My Husband's Lie: A page turning and emotional family drama

by Emma Davies

  ‘I will…’ She picks up the watering can. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening,’ she says.

  ‘You too.’

  I turn to go and she gives a little wave, watching me as I leave. There’s a smile on her face, but I have a horrible feeling I’ve just made a big mistake.

  Thirteen

  ‘Jesus! Don’t you have a go at me as well.’

  Drew holds his hands up in a ‘who me?’ gesture and grins at Gerry. ‘Have you met my wife, the diplomat?’

  I bash his arm. ‘That’s not funny.’ I pull a face. ‘Okay, so maybe I was a little heavy-handed, but what would you have done?’

  ‘Erm, not got involved,’ replies Drew as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  I roll my eyes at Rachel. ‘Men,’ I say. ‘What are they like?’

  She looks over at Lauren and Chloe who are having a whale of a time running through the park, stopping at every horse chestnut tree to look for conkers.

  It’s Sunday and we’ve come out to Shrewsbury with Rachel and Gerry to show them the county town, starting the day with a walk along the river that threads its way through the centre. I’ve no idea how we got onto the subject of my conversation with Anna yesterday, but I really wish we hadn’t. I did enough thinking about it last night.

  ‘Well, you weren’t there, were you?’ says Rachel, directing a look at my husband. ‘They were really nasty bruises. And I think Thea is quite right to call it out.’

  Drew laughs. ‘So do I. I just wish she hadn’t alienated our neighbours in the process.’ He beams at his audience but for once I’m not finding it funny.

  I turn away. The girls are shrieking with laughter and so it’s easy to pretend I’m captivated by them. But there’s something about this conversation that doesn’t sit right. It’s light-hearted for sure, but I’m not feeling it. What I’m feeling is rebuked. I’m used to Drew teasing me, it’s not that. In fact, I’ve always loved this aspect of our relationship – we both give as good as we get – but he wouldn’t normally mock me, not over a subject as important as this.

  ‘Oh dear, well, I might just have blown it then,’ I reply. ‘Given that half the village is already talking about us.’

  ‘Are they?’ Drew’s reply comes quickly.

  His look is a little more direct than usual and I’m surprised to feel slightly glad to have jolted him from his levity. ‘Well if the daggers we got in the village shop are anything to go by, then yes, definitely.’

  I could mention the article I found, but I won’t. The timing isn’t right but more than that I need to work out its significance first.

  Rachel laughs. ‘She’s right, the woman in there yesterday looked like she’d been sucking on lemons.’

  ‘Jasmin’s mum,’ I supply for Drew’s benefit. ‘You know, the woman who brought Chloe home early that time, because “something” came up? She’s a bit of a gossip apparently.’

  ‘So what are they talking about?’

  ‘I have no idea. Do they need a reason?’ I’m trying to make light of it now, but it’s Drew that doesn’t want to let it rest; the tone of his voice dropped at least an octave as he replied. ‘However, I would imagine it’s because our daughter is a wanton thug,’ I add.

  He looks quizzically at me.

  ‘Jasmin’s mum is friends with Leo’s mum,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, is that all.’ He looks relieved.

  Gerry blows air out from between his teeth. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if this moving to the countryside lark is such a good idea after all…’

  ‘I know,’ agrees Rachel. ‘Who knew it was such a hotbed of scandal and intrigue?’ She smiles at me. ‘I reckon they’re just trying to put us off, Gerry. I don’t think they want us to move up here at all…’

  I grin. ‘Busted.’

  ‘Well, tough,’ she says, sticking out her tongue. ‘Seriously though, if we are considering it…’ She stops to slide a look at Gerry and then grins. ‘Okay, as we are considering it, we need to think about location, particularly for Gerry and his job. We’ve no idea of the best places to look. And, much as you love us, you probably won’t want us right on your doorstep.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ I reply, laughing, and glad to be changing the subject. ‘Well, as far as location goes, I think anywhere around here would be pretty much perfect. The hospital’s just on the outskirts of town and there’s another about a half hour’s drive away. Why don’t we go and do some window shopping in a bit? None of the estate agents will be open but we can always give you a few pointers and then tomorrow you can go off by yourselves and have a tour around a few other places.’

