The Confession

by Jessie Burton

  You’ve got to believe in yourself, Kelly would always say to me. I was trying, but I didn’t know whether to believe more in Rose Simmons or Laura Brown. I liked being Laura. She was bolder, more efficient and funnier than Rose. Rose was a very different creature indeed. Less confident, more frightened. She had never travelled very far: she wanted to stay in the house. She didn’t know what her life was supposed to be.

  I couldn’t decide how far to develop my deception. Could I, if I wanted, invent a whole new biography for myself? I could eradicate Joe. I could invent a mother who I’d always known and loved. A different address. A new life – as I daydreamed about it, it shocked me how quickly I could find alternatives. I was currently single, though there was someone I was seeing casually – a museum curator, from New York whose name was Leo. I was seeing a woman, Carenza, a lawyer I met in a bar one night, who liked rock-climbing and was pestering me to go on some godawful action holiday that involved sheer cliff faces – oh, Carenza! – when I would rather sit by the hotel pool. I was a homebody, Carenza an adventuress, but somehow it worked. My parents lived in Bath, in Glasgow; they lived in a village near Dorking. They were happy, they were divorced, my mother, Sally, lived in Madrid, after falling in love with a Spanish real-estate developer. Let’s call him Geraldo. I often went there for weekends, and Sally and Geraldo would load my hand luggage with the best jamón.

  It came smoothly to me, this loosening the threads of my own identity, weaving a new one. How had it become this easy to let go of myself, to pour words and fantasy into these gaping holes?

  But if this was what I was good at, why not do it? No one would get hurt because no one would know. I assumed Connie would probably ask me about Laura’s life, and the more time we spent together the harder it would be for me to remain mute about it. And even if I made a story up, it wouldn’t affect my being in Connie’s house. If anything, it would act as a sort of protective shield, hiding my true self behind the verbal fortifications formed by a more exciting self. And, once I had the story of my mother I would depart, taking the trail of my fictions with me and leaving Connie with hers.

  *

  When it came to our next personal conversation, it seemed Connie had been thinking about all this too. About me, who I was, where I was from. Who I loved, what I wanted. Maybe Fiona Wilkins’ death had made her more expansive and ruminating, leaving her wanting to reach out to the closest human in her vicinity. Maybe she was just warming to me. But I still resisted telling her my life story, real or imagined. I only wanted hers.

  She asked me to go for a walk on the Heath with her, so we found her a scarf and hat and a thick padded jacket. Her fingers grabbed awkwardly at the edges of the woolly hat almost as if they belonged to a child, and again I was surprised at the contrast between the rest of Connie’s elegant self and the snatchy, twitchy character of her hands.

  It was a grey day, the sun hiding, but at least there was no rain.

  ‘Laura Brown,’ Connie said, as we crested the hill, playing with my name in her mouth. ‘Are you married, Laura Brown?’

  I laughed. ‘Am I married? No.’

  ‘Do you have a partner?’

  ‘I do,’ I said, and I thought of Joe, of Leo, of Carenza. I wondered what name would come out of my mouth, and was glad that Connie moved on.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want them?’

  I said nothing. ‘I see,’ said Connie.

  ‘You see what?’ I said.

  She didn’t say anything to that.

  We carried on walking. I felt bruised and prodded and wanted to go back to the house, where it felt safer than being outside with her. Outside, the ludicrousness of my behaviour – the lying, the fact I was now her companion of sorts – felt magnified. I felt that at any moment I might be arrested. ‘When I was twenty,’ Connie said, breaking my thoughts, ‘I wrote a set of poems for a girlfriend’s birthday.’

  ‘That was kind of you.’

  Connie snorted. ‘I was broke, that’s why I wrote them. Couldn’t afford a proper present. It’s not because I thought I was a poet.’ She stopped by a bench and lowered herself down. ‘Although perhaps I did? After all, I wrote them. I don’t remember any embarrassment in giving them to her.’

