The Truth Club

by Grace Wynne-Jones

I get out my laptop. Even though it’s late in the evening, I might as well get on with my column. This week it’s about the glories of – wait for it – wicker chairs.

  ‘These chairs have elegant curves and laid-back personalities,’ I write. Chairs with personalities? Oh, well – that’s how they describe them in the brochure. ‘They come in softly coloured and textured seagrass, on a wooden frame, and have elegantly tapered legs.’

  I stare hard at the letters on the keyboard. I want my column to be different, because I’m different. Or maybe I’m closer to the person I’ve always been without knowing it. Maybe I’m just remembering, at long last.

  ‘But if you feel like something a bit different, why not check out some of the charity shops that sell second-hand furniture?’ I find myself typing. Then I mention a large warehouse that helps fund hostels for the homeless. It is where Erika buys most of her furniture.

  ‘There can be a real thrill in finding something second-hand and making it your own,’ I type. ‘I have a friend who has made a very pleasant coffee table out of an old wooden crate she found at a fruit market. And I know of a shop in London that offers recycled sofas – along with hats and cakes and its own very special brand of friendship.

  ‘So play around a bit with different styles, if you want to. Have fun – and don’t take it all too seriously. Paint golden angels on your bedroom wall if you feel like it. Keep things as light and as juicy as you can.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ‘I left the quiche too long in the oven.’ Aunt Marie is sobbing 1 on the phone. ‘It’s all hard and leathery-looking. And the pastry’s gone brown.’

  ‘Calm down, Marie,’ I say. ‘I prefer quiche that’s… that nice and firm.’

  ‘But I want it to be perfect.’ Marie’s voice is like a little girl’s.

  ‘Well, the truth is, Marie, it probably won’t be – and that’s just fine. No family gathering is perfect.’ I want to add that this one may be less perfect than usual, but I decide not to worry her. She gets into a terrible tizz about these parties. I really don’t know why she bothers to have them, since they cause her so much anxiety.

  ‘No one really appreciates them,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My parties. No one really enjoys them. It’s a chore for everyone.’ She sniffs miserably. ‘This may be the last family gathering I ever organise.’

  ‘Oh, Marie, don’t say that!’ I exclaim dutifully, wishing I could share my true feelings on the matter. ‘It’s a great chance for everyone to meet up and – you know…’

  ‘Lie to each other?’ Marie says tersely. ‘That’s what your cousin Annabel says.’

  I almost drop the phone. I vaguely recall Annabel: a dewy, sweet creature who has done a number of postgraduate courses and was wearing an engagement ring last time I met her. She also seemed to be rising up the ranks of the diplomatic service and wasn’t even slightly overweight.

  ‘Yes, Annabel says she can’t come to the party because it’s too much of a strain,’ Marie continues. ‘She says she spends the whole afternoon trying to prevent Wayne – that’s her father; he doesn’t look like a Wayne, somehow – she says she can’t enjoy the parties because she’s too busy trying to prevent Wayne from getting at the wine.’

  ‘Why?’ I grip the phone more tightly.

  ‘Wayne is an alcoholic, only no one is supposed to know that, of course. They bring a special bottle of some herbal drink that’s red and looks – well, you know.’

  ‘As if he’s drinking wine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had a drink problem,’ I say in amazement. Annabel’s father has always seemed one of my most well-behaved relatives.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t most of the time, these days,’ Marie says sadly. ‘It’s just that at my parties he meets Cedric – you know, he married –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I say, not wanting Marie to go through the entire family tree. ‘I remember Cedric; he’s a lawyer or something, isn’t he?’ At least five of my relatives are successful lawyers.

  ‘Yes, and he had an affair with Annabel’s mother when Wayne was off sailing around Europe in that yacht race ten years ago. Wayne gets very edgy any time he’s in Cedric’s company. And Annabel’s mother is forbidden to speak to him. That’s why she spends so much time helping me in the kitchen. And I thought she was just being friendly.’ Marie blows her nose and sighs.

  Dear God, I think. This is what really goes on at Marie’s parties?