  Rachel looks at Gerry for agreement. ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ she says, swinging Gerry’s hand as she scuffs through a pile of leaves. She points to an ice cream stand obligingly stationed to catch passers-by. ‘Right, I reckon it’s about time we had another one of those, don’t you?’

  I glance up at the sky as the first in a line of black clouds drifts across the sun.

  ‘Best make it quick,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure how long it’s going to be before we get spectacularly wet.’

  ‘It wouldn’t dare,’ replies Rachel. And I’m surprised to find myself wishing I had her optimism. Where did that come from?

  It isn’t far to the town centre and we take our time ambling through the beautiful park and up through the formal gardens that sit at its middle, stopping for a few minutes to finish our ice creams. The surrounding streets are old, lined with handsome period houses and quirky independent shops that are good for tourists and natives alike, and I can see that Rachel and Gerry are pleased by what they see. There’s one street in particular where a row of estate agents have set up office and we move from window to window, checking the details in each.

  The door to a gallery on the other side of the street is invitingly open and I drift across to peer in the window, calling to say that I’ll catch everyone up. It’s rather an occupational hazard, but I can’t pass by an art shop of any kind without stopping, whether it’s to look at finished artwork or to drool over papers, brushes and pristine tubes of paint. I haven’t been in here before, but a wonderful collection of hand-drawn illustrated maps draws me in.

  There are several different designs, each of a particular local town and its distinctive features; Ludlow and its castle, Bridgnorth and its funicular railway, their interesting points of note beautifully depicted in pen and coloured ink. One in particular takes my eye. Not a street map this time, but the whole of Shropshire, very cleverly executed as a pictorial guide to the county. I realise immediately that it would make a wonderful gift for Rachel and Gerry; the perfect accompaniment to my friends’ house-hunting.

  On impulse, I pluck the mounted print from its stand and take it over to the counter to pay. The woman who greets me is dressed in a beautiful pale-green tunic, over the front of which hangs a huge oval pendant – silver, with what’s unmistakably the palest blue sea glass. But it’s her array of silver rings which ultimately catches my eye, the number and size of them stirring a memory deep inside of me. A tinkly laugh, the flash of silver in sunlight… people. I don’t want to stare, but the more I look, the more she seems familiar.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, smiling. ‘These are lovely, aren’t they?’ Her hand goes out to receive the print. ‘Are you only visiting for the day?’

  ‘No, no, I live just south of here but I’m buying this for some friends…’ I hand over my purchase, meeting her smile. ‘They’re thinking of moving this way so I’m hoping it might turn out to be a bit of a good-luck charm.’

  She nods and touches a hand to a small leaflet stand on the counter beside her. ‘I only asked because the artist is going to be here next Saturday, working live in the shop on a new map. If you or your friends want to come and meet her, feel free to pop in, any time.’

  I peer at the name on the notice. Heather Atwood. She’s not an artist I know but that’s hardly surprising given I haven’t had time to suss out the local network yet. This coul
d be a good opportunity though. ‘My friends are only here for the weekend, unfortunately, but I might pop along. I’m only in Ditton Batch so I’m not far.’

  ‘Ditton Batch…’

  I meet her eye. ‘Yes, do you know it?’

  She looks away, turning to the till. ‘I used to live there once… Are you paying by cash or card?’

  ‘Oh… um, card please.’

  She taps in the price of the print, silver rings glinting.

  ‘That’s so weird… Do you know I thought there was something about you I recognised when I came in.’ I break off, trying to study her face. ‘I actually used to live in the village years ago when I was a child. At Pevensey House, maybe you know it? My husband and I have just moved back there, to the same house in fact, would you believe. When did you live there? Maybe we were in the village at the same time.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, it was years ago.’

  ‘Yes, me too.’ I do the maths in my head. ‘We left in 1996.’

