The Truth Club

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  I went to the standby desk when my name was called, and the woman said that there wasn’t a seat on the three o’clock flight to San Francisco after all. Then Nathaniel said, ‘What about London?’ and she checked her computer and said that two seats were available, but we’d have to rush to get on the flight. Nathaniel handed her a credit card, and she issued our tickets without so much as a murmur of surprise.

  After that I found myself running after him towards the boarding gate, the way you run when you are gripped with a real sense of urgency about your intended destination. Somehow the running inspired this feeling in me. I really didn’t want to miss the flight, even though I had no idea why I was getting on it. I was also getting extremely curious. Who on earth did Nathaniel want me to meet in London, and why? I began to suspect he’d just said it to make me go along with this crazy adventure. And, even though I was tired, I began to feel I needed an adventure. I needed this day to be different. After all, I’d spent a good part of it thinking I’d be in California in time for lunch. Going home to a bath would, in truth, have been a bit of an anticlimax.

  So now I’m trying to keep up with Nathaniel and wondering how much the tickets cost. He does, after all, claim to be pretty short of money. I am also thinking that I’m hungry, and that I should phone April to tell her she doesn’t have to get her spare bed ready. And I’m itching to ask Nathaniel more about Fabrice and what they got up to together. But for some reason I stay completely silent. I am probably in shock because I don’t do this kind of thing. April gave me a reason to go to San Francisco; but I have no reason to be here on this spacious, austere street with its rich, white, colonnaded houses.

  Suddenly I long for somewhere warmer – somewhere Latin and passionate, like Rio. London doesn’t seem to be the right destination for a heedless, almost frantic journey. It looks far too sensible and self-contained in the crisp late-afternoon sunlight. There should be music and the scent of blossoms, bright dark eyes and tanned skin and languid street-side cafés. No wonder DeeDee was lured by Rio’s embrace, its beckoning. A place like that would understand her need for it.

  Since Nathaniel and I seem to have run out of conversation, I find myself glancing into windows and wishing it were later in the evening. Snooping is so much easier when it’s almost dark and the lights are on in people’s flats and houses. I like glimpsing the fancy lamps and paintings and furniture; a paprika-coloured wall or an antique chaise longue, a round table covered in silver-framed family photos. I enjoy watching lovers embracing as they return home from work, or some glamorous basement-flat bachelor preparing a stir-fry at a marble table.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I decide it’s high time I asked again. Nathaniel has just ignored my question on previous occasions.

  He glances down at me. One of the many annoying things about the opposite sex is that they are so often taller.

  ‘Who is this person you want me to meet?’ I persist. ‘Or did you just make that up?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  I stop in my tracks and glare at him rebelliously. ‘This is ridiculous. You should tell me now.’

  ‘We’re almost there.’

  ‘Where, for God’s sake?’

  Nathaniel takes out the A-to-Z guide to London that he’s bought and squints at the dense thicket of information. It looks like he’s lost. We’ll probably be traipsing around these swanky streets until it’s time to go back to the airport.

  The potent lure of his company has dramatically faded. He’s not being his usual charming, witty self at all; in fact, he almost looks worried. I suspect he has realised that this was an idiotic idea and that he will soon have to introduce me to someone I have no particular wish to meet. I’m even beginning to wonder if this ‘someone’ exists.

  ‘This is outrageous, Nathaniel,’ I declare. I am extremely pissed off with him. ‘Why are you being so mysterious? I haven’t even had a proper lunch.’ I realise there isn’t really any connection between him being secretive and lunch, but I don’t care. They only gave us a cup of tea on the flight, and there wasn’t even a biscuit with it.

  He just walks on, so I tug at his arm and say, ‘I want to eat something. I want to go into that crêperie over there.’ I point at a cheerful establishment with red and white tablecloths.

  He turns away from me and gets out his mobile phone. He starts to talk, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He did this at the airport too, before we got on the flight. Who on earth is he calling? Why won’t he tell me? Maybe this ‘friend’ is yet another of his female admirers…

  I start to fumble in my bag for my mobile. I know people in London too; I could phone one of them. We might even go out for a meal together. Nathaniel clearly isn’t enjoying my company. I never thought he would be this moody. I don’t want to traipse after him any more. He is really pissing me off.

