‘No, I told you, he’s off the register now so nothing like that would be necessary.’
‘When did he accept this caution?’ I ask her.
‘A while ago, I’m not exactly sure. I can’t exactly bring it up and start asking him questions. It’s obviously a very painful time in his life so I don’t talk about it. And you mustn’t either. It took a lot for him to share that with me and I’d hate to think a moment of stupidity has put all that at risk. He’s rebuilt his life since then, and he’s still very vulnerable about it all, so please, you must promise me that you won’t tell anyone.’
Hazel is a good-looking woman. When she smiles the apples of her cheeks bloom, her hair, even when she has obviously taken some time to make sure it is neat and presentable, is almost always endearingly messy. She is intelligent, compassionate, trusting. She’s not naïve, she is not stupid, nor gullible or pathetic. She is simply a woman who likes to see the best in people. Despite what the world has shown her of what people can be like, she is constantly overwhelmed with a need to trust the goodness at the heart of the person in front of her.
‘I’m not going to tell anyone,’ I say eventually. I’m not going to tell anyone because it is a colossal lie. He is not on the sex offenders’ register. For one, Gareth would have told me. For two, with the amount of time I spent researching him and the possible variations on his name, there is no way I wouldn’t have found something.
He needs Hazel to think he is on the register, like he needed Lynne before her to think he was, because it is the ultimate con. It is a huge gamble, but it is perfect. It casts him as fundamentally honest because he has shared something so huge and personal; it paints him as vulnerable because it is so painful to be so wrongly accused; it presents him as a flawed hero who will sacrifice himself if it saves a troubled girl from the trauma of court. Also, it cages the woman he tells, prevents her from ever telling anyone about it because she will be shunned for allowing him near her children or other people’s children. And, ultimately, it is the sudden threat of what he might do to her child that will get him what he wants before he goes away. That is what Lynne couldn’t tell me. He threatened – possibly even overtly – to seriously harm her daughter if she did not give him what he wanted. And everyone would have blamed her for not ditching him the second she knew he was a sex offender. It is the ultimate gamble for Ciaran and it has clearly paid off many times because he is still doing it.
Hazel believes he is a fundamentally good person who did a good thing for someone else at his own expense. She will not listen to Lynne’s story. She will not listen to me and believe me.
‘Did Yvonne find out about him?’ I ask.
‘You keep asking about Yvonne,’ she says.
‘I don’t. You keep comparing me to Yvonne, so I was wondering—’
‘If I accidentally told her and then smacked her over the head to keep her quiet?’
‘I was wondering if her checking up on you and Ciaran led to you two falling out and that’s what’s eating you up? Do you feel guilty that you weren’t friends any more when she was attacked? Because I hardly know you, Hazel, but something is eating you up. The only time you look remotely happy or relaxed is when you’re knitting. Even at Maxie’s when we were mixing cocktails you looked bereft.’ I pick up my knitting again. The way purls are made is simple; what they result in is something that is deceptively complex. The way a friend is made is surprisingly simple; what that friendship results in is deceptively complex. ‘I’m just worried about you, Hazel.’
‘I look bereft?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘And I’m not going to tell anyone what you told me. But please, do yourself a favour: check up on yourself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You work for a building society. Don’t you think it’s wise to regularly do a check to see if there is stuff in your name that you know nothing about?’
‘You’re telling me that there’s debt in my name I know absolutely nothing about?’
‘No. I’m telling you that whenever I’ve been away anywhere, or Sol has, or we’ve been to a new petrol station or bar or a new area, I check that no one has cloned my cards, etc. When was the last time you did that?’
She stares at me, baffled, as though I am speaking a completely different language.
‘OK, let me put it like this. Does your ex-husband know information about you that could allow him to take out credit in your name?’
‘Yes, I suppose he does.’
‘Right, given the way you told me he treated you, would you put it past him to have a long-term strategy to screw you over by, say, running up debt in your name?’
She sits very still, obviously remembering something about her marriage. I don’t think for a second her ex would bother, but if there is a way to make her open her eyes, to check what is going on and stop being so trusting, to maybe explore the possibility that something is being done in her name without her knowledge, then I will throw Walter under that particular bus.
‘I’m not saying there is anything to know, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.’ I gather up my belongings, return my knitting to my bag and put my mobile away. ‘I’d better get going. I need to do a few things before the school run.’
At the door, Hazel throws her arms around me. She buries her face in my neck and she holds me so close I can smell the lemongrass and water lilies scent she uses as a fabric softener, mingled with the notes of something that reminds me of the perfume my mother used to wear.
‘I said some awful things to her,’ she says. ‘Yvonne. I screamed at her and she attacked me and I fought back for once. I was so angry with her. I screamed at her and she attacked me, and Maxie and Anaya stepped in to stop her. It was awful. And even after that, when it all calmed down, I was still so angry. I didn’t come straight home. That’s what I told Maxie and Anaya. I—’
Ciaran’s key in the lock stops her words. She pulls herself upright and we both step back while he finishes opening the door. He stops short. ‘Oh. You’re still here,’ he says to me.
