The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  All positive feelings leave me when I open an email, late in the evening, that spells out the details for the coffee morning.

  8:30 a.m. at Café Marché, private room at the back. We will be discussing the Christmas Fair and other events—bring your thinking cap!

  8:30 a.m. When I’m due in chambers for ten. I’ve had so little to do, no appointments, nothing to do but drag poor Robin to and from school, and now, just when it’s about to be sorted out, I have to be in two places at once. I hold my head in my hands for a moment, before shaking it clear. This isn’t a problem. I can go to the coffee morning for twenty minutes, offer to look after a stall or whatever it is the parents are after, then nip down on the tube and I’ll be in time. And if I phone chambers to let them know in advance, surely Barbara won’t mind. It’s not like I’m in court; it’ll be fine. I almost believe my own reassurances.

  But that night I barely sleep, torn between the two scenarios, an endless spiral of anxiety. At 4 a.m., when I’ve convinced myself that the other mothers are going to laugh me out of the café and that Barbara and Kirsten are going to link arms and prevent me from entering chambers in the first place, yelling you’re late, you’re late, I give up on the idea of sleep and get up, wrapping myself in a blanket on the hard sofa in the living room and staring at the wall until it’s time to wake Robin.

  11

  Robin is chattier on the way in to school. I do my best to avoid asking any questions that might upset her, eggshell delicate. Even though most of what she says relates to her former school friends, not the current setup, I’m relieved that she’s a bit more cheerful. Children are adaptable. Even her voice is starting to change, the slang from her elementary school employed less often, the slight American accent fading away. She leans closer to my arm than usual on the bus and I lean sideways against her a little, too, though not too much, trying hard to maintain the fragile balance between us.

  I stand up first when the bus comes to the right stop, Robin close behind me, and as the bus pulls to a halt, she takes hold of the handrail directly in front of my face. I don’t register anything at first, but then I focus more closely on Robin’s fingernails. They’re bitten to the quick, ragged and bloody around the edges, as if she’s been pulling at the skin as well as chewing down on the nail. I put my hand out, covering her fingers, trying not to show Robin that I’ve noticed. Her fingers twitch and when the bus finally stops, she pulls her hand away. As soon as we get off the bus, she walks away without saying goodbye. Balance is restored. But not in a good way. I sigh and make my way to the coffee morning, dread in my soul.

  I sit in the private room at the back of the café, picking at a croissant I’ve taken from a huge pile arranged on the large wooden table. The table is surrounded by women I half recognize from the drinks party, though I don’t remember many names. They clearly can’t remember mine, either; only a couple of people said hello when I arrived. The only ones I can name for sure are Julia and Jessica, who’s fussing around the plate of breakfast pastries, rearranging piles and moving items to fill in any gaps. Not that there are any gaps to fill—like two nights ago, I’m the only person eating.

  The two women are sitting next to each other, discussing something between themselves, their voices low. I can’t make out what they’re saying, hard as I try to hear it across the table, but at one point it looks as if it might be a disagreement, Jessica’s face is turning red, her lips pursed, as Julia speaks with what appears to be great emphasis, though her words are still inaudible.

  I smile in a hopeful manner every time anyone so much as glances in my direction, but no one bothers to acknowledge me, their eyes sliding over me as if I’m not there. I take out my phone so as not to look like too much of a spare part and check the time. Twenty to nine already.

  I clear my throat, screw up my nerve. “Sorry, excuse me for interrupting. I was just wondering… Are we likely to get started any time soon? Only I—”

  “We are waiting for the others.”

  “Others?”

  “There are still a couple of others to come. So sorry if we’re keeping you from something more important,” Julia says, her tone withering.

  “It’s very important that everyone is here,” Jessica says. “We like to do everything together, in this year.”

  “Of course,” I say, trying to sound placatory. Clearly without success. Jessica does not look placated, twitching her top lip and crossing her arms across her chest. She stares at me for a moment longer before her attention is drawn by a movement at the door.

  “And here they are,” she says.

  The new arrivals lean in toward the food, lean away. Julia clears her throat and picks up a clipboard.

  “First things first. I am suggesting that we make it an absolute rule that we do not discuss anything that relates to the considerable pressures we are facing. Nothing is more important than that we maintain unity for the sake of our girls. Are we agreed on this?”

  Murmurs of assent. I glance discreetly at my mobile phone—fifteen minutes until I absolutely have to leave.

  Julia continues. “As I said on Tuesday night, we have a big target to beat this year at the Christmas Fair. We will need to work extremely hard to ensure that we get there.”

  Another ripple of agreement emanates from around the table, precisely highlighted heads nodding in unison. But before Julia can continue, she’s interrupted.

  “I’m sorry, do we have a new parent here? There’s someone I don’t recognize.”

  I turn to look at the speaker, a woman with honeyed highlights wearing a sports top and leggings, Lycra hugging her close. The woman is looking aggrieved.

  No one answers, and I slowly become aware that all eyes are fixed on me. I shift in my chair, uneasy at the scrutiny, waiting for Julia to introduce me. No introduction comes. I try and sit it out but the suspense becomes unbearable.