  ‘I didn’t know about any of this until Annabel told me,’ Marie whimpers. ‘And there’s other stuff, too. You know Louise’s son, Sam? The one who’s doing so well in construction engineering?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say eagerly.

  ‘Well, the reason he never comes to my parties is that his family won’t allow him to bring his lover, Pierre.’

  ‘Pierre?’ I press the phone to my ear.

  ‘Yes. He’s homosexual.’

  ‘Well, a lot of people are,’ I say soothingly, hoping she can’t hear my relieved smile. I suddenly realise I always suspected all this, somehow. The image that my relatives present at Marie’s parties has always been that little bit too perfect. But, instead of trusting my intuition, I chose to ignore it. I chose to believe that my flaws were the exception.

  ‘It’s like Dynasty or something,’ Marie sniffs disapprovingly. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to face them.’

  ‘It really isn’t all that unusual, Marie,’ I say. I feel like a huge weight has suddenly been taken off my shoulders. ‘In fact, if anything, it was more unusual that none of them seemed to have any personal issues whatsoever.’

  ‘I wish Annabel had just not told me,’ Marie continues resentfully. ‘I feel like calling the party off, but I can’t, because of dear April.’

  ‘Well, if you feel like that, maybe you should,’ I say quickly, sensing a chance to prevent April’s grand announcement. ‘I’ll help you ring everyone. I’m sure April would understand.’

  ‘No, it’s my duty,’ Marie sighs, and I realise that she feels it is. ‘Who on earth would have thought they had all these secrets? And how on earth have they managed to keep them for all these years?’

  I think of my own secret. As Marie starts to go on about the quiche again, I begin to wonder if families can form certain habits. I begin to wonder if the fact of not talking about DeeDee, hardly acknowledging her existence, has helped my relatives to remain silent on other matters. After they had done it once, they found they could do it again. Maybe it became a familiar solution. After all, I remained entirely silent about my doubts about my marriage; I almost thought that, if I ignored them, they weren’t there. But they were. They didn’t go away. And now Mum thinks she can just somehow forget that Al is April’s father.

  ‘At least the lemon meringue pie is nice and moist,’ Marie says, and I realise she actually thinks people like it soggy.

  ‘Actually, Marie…’

  ‘What?’ she demands.

  ‘Actually, maybe you might put it in the oven for just a bit longer.’ I feel I have to tell her. ‘I personally like it a bit firm – like that lovely quiche you’ve just made.’

  Marie is considering whether or not to be offended, but then she suddenly shouts, ‘Oh my God, I forgot to buy garlic bread!’ and hangs up.

  I look out the window. There is a swivel-hipped, Latin bravura to the way the sea falls and rises and suddenly embraces the shore.

  The phone rings again. ‘I got a good price for the sitting-room suite, and the hall table and the lamps.’ It’s Diarmuid. ‘In fact, I’ve sold most of the contents of the house. And someone seems very interested in the bedroom wardrobe.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Since you said you didn’t want the furniture, I put an advertisement in the paper. It was almost brand-new, after all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, realising this comes as a relief. I do rather need the money.

  ‘When I come round to measure up the kitchen for the cabinet, I can g
ive you a cheque. A lot of people have seen the house, too. The estate agent has the key.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘When do you want me to come around with the cabinet?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, Diarmuid, I don’t really want the cabinet either.’

  ‘But – but you need it,’ he protests. ‘You don’t have enough storage space in that kitchen.’

  ‘This isn’t about storage space, Diarmuid. It’s… it’s about whether I want you wandering around my home.’

  There is a stiff, hurt silence.

  ‘I’m not going to be that kind of ex-wife, I’m afraid,’ I say softly. ‘I mean… I won’t want to meet you for coffee, or have you and Charlene round to dinner. I won’t want to attend the christening of your first child.’

  That silence again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Diarmuid, but it would just seem very false. I know some people get all pally with their exes, but I don’t want that. It’s not that I hate you, or anything like that; it’s just that there are… there are still too many things I don’t understand.’

  ‘About what?’ he asks. His voice sounds tight, upset and bewildered.

  ‘About us. About how we ended up together.’

  ‘Maybe…’ he begins slowly. ‘Maybe it seemed like a kind of answer, only we hadn’t been asking the right questions.’