  ‘You go on, Nathaniel,’ I say when his call is finished. ‘Give me my ticket and we can meet up at the airport.’

  He looks at me quizzically.

  ‘No, really, you go on,’ I insist. My bag is doing its trick of turning into a cavernous lagoon full of miscellaneous objects. I may need to get a torch to find my phone.

  Nathaniel looks at his watch; then he takes my arm and yanks me towards a side-street.

  ‘Let me go!’ I protest. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Goodbye, Sally.’ He leans forward and gives me a light peck on the cheek. Then he shoves something into my hand and disappears.

  I stare into the crowd. I can’t believe it. He has, basically, dumped me. He hasn’t even given me my plane ticket. I knew he was in a bad mood, but I never dreamed he’d be this horrible. I just stand there, trying to blink back the tears, until I notice I am holding a piece of paper and suddenly remember him shoving it into my hand before he disappeared.

  It seems to have an address on it. I check the name of the street I’m on; it’s the same as the one on the paper. I am to go to number 70. Why on earth couldn’t he have just shown me the place himself? Why all this subterfuge? It’s absolutely ridiculous.

  I pass the newsagent’s and the dingy laundrette and the mobile-phone shop, but I can’t seem to find number 70. If this is Nathaniel’s idea of a joke, he’ll get some sharp kicks on the shins. What I need is a cup of tea and a large sofa and a quiet weep, but of course this isn’t the kind of place that would offer such comfort.

  I quicken my step, but then something makes me linger outside a shop that doesn’t seem to fit in with all the rest. It’s like an exotic bird in an aviary of pigeons. The walls and the door are a dramatic lapis-lazuli blue flecked with gold. In the window are a large orange hat, some very comfortable-looking red Chinese slippers, a stack of turquoise bowls, a large plate of scones and a big yellow teapot. It’s number 70. Maybe Nathaniel was just giving me directions to the nearest café because he knew I was hungry.

  I look up at the arty pink neon sign. ‘Extravaganza,’ it says. ‘Specialities: Tea, Recycled Sofas and Hats. Proprietor: DeeDee Bertorelli.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I stand outside Extravaganza for a full five minutes. I gaze into the window and then up at the sign. Any minute now I’ll wake up and find myself on a seat at Dublin airport. This whole afternoon has been a dream. And in my dream it has started to rain.

  I place my hand gingerly on the golden door-handle. It feels very real and solid. I turn it and the door swings open. The interior is low-lit; there are lamps and candles making a dusky glow.

  I scan the room. Is DeeDee in here – and is she my lost great-aunt? The sign said DeeDee Bertorelli; but her name is, or was, DeeDee Aldridge. She said she wanted to be an actress. She said she wanted to live in Rio. How did she end up here, on this drab, damp London street? Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe Nathaniel has got the whole thing arseways.

  I stare at a tanned, plump woman who is engaged in an animated conversation with a ponytailed young man. They are sitting on a large yellow sofa, cradling steaming mugs; befor
e them, on a dolphin-shaped turquoise table, is a big orange bowl full of what appear to be home-made chocolate chip cookies. They are the only customers in the shop – or is it a café? It seems to be both. If DeeDee were here, would I even recognise her? I try to remember the photo of her as a young woman. I recall her firm jawline and strong eyebrows, the straight look in her eyes. She was smiling even though she was sad. I knew she had longings she couldn’t speak of, longings she felt no one would understand. But was it myself I was thinking of when I found these feelings in the grainy, faded image? Is that why I became so fascinated with her?

  She isn’t here, I tell myself. Of course she isn’t. Finding DeeDee wouldn’t be this simple. I’d have to trawl through thousands of pages of South American parish registers and spend days on the Internet. She would have hidden her tracks very carefully. None of us even know where she settled, though Rio is the place that suits here. She should be in Rio, not here.

  Hello, DeeDee, how wonderful to meet you at long last… I prepare the words, even though I’ve convinced myself there will be no need to say them. If DeeDee were here, she would have somehow known who I was. She would have welcomed me with a warm embrace, and by now we would be seated and talking. I wouldn’t be standing hesitantly by the door of this strange, almost surreal room, wondering if I should sit down.

