.”

  “Old ones are the best ones,” said Mike, slapping his thigh. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

  “Oh God, Dad,” said Maya. “You really do live in the Stone Age.”

  “LAPD answer—we don’t know, but give us five minutes with the chicken and we’ll find out.”

  “I’m staying here,” said Maya, tucking her legs up on the chair.

  Suzie came out of the kitchen onto the deck and stacked more dishes. “Has Steve gone ahead?”

  “He’s loading the troopers into the wagon.” Mike put his hands on Maya’s shoulders. “Whaddya say we take Rufus with us too, if it’s okay by Lydia?”

  “It’s okay with me,” said Lydia. Mike, she could see, was trying to steer Maya away from a confrontation with her mother.

  “You, young lady,” said Suzie. “Scram.”

  Maya opened her mouth but Mike bent down and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. “Come on, Rufus,” he said, “we’re going for a walk.”

  Rufus was glued to the top of Lydia’s feet. She pulled them out from under him. “Go,” she said. He picked himself up and moved five inches to curl up over her toes. “Okay, stay.”

  When they’d seen the men and children off, Suzie, Amber, and Tevis rejoined Lydia at the table.

  “Wasn’t Carson supposed to come too?” said Tevis.

  “We sort of had an argument last night,” said Lydia.

  “Oh dear, is everything okay?” Amber looked at her anxiously.

  “It’s fine,” said Lydia. She smiled to cut the questions. “We both needed a bit of air today.”

  “The guy from the bed-and-breakfast came in yesterday,” said Amber. “Looking for something for his wife. He seemed nice.”

  Everyone, thought Lydia, seemed nice to Amber. She was indiscriminate in her liking. And if Grabowski was poking around in Amber’s store, maybe Lydia wasn’t being paranoid. Maybe he was going all over town, asking questions. “What did you chat about?”

  “Nothing, really,” said Amber. “He was interested in the evening gowns.”

  All day yesterday, she had been trying to put it out of her mind, telling herself she was being stupid. On Friday she’d taken the day off work and followed him from morning until late afternoon. It was more difficult than she thought it would be to do that without him noticing. Many times she’d lost him because she’d held back too far, when there wasn’t much traffic around, and knowing her car was distinctive. Years ago, time after time, she’d had him on her tail and lost him with her reckless driving. This time she’d crept behind and all she’d seen was him driving around taking photographs of town signs and the river. She’d tried to make up her mind to stop torturing herself. By evening, of course, the doubt had crept back in. And now Amber was telling her that Grabowski had been sniffing around. Her first instincts had been correct.

  “Which one did he buy?” said Lydia.

  “He couldn’t choose,” said Amber. “He’s coming back next week. I told him best not to rush the decision.”

  “Did he mention that we’d had tea together, with Mrs. Jackson?”

  “He did. Or I asked him,” said Amber.

  “What else did he say?” What she wanted to know was what Amber said. All the things that she had told Amber, she’d been getting so sloppy.

  “Nothing really. Told me his wife’s a blonde. He was interested in the same dress you’ve got but I thought maybe it wouldn’t suit her coloring. I told him how fantastic you look in yours.”

  “What else did you tell him?” said Lydia.

  “You interested in this guy, Lydia?” said Tevis.

  “What else did you tell him?” said Lydia. “I’m just curious, that’s all, because to tell you the truth, he didn’t seem like a nice man to me. He seemed a bit seedy.”

  “Oh,” said Amber. “Was he? Well, he wasn’t there for long, and we talked��I talked—about the dresses.”

  I failed all my exams, twice. Why had she tol
d Amber that? Why did she give away information like that? How many other things had she told Amber and Esther and the others that Grabowski could piece together? My mother left when I was six. Only the other day she’d been telling Esther. Careless, stupid, witless. Carson’s dossier might be pretty thin but Grabowski’s would burst at the seams if he managed to gull all her friends. Her so-called friends.

  “Lydia,” Tevis was saying. “Lydia, are you all right?”

  They’d give her away. Why had she ever thought that wouldn’t happen?

  “Lydia?”

  Endless betrayal. Her life had been one endless betrayal. She could never, ever, trust anyone, and she should have learned that so long ago. On her honeymoon, which her husband spent making calls to his mistress. No, long before that. When her mother left her sitting on the stairs and walked out to the car, carrying her suitcase.

  “Lydia,” said Suzie.

  This was crazy thinking. She had to pull herself out of it. She should have gone for a walk with the kids. A long walk and then a swim.

  “Do you want a glass of water?” said Amber.

  Lydia shook her head.

  “Do you have a headache?”

  She looked at the three of them, the concern on all their faces. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve got a few things on my mind.”

  “Thought we’d lost you,” said Suzie.

  Lydia gave her a smile. She felt a blush of shame for the way she had just written off her friends.

  There was a pause in the conversation. The breeze started to pick up, and the sun ducked behind a cloud. Tevis’s yard was small with a gravel and herb garden that smelled strongly of thyme when the wind blew. Beyond the herb garden was a little pond filled with rushes and water lilies.