Your Truth or Mine?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

Being strong doesn’t mean not talking about what you’re feeling. Being strong means facing reality and embracing it, getting to know yourself, your dreams and desires and being at peace with them. Fear is good; it means your passion, whatever it may be, matters. Don’t stop chasing it.

  Crystal Palace Park, 3 p.m. day after tomorrow?

  ROY

  Tuesday, 29th September

  London

  Emily was waiting for me at the entrance when I got there.

  We walked around aimlessly for a while, following the looping gravel path. The park was busy for a weekday afternoon, full of people trying to catch the last of the summer sun. Toddlers rolled around in the grass, small creatures lost in their own world, while their mothers lounged on benches, keeping half an eye on them. Dog-walkers strolled clutching Styrofoam cups of coffee, Labradors in tow. An old man walked in slow motion, holding on to a walking stick with one hand and a young girl with the other. The girl, probably his granddaughter, kept leaning over and speaking into his ear. Every time she did that, he nodded and smiled.

  The activity around us, the normalcy, masked that bizarre uneasiness that seemed to appear whenever I saw Emily.

  I stole a sidelong glance at her – she was wearing a pretty summer dress and strappy sandals. A small leather bag hung from her shoulder with a denim jacket thrown over it. I wasn’t sure how to bring up the kiss. We had been speaking to each other in fonts and pixels for so long I was finding it difficult to vocalize my thoughts. She spoke first.

  ‘So, that night, I’m sorry. I am. But—’

  ‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ I interrupted. ‘We were both drunk and we got a bit carried away. That’s all. It doesn’t have to mean anything.’

  My words sounded rehearsed and utterly insincere.

  ‘I know it doesn’t,’ she said. ‘It can’t.’

  She stopped and turned to face me.

  ‘But the thing is, Roy, I don’t regret it,’ she said. ‘That night, that kiss, everything, it was exhilarating. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. And I – I can’t stop thinking about you.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I had deluded myself into believing meeting with Emily would kill things when in reality it was doing the opposite. It had been exhilarating. Of course it had.

  A bunch of kids were playing Frisbee a few feet from us. Behind them, a young couple was kissing, oblivious to everything around them. Teenagers. They didn’t care who saw them. They could do anything they wanted, anytime they wanted, no consequences. They were free. They had a few more years of optimism ahead of them. Crushed dreams and cynicism would come later.

  ‘Did you know there’s a maze here?’ I asked Emily.

  I didn’t know what I was doing. I wanted to stop, to turn around and walk back to my home, my wife and all our familiar problems. I also wanted to taste that freedom again. I wanted to pull Emily to me, right there, amidst the Frisbee kids and lazy dog-walkers, and kiss her. I ran my hand through my hair. I had no idea what I wanted.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I pointed towards the far end of the park. ‘It’s beautiful but hardly anyone ever goes there. One of London’s rare secret spaces.’

  ‘Show me.’

  We walked silently for a while, along the vaulted terraces and past the famous dinosaur sculptures. We circled the lake, heading deeper and deeper into the park, until we reached the fields. The grass was taller than I remembered it, sun-drenched after the long summer and interspersed with weeds and wild flowers.

  I looked at Emily, eyebrows raised. She nodded and I led her through the field, trampling the knee-deep grass as I went. It fought back, prickling me through my jeans. I turned to look at Emily behind me. She was walking with both her arms stretched out, trying and failing to keep the blades away from her legs.

  A large metal arch announced that we had reached the maze. We walked through it towards the dense labyrinth of hedges.

  There were two identical paths on our right and left. I instinctively took the one on the left. There was an overwhelming scent of something, pine perhaps, emanating from the hedges. We pushed our way forward through the winding trail, searching for the next connecting path. The back of Emily’s hand grazed mine as we went further into the maze. The trail got narrower, forcing us closer together; the path became lost in shadows and overgrown branches. I could no longer hear the noises from the park filtering through and other than the slight rustle of the leaves, mine and Emily’s breathing was the only sound I was aware of. We stopped when we reached a dead end.