‘Not for much longer – we were saying goodbye.’
I grin at him and then look at Hazel. I don’t know how she got away with lying to the police because a game face she does not have: she is openly anxious, twisting her hands, her eyes wide and fretful.
‘Hazel, it’s not that bad,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I will practise when I get home and I promise you that the next time we see each other I will have mastered purl and cable.’
I step forwards, cover her hands with my hand. She needs to calm down. ‘I’m sorry I made you anxious about the knitting,’ I say to her. ‘Maybe you need to sit down and do a few rows now?’ Remember, like I said, it’s the only time you look calm and happy. ‘I won’t force you to give me private lessons again.’
She clearly remembers what I said, and she relaxes. Smiles. ‘You’re right. I need to do some of my own knitting to remind me that it’s simple and easy. Not complicated, like you were making it.’
‘Exactly. I’ll see you in an hour or so,’ I tell her.
‘Yes.’
‘Actually, sorry, you won’t, the boys have after-school clubs today. So I’ll see you soon.’ I focus my attention on Ciaran. ‘See you.’
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘See you.’ His expression tells me that he’s not at all convinced by the act we have put on. Not convinced at all.
He stands at the open door and watches me walk down the garden path, and continues to watch me until I am out of sight.
FRIDAY
Anaya
1 a.m. Usually when Sanj is working late in his office, I end up distracting him. It’s not fair, really, considering how ballistic I would go at him if he did the same, but unlike me, he likes it. He enjoys any bit of non-essential contact we have. Especially when I come in and sit on his lap and talk to him. I want to do that now. To wander into his office, tip myself onto him, link my arms around his neck and kiss him. Then talk to him, right up close, so I can see every perfe
ct millimetre of his gorgeous face. Even now, after all these years I still find him thrilling to look at, exciting to be around. Except when his mother is mentioned, of course. Then I look at him and remember what I said to him all those years ago when I had to hide in his wardrobe: ‘You’re a giant mummy’s boy’. I hope no one ever says that about Arjun. Or Priya for that matter. I hope no one thinks of them as infantilised and weak in the face of their parent. I hope that when my children are grown they will be able to put in place and enforce, if necessary, firm boundaries. I hope that if I ever turn into an evil mother-in-law that I will have brought my children up well enough for them to put me firmly in my place. Which is outside of their relationship.
I have two difficult conversations to have with my husband; they are interlinked and if one doesn’t go well, neither will the other. It’s been a few days since I spilled everything to Cece. I’ve ignored texts from Maxie and Hazel, I’ve arrived at the school gates at the very last minute to drop off, and have made the kids stay for homework club so I don’t have to see them then, either.
I can’t go on like this, obviously. I have to talk to Sanj and get things on the move.
‘Babe,’ I say. I have entered the room quietly, but away from the angle of the computer so Sanjay doesn’t see me approach – he nearly leaps out of his skin.
‘What are you doing, Ansi? Trying to give me a heart attack?’
‘No, no, sorry. I just wanted to talk to you.’
He pats his lap while pushing his chair away from the desk.
‘I think I’d better sit over there,’ I tell him.
As I arrange myself in his leather armchair, he physically braces himself, preparing himself for the onslaught that is to come. We only ever fall out about one thing and one thing only. Obviously it’d probably be two things if he knew what else I am going to add to the end of this conversation. But for now, I am happy for him to steel himself to talk about his parents.
‘I’m going to change the locks,’ I say. I surprise myself. I have planned this, have talked over and over in my head about how to broach the subject in a kind, considerate manner so that I won’t upset him unduly before I tell him the rest. But this came out. Now it’s ‘out there’, it’s as good a place to start as any. ‘And the alarm code.’
Sanjay moves his head up and down in what most people would think is a nodding motion but is actually him taking in the information and deciding how to deal with it. ‘Erm, why?’ he eventually asks.
‘Sorry, I should have said: I’m going to change the locks and the alarm code and if you give your parents any kind of access to either of those things, I will leave you. And by access I also mean telling them before it’s done that we’re doing it so they have a chance to have any sort of say about it.’
I can tell by his slightly amused stance – his head is almost forty-five degrees to the side and his frown is deep, his lips comically pursed – that he’s not taking me seriously. He’s also working out how much placating he’ll need to do to stop this conversation even happening, let alone the rest of what I’ve said happening. That’s why he’s a good businessman, and excellent at what he does – he can suss things out, work out what someone needs and then ally that with his wants and needs. ‘That’s a bit of an extreme thing to say, Ansi,’ he eventually replies. ‘Why? I mean, with all of it, why?’
‘I’ve finally worked out that in all of this – all the stresses and subtle battles I’ve had with your mother over the years – you’re the problem.’ I raise my hand before he can interrupt, protest, try to convince me otherwise. ‘And I’m the problem. We’re the problem. There, I’ve said it: it’s not her fault, it’s yours and mine and ours.’