  The hand holding the print stills as her head turns towards me. Her eyes widen as the colour drains from her face, her mouth parting. It closes again as she swallows.

  ‘Oh my God…’

  Heat flickers up my neck. Her reaction is not at all what I’m expecting. ‘Are you all right, I…’

  I hear the sound of laughter again. No, it’s not laughter, someone’s crying…

  ‘I’m sorry. You probably don’t remember me at all. I—’

  ‘No, I know who you are.’

  I stop dead at the sudden ice in her voice, so chilling. The eyes that regard me are cold and lifeless. They look so out of place amid her glowing complexion and bright clothes.

  I look around me, neck prickling with foreboding. ‘I’m sorry,’ I manage. ‘I think… maybe there’s been a misunderstanding…?’

  I wait for her to enlighten me, but she remains silent.

  The beam of sunlight slanting through the window is cut off as a cloud passes overhead and I stare at the print on the counter.

  She holds out her hand and I can feel the burn of her gaze as I fumble with my purse, pulling ineffectually at my debit card. Eventually I manage to pull it free and pass it over.

  I think for one weird moment that she’s going to keep my card, or refuse to serve me at all, but then she slides it into the reader and wordlessly turns it to face me. My mind has gone completely blank. I can’t even remember my PIN number.

  ‘I’m really sorry… I’ve obviously upset you, but I… Maybe you’re thinking of someone else…? We lived at Pevensey, behind the church…’

  I punch in the number without thinking. Her hands are shaking as she turns the reader back towards her.

  ‘And my husband, Drew, you might remember him, he lived next door…?’ My voice trails away. I’m not sure why I’m still trying to speak to her, but I’m desperate to show her she’s made a mistake, that whoever she thinks I am, she’s got the wrong person. That whatever she’s feeling can’t possibly be directed at me.

  But it isn’t going to work, I can see that. Because the look in her eyes tells me that she’s absolutely certain. I can feel the hatred surrounding her almost as clearly as if I can see it. She places the print inside a bag and then plucks my card from the reader before holding both out to me, pinned together by a thumb and forefinger.

  I swallow and reach out to take them, trying to grip them with fingers that feel numb. Just as I make contact she gives them a tug, a sharp jolt to make her final words even more cutting.

  ‘Don’t ever come in here again,’ she hisses, shoving the package at me.

  My debit card slides away and flies across the floor and I feel dizzy with shock as I scrabble to pick it up. I’m gulping for air by the time I reach the door, the breaths I’ve been taking somehow failing to supply my lungs with oxygen. And yet the street looks normal when I stumble outside. I can see my family, my friends, just metres from where I’m standing, carrying on as if nothing has happened. Their blissful ignorance is something I’m no longer able to share.

  I have no idea what just took place, but it’s one of a series of things I’m desperately trying to ignore. I can’t think about any of this, not today, and certainly not right at this moment. But I’m struggling to push the woman’s words from my head, the memory of the harshness in her voice. I look down at the card in my hand. This is something I can do; the practicality of stowing it away in my purse creating a link back to the normal, the everyday. That done, I hurry after everyone. The one thing I can’t be right now is alone.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I say, my voice breathless, catching in my throat as if I’ve just run a huge distance. ‘I’m a bit of a sucker for an art shop as you know.’

  Rachel looks up from where her head is practically resting against a window as she peers inside. She eyes the paper bag I’m holding. ‘Oh, did you get something nice?’

  I’m about to answer when there’s a subtle shift in her expression.

  ‘Are you okay, Thea? You look as white as a sheet.’

  I touch a hand to my cheek as Drew pivots towards me, but I can’t meet his gaze just yet.

  I smile. ‘I think so… maybe it’s just the price of the art supplies in there… sheesh… eye-watering.’ My fingers are plucking at the edge of the paper bag. ‘I did get this though.’ I hand over the print, smiling at Gerry. ‘I thought it might be either a nice incentive or a nice memento, possibly both.’ I perhaps shouldn’t have given it to them just yet, particularly as I’ve just realised the price sticker is still on the back, but I needed to do something.