  I knew where this was going.

  I let my fingers brush Emily’s as I turned to face her. I took her hand.

  ‘Shall we turn around?’ I asked, running my thumb along the inside of her wrist.

  ‘We could,’ she said. She moved closer, our bodies still not touching. I placed my hand on her waist, lightly. I could just about feel the suggestive curve of her back.

  I spun her around. My hand was still on her waist. Our bodies were still apart.

  I leaned in and whispered into her hair, ‘This is even more intoxicating than I imagined.’ I paused, breathing her in. I stepped away. ‘But I cannot do this, Em.’

  She turned around, confused.

  ‘My marriage . . . it’s complicated,’ I said. ‘It’s not always easy but . . .’ I trailed off. I was rambling.

  ‘I don’t expect you to leave her, you know.’

  I looked at her, taken aback.

  ‘I would never mess with your marriage. That is not what this is.’

  This girl constantly surprised me.

  She took a step towards me.

  ‘She can never know,’ I said.

  We were inches apart now. I was breathing differently. We both were.

  ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  For the first time since I had met Emily, I allowed my eyes to wander, taking their time. Her bright blue dress had little flowers printed on it. It was short, just skimming her thighs, held up only by two tantalizing straps. I couldn’t tell if there was a bra underneath. It staggered me how badly I wanted to find out.

  A slight smile was tugging at her lips.

  One tiny step. That was all I had to take to feel her skin on mine. To lift her dress. Push her thighs apart. My crotch tightened. I realized then that my mind had been made up long before we entered this maze. I had just been biding time, working up to it. The walk, this maze, it had all been foreplay. It was as simple as that.

  I took the step, pulling her to me, kissing her, touching her with unbridled urgency. Her back. Her shoulders. Her breasts. Her hands were in my hair, on my neck, darting down my chest, pushing me away, unzipping me, pulling me back in, closer. Closer. So much closer. She moaned when I lifted her leg and pushed her thong to one side. My fingers dug into the back of her thigh as I entered her. She told me to go harder, deeper. She begged me not to stop.

  And so I didn’t.

  MIA

  Monday, 5th October

  London

  ‘I can’t take your price to the sign-off, Mia. Design House is giving us a maxi-dress for a similar price. We need your dress to sit around the eleven-pound mark,’ Jo’s voice echoed, bouncing off the bare walls of the meeting room.

  Mike was sitting opposite me, scribbling furiously. He slid his notepad across the glass table. He had circled the magic number three times. I nodded and spoke into the speakerphone.

  ‘I understand, Jo, but the style you’ve picked is a complicated one and you know it doesn’t always come down to consumption. The CMT on the panels alone is nine pounds! I’ve already brought our margins down to nothing for you.’

  Mike was nodding eagerly. I got up and walked to the window. The street below was already filling up with shoppers. Oxford Street had proclaimed that Christmas was here. In October. People needed little more than a nudge to throw money away.

  ‘I’m looking at the dress right now, Jo. I don’t know how my design team managed this, but it looks exactl
y like the panelled skater dress that everyone’s been talking about. You know the one from the Paris shows? Was it Moschino? Wait, no, that’s Milan. Umm . . . Balenciaga?’ I paused, pretending to think.

  Jo’s been in trade meetings all week, there’s no way she would have looked at the shows. Neither had I.

  ‘Hmm . . . are you thinking of the McQueen number?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes! That’s the one. You’re so good with these things,’ I gushed.

  ‘I see the similarity now that you mention it,’ she added. I could almost see the smug look on her face. Buyers are so vain.

  ‘Look, you’ve got a potential bestseller on your hands. If you can sign off the orders today, we’ll get the shipment to you for mid-December. You’ll have it on the floor before McQueen’s factories even start cutting.’ I paused. ‘You could easily get away with a fifty-quid retail on the dress if you promote it right.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but I still need a better price. It is a mini-dress after all.’