  I didn’t expect him to say something like that. I didn’t expect him even to have those thoughts.

  ‘Look, give the cabinet away if you don’t want it,’ I say.

  ‘But it’s a really nice cabinet.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why lots of people would be happy to have it.’ He says nothing.

  ‘I have to go, Diarmuid. I have to get ready for Marie’s party.’

  ‘Oh, it’s today, is it?’ He sounds sympathetic. ‘Try not to worry about what they think of you, Sally. Just be yourself. Most of us find that only a few people ever really understand us anyway.’

  Can this really be the same Diarmuid? I think as he hangs up. The same Diarmuid who wouldn’t skinny-dip in the hotel swimming pool at midnight on our honeymoon? Being with Charlene seems to have changed him. At long last, he’s had to take a stand about something he believes in.

  I sit for a while after our conversation. I feel things leaving me – things that were ready to go. I can’t quite name them yet, but that’s OK. I want to get used to this new feeling I sometimes glimpse – this feeling that it’s OK to be Sally Adams, just as I am, a great big mixture like DeeDee’s shop. Of course, it would be great if I could share my life with someone like Nathaniel – he himself clearly wouldn’t want to – but there are so many other people I cherish. I would have missed them if I’d taken that plane to California.

  At twelve-thirty on the button, Mum presses the doorbell. I am in my new dress, with a thermal vest and a thin woollen jumper underneath; it isn’t a very warm September day.

  ‘Well, isn’t this just grand,’ Dad keeps saying as we head for Marie’s house. It’s in a very large estate, and it’s very tidy and somewhat devoid of character. Even from a distance I can sense the air of anticipation. Marie is peeking out from behind the net curtains; I can see her round, worried face.

  Dad beeps the horn as we park in the driveway. The door opens and Marie, flushed and smiling, surveys us. Her smile is so broad it looks like it’s going to fall off the edges of her face. She looks extremely nervous. She is wearing an apron and fidgeting with her hands. ‘Welcome!’ she cries. ‘I’m so glad you’re here on time.’

  ‘Hello, Marie!’ I call out.

  She waves back as though we were still at the other end of the road. ‘Aggie’s here, and so is… that friend of hers.’ She manages to keep smiling. Uncle Bob, Marie’s husband, agreed to collect Aggie good and early so that she could put her feet up and have a little rest before the social exertions.

  ‘The nurses said we shouldn’t bring her back too late,’ Marie whispers as we get out of the car. ‘They weren’t sure about her coming here, actually, but of course she insisted.’ Marie’s face softens, and I can see she feels grateful for Aggie’s enthusiasm. ‘This may be the last family gathering she attends.’

  ‘Yes, yes, there’s no need to be morbid, Marie,’ Mum says brusquely. ‘We all know that. I’ve brought along some sausage rolls.’ She hands her sister a large plastic tub.

  Uncle Bob joins us on the driveway. He is a tall, balding man with a serious face and kind eyes. ‘I even mowed the lawn in honour of our visitors,’ he proclaims innocently.

  ‘Go inside and see to the drinks, dear,’ Marie says quickly. ‘And fill up the crisp bowl. And use the small sherry glass for Aggie; she says she doesn’t want wine.’

  ‘Keep an eye on Wayne,’ Marie hisses at me as we go into her hallway. Her whole house is painted in very muted pastel colours, which match the furniture and the curtains and even the cushions. ‘And make sure Fabrice doesn’t eat all the crisps, or there won’t be any left by the time the others arrive.’ So Fabrice is a crisp-eater too? I think. For some reason this surprises me; I hadn’t expected Fabrice to eat anything as un-dramatic as crisps.

  Fabrice is swathed in a loose, fluttery dress, liberally dotted with sequins. It is a strident pink, and so are her large round earrings. Her white-blonde hair is now in frothy curls; part of it is in a chignon, and the rest almost forms a thin veil across her face. There is, however, a gap in the middle where her nose and parts of her mouth and eyes are clearly visible – and she is, as usual, caked in make-up. Clumps of mascara have gathered on her eyelashes.