  Hi, DeeDee. I’m your great-niece Sally. Nathaniel gave me the address of your shop – you know Nathaniel, don’t you?

  The words in DeeDee’s notebook return to me: ‘Nobody believes that Joseph forced himself on me…’ They have been etched in my memory ever since I first read them – and I have read them many times, each time hoping to find something new, something I hadn’t noticed.

  She isn’t here, I think, as I walk past a large sculpture of a unicorn and almost fall over a fawn-coloured Labrador, who is dozing by the counter. And, if she is, she won’t want to see me. She may even throw me out. I’d be a reminder of everything she’s wanted to forget. I should leave now. I should just go to the airport.

  ‘Would you like something?’ a young girl behind the counter asks. She seems surprisingly conventional and is wearing a crisp white blouse and a navy cardigan.

  I just look at her.

  ‘A cup of tea, maybe?’ She peers at me in the half-light. I must look very puzzled and lost, and extremely tired.

  I think of the long journey and the lack of lunch. Tea… the word sounds like an old friend in all this strangeness. ‘Yes, thank you. I’d like a cup of tea, please.’ I no longer feel hungry.

  She doesn’t ask me what type of tea, or point to the rows of boxes behind her. She simply reaches for a teapot and says, ‘I’ll bring it over.’

  I turn round like a sleepwalker and wonder which of the three unoccupied sofas I should choose. My eyes are drawn to an amazing collection of exotic hats, scattered across a wall so white it could have been bleached by the sun on a Mediterranean island. A strategically placed lamp illuminates the collection.

  I decide on the red sofa by the window and cross the room again, this time stepping carefully over the Labrador, who is now snoring gently. Where on earth is Nathaniel? I reach into my bag and turn on my mobile phone. Maybe he’ll ring me. He has my plane ticket. Surely he’s not just going to abandon me. Whatever I may feel about Nathaniel just now, I can’t believe he would be that careless.

  I check my phone to see if I have any messages, but nobody has tried to call – not even April. I really should phone April to tell her I haven’t got that plane to San Francisco. I dial her number quickly and get her answering machine; I leave a brief message and don’t mention that I have somehow ended up in London instead.

  One of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos is playing softly in the background. I sit on the sofa and survey my surroundings. Even though the room is not particularly large, it contains many unusual objects. I notice a large cushion shaped like a toaster, and a painted wooden mermaid who seems to be overseeing a collection of antique teddy bears. What this room does, I suddenly realise, is it takes objects that might seem bizarre and strange elsewhere and it gives them a home – a place where they fit in.

  The young girl arrives with the tea. ‘Here you are,’ she says, with a beaming smile. It seems to me suddenly that I am just one of the many unusual objects and people who have found their way here. Whoever owns this place knows about solace and sanctuary. It isn’t a bad place to find oneself on a lost August evening.

  The tightness in my chest relaxes and a thrill of excitement suddenly runs through me. What if Nathaniel is right? What if DeeDee is here? Of course I want to meet her. How can I have had any reservations? A woman who owns a place like this wouldn’t be bitter and unforgiving. She wouldn’t refuse to talk to me. And I need to talk to her. She has surely unearthed plenty of wisdom during her long and unusual life. She may even tell me how to endure my love for Nathaniel; the feelings he evokes in me are as odd as this room and its contents – which, of course, include me.

  ‘Is… is DeeDee here?’ I hopefully ask the girl, just as she’s about to move away.

  ‘Sorry, who?’

  ‘DeeDee,’ I repeat. ‘I came here to see her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who you mean,’ the girl says.

  My heart sinks. So this whole crazy trip to London has been for nothing. What on earth can Nathaniel have been thinking? If DeeDee were here, I could understand why he might have absented himself. He might have seen it as an act of tact and kindness; he wouldn’t have wanted to intrude on a reunion. But he has brought me here on a wild-goose chase, and for the flimsiest of reasons. There are thousands of DeeDees in the world. The name on the sign has probably been there for years and no one has thought to change it. No one thought that it would mean this much to anyone.