  “I’m Sadie. Robin’s my daughter. She’s just started,” I say, my voice squeaking by the end.

  “How did you manage to get a place? Was it because of—” More shushing. More forceful this time. I don’t see who has asked the question.

  “I, we had a change of situation. I’ve moved into town with Robin. We called, and it turned out there was a space. It was all very last minute,” I say. “I’ve no idea why a place was available. I guess people move around.” I gaze around at the faces watching me.

  “I guess they do,” Julia says. “Can we get back to the subject in hand, please?” She paints a smile on her face. “We’ve decided that the theme for this year’s fair is going to be… Jingle

  Bells! It will be up to each of the stallholders as to how this is interpreted.” Stirrings round the table. “I will be allocating stalls depending on school years, as usual—and I’ll circulate a list in due course. As a new introduction, I am considering extending the fancy-dress competition to include a parents’ category.” The stirring becomes more noticeable.

  It must be nearly nine by now. Julia is mid-flow. I feel utterly trapped. Of course it’s more important that I get to chambers, but I’ve already got off to such a bad start with these people. I can hardly walk out mid-discussion. I pull my phone out to check the time again, when I become aware that the room is silent. I look up to find Julia staring straight at me, her eyebrows raised.

  “No phones, please. We have a strict no-phones policy during these meetings,” Julia says.

  “Yes, sure, I was just—”

  “Put it away, please,” Julia says, a smile of great sweetness on her face, but with so much force that I do exactly what I’m told, pushing the phone far down into my jacket pocket.

  Julia nods in approval, and keeps talking. “What we need to get together now are raffle prizes and also volunteers to head up each of the stalls. Form reps, will you be able to get names to me by the end of the week?”

  The heads nod in unison, hands scribbling furiously in notebooks.

  “Sadie, will you be able to coordinate raffle prizes? That should
be reasonably straightforward for you, and it’ll give you a good chance to talk to lots of people at school,” Julia said.

  “I couldn’t possibly,” I say, the words coming out before I can bite them back. So much for trying to make a good impression.

  Everyone looks around at me again, skewering me with their glares. Jessica is so exercised she practically bounces in her chair: “I was hoping to do this. I’ve put together some fantastic ideas.”

  I attempt a smile. “Jessica would be much better than me. I don’t have the first idea who to approach.”

  Julia looks over at me, then at Jessica, her expression thoughtful. “I was hoping you might take charge of the stall coordination, Jessica—you did such a good job last year. Perhaps you can discuss your ideas with Sadie and she can take it forward?” She looks at Jessica, who nods, evidently torn between delight at the compliment and fury that I’ve been offered the job she wanted. She shoots me a dirty look.

  “Good, so that’s settled,” Julia says, moving on to the next job as if my involvement is a done deal. I deliberate for a moment, reluctant to be aggressive this early on. But I’m more reluctant still to get dragged into such a painful task with someone who so clearly does not want to work with me. I clear my throat and interrupt Julia.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “but I’m not going to be able to help with this. I have a new job starting—today, actually. I’m going to sit this fair out and get a better idea of what to do and who people are. I’ll definitely volunteer next term.”

  Julia looks at me in complete astonishment. I wonder when was the last time someone said no to her. She moves quickly on, handing more responsibilities to eager attendees, and calls the meeting to a close. I jump to my feet, keen to make a swift exit, though I look around to check I’m not too obviously the first to leave. The piles of food are still barely touched, but there’s a woman on the opposite side of the table picking flakes off a croissant, crumbs on her lip. I’m transfixed, staring at the woman prepared to show the weakness of hunger to the group. The woman catches my eye and smiles. I flush, look away. There’s laughter from another part of the table and I make a dash for it, nearly out of the door when Jessica calls me back.

  “You haven’t paid yet,” she says.

  “Oh sorry—I hadn’t realized. Here. A fiver should cover it?” I dig in my bag and pull out a crumpled note. Jessica looks down her nose at it.

  “It’s thirty pounds, please.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirty pounds. We need to cover the food.”

  “But no one ate the food…” I mutter. I dig around and find some more notes, thrust them into Jessica’s hand. I turn to go, but as I do, I catch sight again of the mountains of uneaten pastries, and before I can control the urge, I pick up a napkin and stuff it full of croissants and pains aux chocolat. I hear the women murmuring around me, but I’ve had enough now, the thirty quid is the last straw—I’m bloody well going to take some away with me.

  “Goodness,” someone says behind me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jessica says.

  “Taking some of the pastries I’ve just paid for,” I say, my chin jutting out. “Is that allowed?”

  “Well, I mean, it’s rather unusual. Not the kind of thing…” Jessica’s words trail off. “Julia. Julia! This new mother wants to take a doggy bag.”

  “A doggy bag?” Julia says, her eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry?”

  She looks at me, disdain dripping from her. I clutch on to my napkin of patisserie, holding her gaze firm. After a moment, Julia looks away, flicking her hair with a gesture of contempt.

  “Normally,” she says, “our leftovers would be given to the homeless shelter. I know they are always extremely grateful. But perhaps your need is greater.”

  “I didn’t want them to go to waste,” I say. “But I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Here—I have a bag with me. I’ll empty out my papers. You must take more.”