  Mike had got up too. He was pacing the floor. We really, really needed this order to go through.

  I took a deep breath and looked at Mike, willing him to calm down. I punched some numbers into my calculator.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said, keeping my eyes on him. I sighed. ‘Okay, how about this – I can bring it down to fifteen twenty-five if you think you can up the quantity to eighty thousand pieces? Now, I know that sounds like a lot,’ I added, before she could object, ‘but we can stagger the deliveries for you – December and the end of January perhaps? Launch it post-Christmas and run a back-in-stock promo in Feb? That’s the only way I can get this price past management.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s the best you can offer?’

  ‘Afraid so.’ I perched on the arm of the sofa, swinging my legs.

  ‘I’ll get back to you after the sign-off,’ Jo said.

  ‘Of course. Let’s talk more this evening.’

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Mike demanded as soon as I hung up. He was clutching on to the chair, leaning on it with all his weight. ‘I told you to agree twelve fifty. We need this order.’

  Mike and I were a ‘team’. Technically, he was my manager but we’d been on the same pay grade for a while now. We were also gunning for the same promotion. Awkward.

  I picked up my notebook and checked my watch. I was running late. ‘Fifteen twenty-five gets us over forty per cent,’ I said, as I slipped out of the room.

  ‘Oh, just tell him to sod off. What would his price have made?’ Roy asked. We were at our usual table in the Waterstone’s fifth-floor cafe.

  I looked up, surprised at this sudden show of support. Perhaps Natalie had been right after all. Things had been tense since that night in the car and in my session yesterday she had suggested – insisted really – that I arrange a casual lunch with Roy in a ‘safe’ environment. Take some of the pressure off. Show him we were still a unit.

  ‘Twenty-eight per cent. Company minimum is twenty-three so twenty-eight’s not bad.’

  ‘But it’s not forty per cent.’

  ‘It’s not forty per cent,’ I agreed, smiling. ‘And if Jo bites, the increased quantity will mean we make nearly five hundred thousand pounds. As opposed to Mike’s a hundred and eighty.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t go for it?’

  ‘I’ll have to go back to her with some story and agree to a lower price. But if she’s already placed it with another supplier . . .’ I paused. Shit. What if she placed it with another supplier?

  You’ll be fired, the voices in my head murmured. You’ll lose everything. I silenced them and focused on Roy.

  ‘Mike will run to the board, get the sales director post, get rid of me,’ I reeled off. It sounded a lot worse out loud than it had in my head. My confidence from this morning evaporated. Jo could easily move the style to Design House or Cubus or any of the vultures that had set up shop in east London in the last year. They would jump at it. Mike would get directorship. I’d get fired. Shit. Shit. Shit. What had I done?

  Natalie’s voice popped up in my head. Come on, Mia, what’s the worst that can happen? I pushed her away. Even Natalie couldn’t be right all the time. The worst that can happen is a fucking catastrophe.

  I took a deep breath and tried to slow my brain down. There was a strange poster with illustrations of windows on the far wall of the cafe. It was new. I started counting the windows. I was up to twenty-two when Roy spoke.

  ‘Hey, you.’ Roy put his hand on mine and squeezed. ‘Don’t overthink it. You’re far better at this than Mike and everyone knows that. Remember the Christmas party?’

  I nodded. Roy was right. At the Christmas do last year, Elizabeth Pritchard, one of the founding board members, had waved me over to the top table and insisted I sit next to her. I had spent the evening chatting with everyone on the board while Mike glared at me from his usual table. After his fourth glass of Prosecco, Harvey Shaw, another board member, had leaned over and whispered, ‘We’re looking forward to having you on this table permanently, Mia. Just keep doing what you’re doing.’ I had gone home on a high and fallen asleep repeating everything to Roy on loop. I woke up the next day to snow in the garden and an unprecedented annual bonus in my bank account. We paid off the bulk of Roy’s student loan and booked a chalet in Zermatt that week.

  I shook the thoughts away and squeezed back.

