“No.” I pressed the button again.
“That’s a lie. I know that you do.”
“Go on, then,” I said.
I could pretend to myself—and to you—that this was a ploy. I could say that I encouraged her purely to accelerate the conversation, simply to give her the space to say her bit in the hope that she might then leave. But she was right, of course; I wanted to know.
“I’m done following you.” She paused and looked at me. “That doesn’t even get a smile?”
“I don’t care.”
“You do. You’re relieved. Well, that’s it. What I wanted to say. It isn’t that this investigation is finished. It isn’t. I still want to make sure that Marnie discovers the truth. Because it’s so much more than what was in my first message, isn’t it? There’s so much that she doesn’t know. But I’m not in a rush anymore.”
“Valerie—”
“You’re going to tear this thing down all by yourself.”
“Oh, for—”
“I’ll write about it then.”
The elevator juddered into position and the doors cranked open. I stepped inside.
“Call me when it’s over,” she whispered.
Chapter Forty-One
I haven’t been to work the rest of this week. Duncan sent me an angry email about neglecting my responsibilities. I received a concerned text from Peter. I didn’t reply to either.
I have, I suppose, been feeling very sorry for myself and today has been the worst, the culmination of so much bad news.
But then, unexpectedly, things started to look a little brighter. Just as I was beginning to feel hungry, starting to think about dinner, I received a phone call from Marnie. She was frantic, flustered, flapping, as she so often is, unable to hold a calm and measured conversation. She said that Audrey’s temperature had shot up again, that they’d managed to get a last-minute appointment with their doctor—who was really very good, always willing to bend the rules for a baby—and that he’d diagnosed an ear infection and she had a printout of the prescription, but they’d also sent a copy to the pharmacy. Would I mind, she said, because it was a pharmacy between our flats, open for a little longer still, and would that be okay?
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
I pulled on my old jeans and this sweater and my dark brown boots, and I walked to the tube station in the rain, and I sat in a carriage full of families in dripping anoraks and with condensation clouding the windows and I felt hopeful. Because this was good news, wasn’t it? Here was the reunion, the remedy, a way to rebuild what felt so broken.
I knew exactly what was going to happen. I could picture her face when she discovered what had happened to Emma: her shock, her sadness. I could see her boiling the kettle and ordering takeout and then deciding that tea wasn’t the right tonic, not for this wound, and opening a bottle of wine instead. Audrey would fall asleep quickly—the antibiotics, the painkillers—and then we’d unpack this sadness together.
But it wasn’t quite so straightforward. Because I went to the pharmacy, as instructed, and discovered that it had closed an hour earlier than we’d expected. The sign on the door was accurate—Fridays: 8 a.m.–7 p.m.—but somehow the messages had been mixed, the information muddled. I called Marnie. I said that I’d continue to hers, collect the printed prescription, and find another pharmacy. She started to panic—because what if there was no other pharmacy, no way of finding the right medication tonight?—and I reassured her that everything would be fine, and I envisaged a moment, sometime later that evening, when she would instead be comforting me.
I boarded the next train and by the time I reached her station there was a sprawl of gray across the sky, the buildings, the tarmac. I followed my ordinary route to her apartment, through the passageway and past the small row of shops. And all of those steps, all of those moments, were positive. These were my places, the path to my people. I cried briefly—which isn’t unusual for me at the moment—but it was in a strange, sort of cathartic way.
I met your neighbor in the lobby. Do you remember the man with the briefcase, rushing off to work the day you were born? He had just returned from the office and was standing in the doorway, pulsing his umbrella into the street to shake off the droplets. He acknowledged me with a small smile and an even smaller nod.
Jeremy greeted me with a quick wave.
I felt like I belonged.
I knocked on the door and she opened it and she seemed pleased to see me.
“You’re here,” she said, and she smiled.
She was wearing dark jeans and a cream T-shirt, slack at her hips but snugly cuffed around her upper arms. Her hair was scraped into a loose bun and, as always, the shorter strands had fallen loose at the front. She looked beautiful.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “They said eight o’clock. I’m sure they said eight o’clock.”
The flat was impeccable: the floors were shining, and the surfaces were cleared of all debris, and I didn’t recognize a single thing that had belonged to Charles.
“Is something the matter?” she asked, and she leaned in close toward me, as though to get a better look. “Have you been crying?”
I suppose I must have nodded.
“What is it?” she asked, ushering me into the living room.
Audrey was lying on a yellow mat on the floor, wearing only a nappy and with her cheeks flushed and pink.
“Here,” Marnie insisted. “Sit down. What’s going on?”
She stood in front of me and I looked at her black leather belt and its gold clasp and I tried to concentrate. I wasn’t crying anymore, but my eyes were sore. I wondered if they were red or framed by black smudges.
I sat on the sofa and hugged a gray cushion to my chest.
“I’ve had a terrible week,” I said. “Emma . . .”