  ‘What were they about?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Love, probably. My approximation of it. Of her, of myself. They weren’t “twenty-one poems for a twenty-first birthday”, nothing like that. But they were an effort, I do remember.’

  ‘You didn’t publish them?’

  ‘God, no. No. Then we broke up, again. She left them in the boot of her car. An old jalopy that she wanted to be nicked, rather than have to deal with it. But it was nicked, and the poems were still in the boot, so they went too.’

  ‘That’s a bit shit of her.’

  Connie shrugged. ‘They were hers. She could do what she wanted with them. She wanted no reminder of me, so my poetry could be stolen too. But then, she decided she regretted this decision. When we were talking again, she asked if I could rewrite them, because despite the fact she’d deliberately left them in the boot, she wanted them back.’

  ‘Did you rewrite them?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Her car was named after Sirius, the constellation,’ Connie said, burying her chin in the top of her scarf. ‘A few years after all this, I wrote another poem about it. Sirius, you know – the starry name, the idea of fate.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So clever. It was about the theft of the first poems. Her quite frankly arrogant request to have them re-written.’

  ‘What did you do with the new poem?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. It wasn’t very good. But here’s the thing. My new girlfriend found it, and was upset that I was writing a poem about former lovers.’

  I thought of my father’s words: For a time, they were inseparable. ‘She was the jealous type, the new one?’ I asked, my heart thumping a little harder.

  Connie looked away. Say her name, I thought. Tell me her name. ‘You could say that,’ she said. ‘Bit of a firework. I threw the poem in the bin. I should have been more careful.’

  ‘You were entitled to write the poem.’

  Connie carried on idly observing the passers-by. ‘I played out old mistakes on new people. Don’t ever do that, Laura. I say that as someone who’s been there.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, uneasily.

  ‘Although it’s what we all do,’ Connie went on. ‘You only get your heart broken for the first time once. But the pain always makes itself known in subsequent encounters, even if you don’t realize it. Have you ever been heartbroken?’

  I thought about this question for such a long time that Connie ended up turning round fully to me. ‘Yes,’ I said, but I was not thinking of lovers.

  Perhaps there was something true in my voice, or heartfelt at least. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ she said gently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This new novel is about responsibility,’ she said suddenly, and it felt as if she was offering me a gift. ‘It’s called The Mercurial.’

  ‘The Mercurial?’

  ‘What I wanted to explain to that girlfriend of mine—’

  ‘The one who was a firework?’

  Connie smiled. ‘Yes, the firework – or perhaps to myself – was that I was tracing a scar that never vanishes. Old lines under new skin. But the writing of it gives it a reconfigured present. What I would call art, as we experience it. It also helps us imagine our ideal futures.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

  Connie laughed. ‘No. I’m twisting it all, but it’s what I do. And being a person with no faith except in artistic culture – in fiction, say – doesn’t make you better than someone who doesn’t read books. In some ways, it makes you terrifying. Or terrified. Depends on the day. Isn’t it an abnegation of reality? A person who needs to see an actor crying crocodile tears to understand the depths of grief, a person who needs a love poem to
circle closer to the feeling – she might find it hard to live in the real world. She’s arguably deficient.’

  Connie was surprising me. She was getting emotional. ‘Aren’t we all a bit like that?’ I said. ‘The real world . . . can be too much.’

  She batted the air with a claw-like hand. ‘I’m not criticizing. I’m sure I’m in the majority. I need those actors. I need those love poems. I’ve found it hard, I’ve needed stories. Which I assume is patently obvious.’

  ‘Except you haven’t written for so long.’

  Connie didn’t like that. She sniffed and looked away. ‘When you came to my house the first time, you said you’d read Green Rabbit.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And did you think I was Rabbit?’

  ‘No. I thought she was a fiction.’

  This wasn’t strictly true.

  Connie smiled. ‘Good. Because that’s the point. It’s never reality. That’s the aim. But the problem is, no one can really say what reality actually is. It’s just so slippery.’