  Roy’s tenderness touched me. He always knew what to say to make me feel better. He had seen how upset I was and decided to put our argument behind us, no questions asked. Couldn’t I do the same?

  If everything went to plan, I could finance his project next year and help with Dad’s house. That would solve everything. I was going to tell Roy this when I noticed the waitress, Anna. I smiled at her as she placed a large slice of cake and two forks between us. We dug in.

  Another thought occurred to me: a year apart might make us stronger but it could just as well be the last straw. It could be the final blow that would break us irreparably.

  ROY

  Monday, 5th October

  ‘Thanks, Anna. Give our love to Janey,’ I said as Mia and I walked towards the lift.

  We’d been coming here for years. Mia had made me work hard to score that first date and I had known instantly that the usual dinner and drinks was not an option and a stroll along the river or a trip on the London Eye was a cliché. Plus there was the issue of money – I had none. So I had picked her up from her student halls one afternoon and we’d wandered through Soho chatting easily about her course, my last submission, and the challenge of finding a good cup of masala chai in London. She’d been surprised when I’d steered her into Waterstone’s, my hand resting automatically on the small of her back. I thought we were drifting aimlessly, she had said with a smile. We’d spent the rest of the afternoon flirting over Fitzgerald and Hemingway and then climbed up the five flights to the cafe for coffee. The layout and scale of the place had changed dramatically over the past few years but we’d continued coming here. It had become an easy tradition, one of so many that made up the DNA of our relationship, though these days Mia usually had to rush back to work. Browsing through the bookstore had become something of a solo foray and Rumi and Rilke had replaced Fitzgerald and Hemingway.

  The Poetry section was tucked away in an alcove on the first floor. I was leafing through the new Rumi edition when I heard a phone ringing behind me. I turned to see a woman bent over the table showcasing modern poetry. Long black hair veiled her face. She had deposited her bag on top of the books and was rifling through it, emptying it out, presumably to find the offending phone. She looked vaguely familiar. She must have found the phone and turned it off then because it stopped ringing. Just before I went back to my book, she looked up and our eyes met. In an instant we agreed we didn’t recognize each other. I heard her walk off a few minutes later.

  Emily had emailed me yesterday, asking if I wanted to meet up. The guilt I’d been tiptoeing around all week had finally kicked in last
night and I’d been fighting it all day. I knew why I was drawn to her – the admiration, the excitement, the respect . . . it was all so electrifying. She had made her position clear, but before I agreed to see her again, I needed to figure out if it was worth risking my marriage over a short fling. Whatever Mia’s faults, we had been together for nearly a decade and I needed her in my life.

  I picked out another book and decided to make my way over to the till. I paused briefly to look at the display table. A small leather-bound book wedged between the stack of Kate Tempest and Michel Faber caught my eye. I remembered seeing the woman pull this out of her bag earlier. I picked it up. Tiny gold letters announced the title: LIKE THE SEA. It looked worn, the navy leather slightly discoloured. I hesitated and then opened it. Perfectly looped letters covered entire pages in black ink. Words and phrases leapt out at me, a few that I recognized – snippets from poems I could recite verbatim – but most of these permutations were new, words arranged in a manner that felt both unknown and familiar at once.

  they sit watching the clouds gather

  quietly over the valley

  puckering the sky, guarding

  the peaks, hiding

  joys and catastrophes within

  the earth craves the sun

  and the moon the earth

  strangers yesterday, lovers today

  known phrases float from unknown lips

  not even the clouds know

  if they harbour rain

  I went over to an armchair in the corner and sat down, leafing through the notebook with an urgency that mystified me. Every page held poems that stirred me in ways I hadn’t known were possible. There was the sensation of something clicking into place, as though somehow these words alone were reigniting a longing that I had long forgotten existed.

  I was immersed in a poem about crossroads when a shadow darkened the page.

  ‘I believe that’s mine.’

  I looked up. The woman from earlier, the poet, was standing in front of me. I stood up, hastily snapping the notebook shut.