I didn’t know how to finish the sentence, but then I didn’t need to say anything further.
“No,” Marnie said, in a breath. “Oh, God. When? What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I found her.”
“Jane!”
“On Monday.”
Marnie paced her living room, running her fingers through her hair, circling the coffee table. It had wooden legs and a glass top, and when I looked closely, I could see that there were small smears—fingerprints and watermarks, white rings from mugs and glasses—spread across the surface.
“You should have called me,” she said. “I’d have come straight over. I can’t believe this. How did they . . . Have you told your mum?”
Marnie shut the doors to the balcony and then pulled the curtains over the glass. The room felt suddenly smaller, without the noise of car horns and voices on the sidewalk below.
It was just us.
“She’s barely there,” I replied. “It felt as though she disappeared instantly the moment I told her. She wouldn’t look at me after that. She wouldn’t listen to me. She was still sitting there, just as she’d been a few minutes before, but she was completely gone.”
“Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry.” Marnie sank down onto the sofa beside me.
“It makes sense,” I replied.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Marnie said. “I mean . . . how does it make any sense at all?”
“She’s always adored Emma, hasn’t she? And whether it’s the dementia or . . . What does it matter? She’s never been there to support me before.”
Marnie secreted a small squeak from the back of her throat. “What an awful thing to happen,” she said. “This is terrible. I mean . . . You poor thing. This must have been such a shock. Have you been at work?”
I shook my head.
“You’ve been at home? All week? By yourself? Why didn’t you . . . ?” She grabbed my hands and her fingernails were painted in pink polish and they were so long that they tickl
ed at my skin as she warmed my knuckles between her palms. “I could have been there,” she said. “I could have taken care of you. I hate thinking that you’ve been going through this on your own.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, slapping me on the arm. “It’s crazy to be on your own after such a . . . such a trauma. I’m always—I’ve always been—just at the end of the phone. You should have called. But that doesn’t matter now. I’m here. I’m here. I’m always here. When is the funeral? Will your mother come? Do you need help organizing it? Or with her place? What can I do?”
“I’ve agreed to clear out her flat tomorrow,” I said. “They have someone new moving in on Monday. I hoped it wouldn’t be such a rush, but they’re in such demand—they’re so cheap, you know, and—”
Audrey began to whimper and within seconds she was screaming. Her little face was a painful red, her little fists clenched and pounding at the floor, her feet flailing in the air.
“Oh, I know, I know,” said Marnie, rushing to pick her up. “I know you feel awful, my poor little darling.” She bounced Audrey on her hip, spinning slowly, facing me and then turning away, but never looking my way. “I know, I know.” She held the back of her hand against Audrey’s forehead. “Oh, my little one, you’re burning up again. What time is it?” She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, its thick roman numerals, its thin metal hands. “Yes, let’s take something to sort this fever. And Mummy will get that prescription for Auntie Jane and we’ll have you back to your normal self in no time.”
They disappeared toward the kitchen.
“Jane,” she called, “will you look for one that’s open?”
I told myself to stay calm, to be patient, not to read a truth that wasn’t there into the sense of abandonment that was filling my lungs, the panic that was crackling through me. I forced myself to do as she’d asked, and I found only one pharmacist open nearby. It was just a few miles from the flat, but it wasn’t close to a train station and there were no bus stops in that area, either. I could hear Audrey squalling, Marnie’s incessant platitudes—“There, now. Don’t cry. Mummy’s here”—and I felt a rage building within me and I tried to suppress it.
“Well?” she said as she came back in, and she frowned as I explained the problem, that it would take me over an hour to get there—I’d have to walk most of it—and perhaps even longer to get back.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said. “We’re in one of the biggest cities in the world and I can’t find a fucking pharmacy that’s in any way accessible. Okay. Right. I’m going to put her down and then I’ll have to do it myself. I’ll drive. That’ll be quicker. And you’ll stay here with Audrey? Is that okay?”
I nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Give me a few minutes.”
They went upstairs and I turned on the television and I tried to find something that I wanted to watch, and there were so many choices but nothing that felt even vaguely appealing. I went to the fridge and there was a bottle of white wine, so I opened it—I didn’t think she’d mind—and poured myself a small glass. I looked through the cupboards, trying to find a DVD or a book that appealed, but I couldn’t concentrate properly. Five minutes passed. And then ten. I stared into the black of the television screen, a dark void in the center of the fireplace.
“Okay,” said Marnie, rushing back in. “She isn’t asleep—I’m so tired that I can’t quite believe either of us will ever sleep again; she’s totally wired—but at least she’s calmer now. The crying’s stopped and that’s a start.” She rushed around, gathering her purse and her phone and the car keys and pressing them into her black leather handbag. “I think that’s everything,” she said. She dragged her trench coat from the wooden peg in the hallway and pulled it over her shoulders. She pointed up the stairs. “Will you check on her in a few minutes? Make sure that her temperature’s dropping? There’s a thermometer in there: one of those ones for the ears. If she gets too riled up, try feeding her. It’s in the fridge if you need it. Her change bag is underneath the stairs, but I think there’s everything in her room already. Right. I’m off. I’ll be back in no time, half an hour at most. We’ll talk properly when I’m back. I’m so sorry, Jane. I won’t be long.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt the most incredible disappointment and I thought I might feel angry, but I didn’t. I was simply sad.