  I am unprepared for the sharp, almost physical ache of desolation. In a flurry of misery, I grab my bag and get up. My love for Nathaniel has clearly been misplaced; I must reclaim it and forget him, forever. And I must forget DeeDee, too. I should have gone to San Francisco. Maybe I’ll fly to San Francisco this very evening.

  ‘She means me.’ The plump, tanned woman is walking slowly across the room, and I notice she is limping. ‘She means me,’ she repeats, to the girl. ‘I’m DeeDee.’ She looks at me. ‘I’ve been expecting you, dear, but I thought you might like a cup of tea before we talked.’

  I sink back onto the sofa. I gaze at her and swallow hard. My mouth is dry and my heart is thumping. This isn’t true. Of course it isn’t. I’ve got so desperate I’m making it up, like Aggie with her angels.

  But then I know it is happening. I know it from her smile. It is the same smile I saw in the photo, only it’s happier; it’s a real smile, not just one plastered on for the camera. She has the same firm jawline, though it’s thicker now with age. And the look in her eyes is unchanged. It is still straight and true and extraordinarily gentle.

  I want to rise from my seat and embrace her; I want to find the right words to mark this momentous, extraordinary occasion. But I stay rooted to my seat. It is she who sits beside me and takes my hand.

  This softly lit room, with its lamps and candles, made her seem much younger when I saw her from a distance. Now that she’s closer, I can see that her face is considerably wrinkled and her wispy brown hair has streaks of grey at the parting. It is the plumpness, the general sense of roundness and tanned radiance, that convinced me that she was a middle-aged woman who had, perhaps, just returned from a sun-filled holiday. The impression was deepened by the thick silver bangle on her arm and the picture on her T-shirt, which sends a tropical sunset streaming across her ample breasts. She has the face of an old woman who doesn’t know she’s old.

  ‘Would you like an omelette?’ she asks. ‘Nathaniel phoned me to say you were very hungry and hadn’t had any lunch.’

  ‘So you know him?’ I lean forward, desperate for an explanation. ‘You know Nathaniel?’

  ‘Yes, I met him a while ago. He’s a lovely young man.’ She smiles at me.
‘I think we also have lasagne.’

  I realise we are still discussing my supper. ‘Omelette,’ I say. ‘That omelette sounds just right.’

  ‘With some cheese, maybe?’ She squeezes my hand. Hers is warm and soft and very comforting.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Chips would be nice with it, too, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree quickly. I want to get on to more important matters.

  She gets up and goes over to the girl behind the counter. They have a quick chat, and then DeeDee returns.

  ‘Sorry Ita didn’t know my name when you asked her,’ she says as she lowers herself slowly onto the sofa. ‘She only started here last week. I’m rarely here these days. Craig is the manager now.’

  ‘So you know Nathaniel?’ There are so many things I should be asking her about, but this is the one that seems most urgent and extraordinary.

  ‘Yes, I met him a while ago,’ she says vaguely.

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘It was an amazing coincidence. We sort of bumped into each other and got talking. Would you like a biscuit?’ I get the distinct impression that she doesn’t want to explain this matter more fully; but she sees me waiting eagerly for more details. ‘I know a friend of his. They came here together for coffee one day when Nathaniel was visiting London. And then, of course, he met you and heard you talking about your great-aunt DeeDee, so he phoned me one day to ask if I was this mysterious DeeDee – he said he knew it was a long shot, but it is rather an unusual name.’

  ‘And you told him?’ I am almost falling off the sofa with curiosity.

  ‘I said I wasn’t, but he still went on about you and how much you wanted to meet your lost great-aunt. So I phoned him the other day and told him who I was. It seemed time to finally admit the truth.’

  I feel a glow in my heart. Nathaniel is completely redeemed in my affections. He has found DeeDee for me. He’s just as special and sweet as I imagined. Of course I love him – I will always love him, even though he just sees me as a friend. That will have to be enough for me. I’m just glad he exists and that I met him. He has solved the family’s biggest puzzle through a chance visit to a café. It seems more than a coincidence. It somehow seems that it was meant to be.