  I watch while Rachel opens it and peers inside, smiling at her exclamation as she pulls the print free.

  ‘Oh, look at that, it’s gorgeous!’ She angles the print to show Gerry, trying to find some light to illuminate the detail. The street is narrow here and, with tall buildings either side and the sun determinedly behind a cloud, in shadow.

  Drew has hold of both the girls’ hands but he lets them go as Rachel passes the illustration to him. He smiles up at me. ‘Yes, I definitely approve. Is it someone you know?’ he asks, turning the picture over to see the artist’s details.

  I shake my head. ‘Someone local though.’

  He looks back up the street towards the shop. ‘Not a million miles away from your style,’ he comments. ‘Perhaps you should approach them to sell some of your work.’

  ‘No.’ The word escapes my mouth before I have a chance to soften its tone. ‘I mean, these prints are lovely, but there really wasn’t anything else in there to write home about. Besides, I’m far too busy at the moment.’

  Drew grins at Gerry. ‘Have you met my wife? She’s a very important illustrator.’

  Rachel rolls her eyes and pokes at Drew’s arm. ‘Don’t be so mean. I think Thea’s absolutely right. And the print is lovely, but your work is way better than this. Besides, when we move to the country and I’m running an incredibly successful cookery business, I shall be so busy and important that folks will have to make an appointment just to speak to me.’ Her voice has adopted a very plummy tone. ‘Just ignore him, Thea. Beastly man.’

  There are laughs all round and, whether it was intentional or not, I’m grateful to Rachel for moving us forward.

  ‘Anyway, how are you getting on?’ I ask, gesturing towards the agent’s window.

  ‘Aw…’ Her face softens. ‘Just look…’ She points to a photo dead centre in the agent’s window. ‘How magical is that?’

  The property for sale is a traditional stone farmhouse, in a small village about a twenty-minute drive from Pevensey. Huge swathes of lavender adorn the front garden and there are even roses around the door.

  ‘And I bet there are sheds and barns and all sorts,’ adds Rachel. ‘Just perfect for converting into a workspace. I can’t believe we can even afford a place like this. It makes you wonder why we haven’t thought of moving before.’

  Gerry smiles but exchanges a look with Drew before replying. ‘Affording it in the first place is
one thing, Rach, being able to afford living there on a daily basis is quite another. We’d need to be very sure we had money coming in from the get-go, so I’d really need a job to come to at the very least. Your income would be zero to start with.’

  She pulls a face. ‘I’m not daft, Gerry. I do know that. But it’s like we said, this is just window shopping until we want to think about it seriously. We have to start somewhere.’

  ‘And there is a very good place to start,’ I reply, pointing at the card in the window. ‘That’s a lovely village too,’ I add. ‘Just saying…’

  * * *

  ‘Are you worried about money, Drew?’ I ask, later in the evening when we’re on our own. ‘Because you needn’t be.’ I try to make my voice sound as casual as I can. ‘We’re fine at the moment, and your work will pick up. It isn’t as if you’re short of enquiries.’

  He looks across at me from the chair where he’s reading. ‘What makes you say that?’

  I could say, Well your defensiveness for one, but I don’t. ‘Nothing really, just the comment that Gerry made about moving when we were in town and the fact they’d need to guarantee they had money coming in first. He looked at you just before he said it and I wondered if it’s something you’d been discussing.’

  ‘We’ve talked about it, yes. It’s a valid point. They have a young son.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I rather meant… are you worried?’ It rankles slightly that he might have been discussing it with Gerry and not me.

  ‘It’s taking up more of my thoughts than it usually does, yes,’ he replies. ‘Given that I’m not really doing anything right now. Enquiries are one thing, but pointless if they don’t translate to actual work. I have one order in the bag, Thea, and that’s it. I’m not about to get carried away.’

  ‘But they’re speculative, you know that. People often want to check the cost of something before coming to a decision and it can take them weeks to do that.’