So I came up here, to your bedroom.
And I started to tell you this story.
Because it’s something that you deserve to hear.
This, after all, is the story of how you came to be, of your life, and the people that led us both to this moment. It was meant to be a story about your father, about his inadequacies, about his death. It was meant to be a story about your mother, about her brilliance, and all the little ways that our love has sustained us both. It was meant to reassure me, to remind me, to make this evening feel less unforgivable.
But it wasn’t and it hasn’t.
Chapter Forty-Two
There are plenty of things that make you feel worse when they ought to make you better. Takeout, for example. It feels wonderful in the moment: the sharp tomato base of a pizza, acidic mango chutney with a poppadum, crispy-duck pancakes. But it weighs heavy within you. It never feels quite as good afterward as you thought it would before you ate it. I had anticipated that my conversation with Marnie would follow a very different path. I didn’t expect to feel so much worse afterward.
Because I thought I knew her. If you’d have asked me, I’d have said that I could accurately predict her response to just about any conversation. I could tell you, for example, that she’d like her burger cooked medium-well, extra cheese, and yes, please, to tomatoes. I could tell you that she’d roll her eyes if you asked about her parents, no matter who you were, no matter what your question. I could tell you that she’d deliver her copy after the deadline you’d set, but that it’d be no more than a few hours late. I could tell you that she wouldn’t call you back, and not to bother leaving a message, because she was unlikely to ever listen to it. I could tell you that she couldn’t—absolutely wouldn’t—eat a pickle, and that she’d be much happier if you’d eat yours quickly so that she didn’t have to see it sitting there on your plate.
All of these things are still true.
And yet that conversation was not at all what I’d expected. I had scripted it, both of our parts, perfectly—her concern, her support, the way her attention would be focused on me—and then without warning she had improvised.
I feel disappointed. I feel afraid. I suppose I am confused.
I know that you’re unwell. And I’m not stupid. I understand that it’s her responsibility to ensure that you have the correct medication, to care for you, to mother you. But to cut me off in the middle of a sentence, to move so seamlessly onto something else, to minimize my loss so overtly, so insensitively? I don’t think these are things that a best friend should do. Do you?
She sent me a message, more than an hour ago, to say that the pharmacy was closed, that there was a sign on the door that said FAMILY EMERGENCY—OPEN ON MONDAY and that she was going to find another one, and then I turned off my phone because I wanted it to be just us and our story, and because I needed space to think, to unravel my anguish alone.
* * *
My father always said that when you fall in love with someone, you should do your very best to love them just a little bit less than they love you. It’s the only way to protect yourself, he would have said.
But it’s too late for that now. Could I walk out of this flat in a few hours’ time and never look back, never call either of you again? I don’t think so. It’s too hard to unravel a love this big. I wouldn’t know how to unwind the threads of it that are woven through my ribs and my joints and my muscles. And even if I could, I wouldn’t want to.
An
yway, my father was wrong. I think that if you love someone too much, you should do whatever it takes to make them love you, too. And I do love her: her openness, her warmth, her confidence, and the brightness that emanates from within her. None of those things have changed. But they aren’t enough anymore. She is open—but for you—warm—but for you—loving—but for you.
She shines no light for me anymore.
Am I allowed to say that I wish your mother loved me as much as she loves you?
Perhaps not.
But it’s true.
Because she used to. It was together that we discovered friendship and realized that it was different, better than our relationships with those who were obliged to love us. We found that it anchored us in our own lives. And then, years later, we relinquished it. I wish I could tell you that you weren’t going to make these same mistakes, but you will, because we all do. We all sacrifice the best loves in pursuit of something better.
Oh.
Oh, no.
That’s it, isn’t it?
I didn’t know there was more. I couldn’t see it.
But I’m right, aren’t I?
It makes such perfect sense.
You extricate yourself from your family and then from your friends, limb by limb, bone by bone, memory from memory, as your one becomes part of a different two, part of a romantic love. I thought that was it: the final stage. I didn’t see that the pattern repeats one last time. That it isn’t a thread, but a circle, that one stage feeds into the next, until you end up standing in the spot where you started: that it returns, again, to family.
You craft new limbs and new bones and you are not one person anymore because, this time, you truly are two. Your skeleton houses another life. It exists within your own. And that can never be undone. Those limbs and bones—that new being—will exist beyond your body and a part of you will forever live outside yourself. Your heart is now two hearts and one of them is always somewhere else.
Seven Lies Page 28