  ‘I know.’

  She stood up. ‘I’m ready. Let’s go back. I need a cup of tea.’

  19

  A few days after this conversation, I was making pizza at Connie’s kitchen table when she appeared at the door. ‘Laura,’ she said. ‘Can you stay late? I’ve invited a guest and I was wondering whether you’d cook.’

  ‘A guest?’

  My voice was perceptibly tight. Imagine, I thought. My mother, walking through that front door.

  ‘That’s allowed, isn’t it?’ said Connie, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course.’

  ‘It’s my agent. Deborah.’

  ‘Your agent,’ I repeated, feeling something inside me shrivel. I turned away to the kitchen counter. I was going mad – why did I think my mother would be coming round for dinner?

  ‘Laura, is something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I gestured to the ball of pizza dough I’d been kneading. ‘But I was just planning on leaving you a pizza.’

  ‘Pizza will be lovely, thank you. And do you want to invite your partner?’ Connie said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your partner? Goodness, what’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing. Honestly, I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t even know your partner’s name,’ she said.

  ‘It’s Joe,’ I replied, too flustered to think of a lie. Leo and Carenza vanished in the face of Connie’s curiosity. ‘He’s working tonight,’ I said.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s – an antiques dealer.’

  ‘How fabulous,’ said Connie, sounding genuinely delighted. My face flushed red and I kept my back turned. I took a deep breath and thought about what Laura might say. ‘What period?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Mainly early twentieth century,’ I replied.

  Connie made a noise of happiness. ‘But why’s he working tonight?’

  ‘He’s up in Yorkshire. There’s a big house auction tomorrow and he wants to get first dibs.’

  ‘Well, maybe he can come next time.’

  ‘Thank you, Connie. That would be lovely.’

  ‘Can you fancy up the pizza a bit? Not just pepperoni?’

  ‘Of course I can. I did an Italian cookery course, actually. When I – went to Padua. Does Deborah have any allergies?’

  ‘Padua? How marvellous. She hates anchovies. Everything else is fine.’

  *

  Connie wandered off, and I heard her office door close one floor up. I sat down at her kitchen table, grateful for the pizza dough under my fingers, the spongy mass yielding under pressure. I imagined Laura, living in a romantic garret in Padua, learning how to make tortellini parcels, proper ricotta and pizza, the best and simplest Italian way. I yearned to be that girl, who took herself off and did that kind of thing. I pulled away my hand and the dough swelled up like a bleached and bloated organ, resisting the imprints of my fingers to leave no trace. Joe the antiques dealer. I imagined him, wandering the endless aisles of an antiques market, looking for the perfect Deco table. Why couldn’t I have said something easier, like a lawyer, or an accountant? No one was interested in asking more questions about them.

  I just wanted Joe to seem interesting. I guess the same could be applied to myself.

  Whether he was rifling through antiques or making burritos, there was no way I could have Joe here, but even worse than him was Deborah. Rapidly, I went through the scenarios. What if Connie told her I’d been sent from the recruitment agency, and Deborah said she’d never heard of me? They’d want answers. They might even call the police. What if Joe’s warning about being arrested came true? It felt to me as if I’d gained a tiny foothold in this house – that my mother was a few millimetres closer than she’d ever been – and I couldn’t lose this chance. I couldn’t be here when Deborah came. I needed to move through Connie’s rooms unchallenged by outsiders.

  I left the dough in a bowl under some clingfilm, and went upstairs to speak to Connie. To my surprise, her office door was open. She was sitting at a narrow desk by the window which overlooked the garden and the backs of other houses. Connie hadn’t heard me approach. She was bent over a yellow writing pad, the profile of her face fixed in concentration, but what I noticed most of all was that she was holding her pen much like a novice Westerner might a chopstick. Her grip was ungainly, unmasterful, lost in a series of actions and contexts that meant nothing to her.