  ‘I wish April had allowed us to collect her from the airport,’ Mum says to me fretfully, while Dad listens to Fabrice talking about snorkelling amidst the grandeur of some Australian coral reef. ‘It doesn’t seem right that she has to make her own way here, but she was adamant about it. Dad, of course, will pay the fare. Should I phone her to see if she’s landed?’

  ‘No. I will,’ I say quickly. ‘You sit with Aggie.’ Aggie is installed in a very large armchair and swathed in a blue mohair rug. She is looking around her with great interest and sipping her sherry.

  I go into the back garden and take out my mobile. ‘April, it’s Sally. Have you arrived in Dublin?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says rather breathlessly. ‘I’m watching luggage on one of those carousels. Ah, good – here’s my case.’ There is a pause and the sounds of mild tussling.

  ‘Please say you’ve changed your mind about –’

  ‘I’m not going to talk about it now, Sally. I have to get a taxi.’

  ‘I’ll persuade Mum and Dad to tell people another time. Aggie’s here; she’s so old, and she’s enjoying the party, April. Think of her too.’

  ‘There’ll always be reasons not to tell people,’ April says briskly. ‘I have to go now. See you soon.’

  I walk back into the room in a daze. I can’t believe I am allowing April to come to this party in her current state – but how am I to stop her? I hoped she would change her mind once she actually got on the plane, but she hasn’t.

  ‘Wayne,’ Marie hisses at me as soon as I get indoors.

  ‘You’ll have to get someone else to watch Wayne,’ I hiss back. ‘I have to talk to Mum.’

  ‘About what?’ Marie demands, seeing my worried expression.

  ‘April. She’s… she’s a bit upset about something.’

  ‘Was her flight all right?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It’s just that she seems a bit emotional.’

  ‘Of course she is!’ Marie exclaims. ‘She hasn’t been home for ages. It’s only natural. She must have missed us all so much.’

  ‘No, it’s a bit more complicated than that,’ I say, only Marie is now telling me how thrilled everyone is that April is attending the party. ‘Your parents have talked about nothing else for weeks,’ she adds. ‘Have you seen the Waterford crystal bowl they’ve bought her? It’s exquisite.’

  I pull myself away from her and head towards Mum. ‘She’s become such a dear friend,
you see,’ Aggie is saying to Mum. I assume she is referring to Fabrice. ‘And I think she gets lonely. She likes to pretend she’s still a young thing, but…’ They both look over at Fabrice, and Aggie smiles.

  ‘Excuse me, Aggie,’ I say, ‘I need to speak to Mum for a moment.’ I feel Fabrice glancing at me keenly. I look away and steer Mum towards the garden.

  ‘What is it, dear?’ Mum says.

  ‘April,’ I whisper. ‘She really does plan to make some kind of announcement.’

  ‘She’s just teasing, dear. You know what she can be like.’

  ‘But it’s like she’s a different April,’ I say. ‘She has this obsession with the truth now – she keeps saying people must know the truth. Maybe it comes from living in California.’

  This seems to be the first remark about April that actually reaches my mother. For all its modernity, California is still the Wild West. It is a vast, mixed place with an extraordinary number of opinions. It can change people – often people who wanted to be changed anyway – and my mother knows this better than anyone.

  ‘Ring her again,’ Mum says suddenly, as though this is the first time I have mentioned April’s announcement to her. She must see the look of very genuine consternation on my face. ‘Tell her Dad will collect her from the airport.’

  I take out my phone while Mum darts across the room and tugs at Dad’s sleeve. ‘April,’ I say, when she answers, ‘Dad will collect you at the airport. He really wants to. Please let him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m already in a taxi,’ she replies. ‘Gee, I’m glad I brought my sweater. It’s not exactly warm today, is it?’

  Mum is at my shoulder. ‘Tell her he’ll collect her in Dublin,’ she says, rather desperately. But April has turned off her phone, sensing, I suppose, that we were launching an attempt to ambush her.

  ‘Does Dad know about this?’ I ask.

  Mum nods and sighs. ‘Oh, dear… I should have listened to you before.’

  The room is getting crowded. The guests are all very well dressed, and some are bordering on beautiful. Any minute now they are going to start asking me about my marriage.