  And with that, Julia picks up a bag emblazoned with designer labels and tips its contents out onto the table before shoveling pastries and bagels by the fistful into its capacious depths. She empties every platter on the table, filling the bag so full the food is spilling over the top. When it’s about to burst, she hands it to me with a smile.

  “Here. That should keep you going.”

  I smile back at her, but I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. Nodding a thank you, I reach over to take the bag, ready to walk out as if this is all perfectly normal. But as I’m about to take it, I hear a peal of laughter from a corner of the room. It breaks off quickly, but not quickly enough. As I take hold of the handle, my hand touches Julia’s. My nerves are so on edge I jerk my hand, jump backward and the contents of the bag spill out all over the floor.

  For a moment it’s as if time has stopped; Julia and me standing over the ruins of the breakfast buffet. I open my mouth but all that comes out is an incoherent stutter, and I flee, not even bothering to try and dodge the debris all over the floor, still clutching the napkin full of food.

  It’s only when I’m outside that I realize a huge chunk of pastry is impaled on the heel of my shoe. I try to clean it off against the edge of the pavement, but a thick smear of chocolate wedges itself into the gap between shoe and heel, defying all my efforts to scrape it clean.

  12

  By the time that I get into chambers it’s nearly half past ten. I’ve run from the bus stop and the blood is pounding behind my eyes. I greet Kirsten on reception with an apology, but the girl just laughs and tells me to sit down.

  “Barbara isn’t in yet, either. I won’t take you up to her room until she’s here, if you don’t mind. She won’t be far away.”

  The panic was wasted, then. I go over to the long leather sofa in the waiting area, still inexplicably clutching the napkin of pastries. I look around in vain for a bin before returning to the reception desk.

  “Is there somewhere I could chuck these out?”

  “Sure,” Kirsten says. “I’ll bin it.”

  She reaches over for the napkin and I hand it to her, suddenly reluctant to give up my prize. She looks at the food inside.

  “What’s wrong with these?” Kirsten says.

  “Nothing, I guess. They’re a bit squashed. I don’t really have anywhere to put them, though.”

  “They look good to me. I’m going to make a coffee and have one—do you want to join me while you wait?”

  I’m so defensive from the coffee morning that I’m about to say no, suspecting she’s laying a trap for me, when I see that her expression is entirely without guile, enthusiasm lighting up her face. Something unknots inside me. “Yes, please. I’d love a coffee. Do you have any plates?”

  There’s an espresso maker at the side of reception, and Kirsten goes over and makes two coffees, grabbing saucers for the pastries. She joins me on the sofa and we eat together. Once I’ve finished, I wipe the crumbs off my mouth and drink some coffee before clearing my throat.

  “Do you know anything about this trial? Have you met the defendant?”

  “Oh, yes,” Kirsten says. “He’s been in for one conference already. Such a polite man. It seems like such a shame. I don’t know how that girl can live with herself.”

  “That girl?”

  “The victim. So-called. She should be ashamed of herself, destroying someone’s life like this,” Kirsten says. She’s finished her first pain au chocolat and is tucking in to a second.

  Before I can respond, the door into reception opens. Kirsten moves at a speed I wouldn’t have thought possible to tidy away the plates and brush the crumbs from her lips, returning to her seat behind the desk with a polished smile.

  Barbara Carlisle walks in. This time I’m not hiding from her—I face her straight on, looking at her properly this time. Taller than average, thinner too, she hasn’t changed much at all in the last ten years, only her hair is steelier and the vertical lines around her mouth more pronounce
d. I try to tidy myself up, conscious of the flakes of pastry I’m wearing. I’m still shaking detritus off my skirt when she comes to stand in front of me, a smile lifting one side of her face.

  “Sadie, I’m glad to have you aboard. You’re not running away from chambers now, I hope!”

  “Um, yes, sorry about that…”

  “Why don’t we go to my office and I’ll get you up to speed with the case.”

  She turns and walks through the reception doors, not waiting to see if I’m behind her. I wave a hand at Kirsten, mouthing thanks at her as I trot to keep up with Barbara.

  One flight of stairs, another. We turn down a corridor that

  I remember only too well from my earlier years in chambers—in this room on my left, I sat with my first pupil supervisor; in that, I prepared my first trial. I move swiftly past the memories, through the dark wooden door that Barbara is holding open for me at the very end of the corridor.

  “Here we are,” she says. “Forgive the mess. I’ve been trying to get on top of a couple of briefs. You can see why you’re needed.”

  I look around. There are papers and books loose on every available surface; the floor is also covered. The room’s reasonably light, at least, lit at one end by a high window looking out over Essex Street, but there’s dust and several piles of books leaning precariously on the windowsill. Sounds of traffic permeate through the open window. And despite the ban on smoking, there’s a strong smell of cigarettes in the air.

  As if to answer my unspoken question, Barbara pushes the chair behind her desk over to the window and sits down, lighting a cigarette with a silver lighter and inhaling deeply before holding it out of the open window. I try to control my expression, but I’m not deadpan enough for her, trained as she is by years of examining witnesses to spot the smallest tell.