  I froze a few feet from the door: I knew I should not be witness to this.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she said quietly, before throwing the pen down and putting her head in her hands.

  I felt such pity. Whilst I cooked for her and sorted her paperwork, made her cups of tea and doled out her Lion bars, she was not up here writing endless reams of marvellous words, but instead was trying to keep hold of her pen.

  I backed away. ‘Laura,’ she said.

  I turned round, ashamed, and as our eyes met, I saw her shame too, which she quickly masked, sitting upright, resting one elbow elegantly on the edge of the desk.

  ‘How long have you been standing there?’ she said, her voice harsh. ‘Do you make a habit of spying?’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. I wanted to tell her how brave I thought she was, but I suspected she’d hate that. She’d told me, of course – more than once – that her hands were bad, but seeing in the flesh how difficult writing was for her had a very different effect on me than seeing her fumble with a bottle of champagne.

  I pretended none of it had happened. Laura Brown would be smooth about things like this: tactful, effortless. ‘I only came to say I’m not feeling too good,’ I said. ‘Is it OK if I make the pizza and then leave tonight?

  ‘Are you not well?’ Connie replied. ‘You seemed distracted downstairs. Is everything all right?’

  ‘It’s my period.’ I was unable to think of anything else.

  Her face softened. ‘Bloody things. No pun intended. Of course, Laura – don’t worry at all about the food. Go home. Rest. I’ll call Deborah and tell her to pick something up in M&S. Do you need some paracetamol? There’s some in my bathroom cabinet.’

  I felt something release inside me; an invisible muscle I’d been holding tense without realizing. I wanted to rush over to Connie and hug her, even though I thought of her as not remotely huggable. I thought about my manager at Clean Bean, a man called Giles. When either me or Zoë had our periods, he couldn’t give a shit that one of us was bent over double, or even, in Zoë’s case, vomiting in the staff loo. If men had periods, Zoë had said under her breath, there’d be twelve weeks’ statutory leave a year, and tampons would be free.

  I felt guilty for enjoying Connie’s care even though I was just a coward, hiding. ‘I’ll make your pizza,’ I said. ‘You can’t serve your agent pre-made M&S.’

  ‘I’ve done it before and no one died,’ said Connie.

  ‘But that’s what I’m here for. So you can still have nice things.’

>   Connie looked touched, and as she turned to her notepad and gripped her pen once more, I saw the colour rising in her pale cheek. And again the question occurred to me – when was the last time Connie had someone think about her like this, care about her, existing in close quarters with her? Her readiness to care about me was a surprise, and I wondered how long the impulse, human and natural as it was, had been lying dormant.

  ‘Yes,’ said Connie. ‘I suppose that’s true. But go and have a lie down in the spare room. Take a paracetamol and have a nap, and if you’re no better in a couple of hours, then please don’t stay on my account.’

  *

  I decided to swallow the paracetamol, because that’s what Laura would do, given that she said she had her period. I did have a bit of a headache, it was true. I went to the raised first-floor bedroom, which was small, with a single bed and striped mint-green wallpaper; prints in clip frames all round the walls of theatre posters dating as far back as 1975. There was a bookcase full of Connie’s novels in different languages, but I didn’t take them out, feeling yet again that Connie was being so generous, so unwitting, that I should not take advantage. My regard for Connie was fighting my desire to know more about my mother.

  I lay on top of the bed, feeling it would be wrong to get under the sheets. I wondered if Elise had ever come into this house, maybe even lain on this bed – and if so, how that had come to be, and when, and how it had all turned out? But almost as soon as my head touched the pillow, I fell asleep – immediately, deeply, the way a child can on a long car journey, or in their parents’ arms.

  When I woke up, Connie was standing over me. The light outside had faded to dusk, and the tentative, concerned expression on her face surprised me. ‘Ah, she’s awake,’ she said. ‘Deborah’s here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been asleep for three hours.’