His stance is less comical now; he’s a bit pissed off. Sanjay doesn’t like to be a problem, he wants – needs – to be liked by everyone. He has a pathological need to be all things to everyone. Which is great in his line of work, but a nightmare if you’re married to him and he has a mother who has no boundaries and no filter and control issues.
‘Come on now, Sanj, I’m not saying anything that isn’t true. It’s not natural for adults to live like this. You did it for years and that was fine, but I can’t feel like a visitor in my own home any more.’ Another move to protest and my hand is up again, stopping him before he can speak. ‘We moved from London and your parents came with us. Never mind their daughters who got married and had children way before you, the first thing your parents did when we told them we were moving was to put their house on the market and start looking at houses down here. I mean, what the hell? I thought, I actually thought, because we’d be buying a house together that things would be different, but they’re not. If anything, they’re worse because I don’t feel like I’m living in our house to which your mother has a key; it feels like I am living in your parents’ house and while I am there I have to live by their rules. Even though I pay the mortgage and the bills.’
‘It’s not that bad, Ansi,’ Sanjay manages.
‘No, it’s not that bad – it’s worse. I can’t relax in my own home. I can’t walk around naked, I can’t feed my children fish fingers, I can’t even leave the beds unmade without worrying about what she’ll say and how she’ll judge me and if it’ll spark a whole month’s worth of barbed comments and attempts to get you on your own so she can remind you what a bad wife choice you made. I’m done with it, Sanj. That’s why I say it’s you and me. Me because I should have said something years ago. And it’s you because you can’t see that there’s a problem. Actually, you can see there’s a problem, but you want to ignore it because you don’t want to stand up to your parents.’
‘That’s not entirely true,’ he says.
‘Which part isn’t?’
He licks his lips. I know what he’s thinking: How can I get out of this conversation? How can I avoid having to talk about this in anything but a ‘you know what my mother’s like, she’s harmless really’ way? ‘The part about me not standing up to my mother. It’s not like she does anything totally heinous that needs standing up to.’
‘You know what? It’s the little things that sound innocuous on their own that she’s expert at. And it lets you get away with dismissing my feelings and making out she’s not that bad. Sanjay, she is that bad. Like I say, it’s my own fault for putting up with it for so long.’
He seizes on that. Something he can use to deflect the interest away from him and his mother onto me. He can make it all about me and my failings so he doesn’t have to deal with the real issue. I know my husband well. I love him for being predictable. For following the script that I have mostly written in my head that will lead me to this part of the conversation. (Although I did have to say it was my fault a few times before he snapped up the bait.) ‘I think you’re right there, Ansi. Tell me, why did you put up with it for so long if it’s that bad?’
It’s my turn to lick my lips, to moisten my mouth to allow the words to slide out. ‘Because when I was sixteen, a man I knew drugged me and took pornographic pictures of me. A few years later he said he would delete them if I gave him a lot of money, which I did. But he didn’t delete them. He got me arrested by pretending I’d beaten him up and then he put them on the internet anyway. So, I’ve been terrified all these years that your mother will find out about it and tell you and you’d leave me.’
My husband’s face is fixed on me, his body is very still, but his eyes are roaming around the room as if waiting for someone to jump out and scream, ‘ONLY KIDDING!’ When no such thing happens, he returns his focus to me and very slowly says: ‘What?’ I don’t think he realises how slowly he says this, how his mouth moves to form every curve and line of the word.
‘I’ve wanted to tell you for years. Right after we met, before we got serious, before we got married, before we moved here, before we had children. I wanted you to know but then I wanted no one to know. I know you just accepted my surname being different to my parents’ as part of me, but your mum has never quite accepted it. She’s always digg
ing around, trying to find out what my secret is. She thinks I was married before, which I wasn’t. But I didn’t want her to be the one to tell you I had this huge secret and to get you on-side with hunting out what it was. And then it didn’t seem important – there was no way she’d go searching in the places you have to look to find those photos – and I realised, if she could control me in real life, she seemed to stop looking in other places for more information. That’s why I put up with it.’
‘What?’ Sanjay repeats. ‘I mean, what?’
‘And I didn’t tell you because I am a coward and I did not want to see that look you have on your face right now.’
‘Look on my face?’ he says. ‘Look on my face?’ His voice is loud and he is suddenly on his feet. ‘You were scared of the look on my face?’
‘Kind of, I suppose,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t want to see the disappointment and disgust.’ I feel dreadful. Physically heavy, internally awful. I shouldn’t have kept this from him. I told him off for being fake, and all along I had kept this secret. First, I guess, because I didn’t think it would last, then because I saw that look in his mother’s eye. She was determined to get rid of me: I was of Indian heritage, but not good enough for him. She wanted someone else, someone pliable and easy, someone who would either bow down to her or be easily cowed by her – I was neither and she wanted rid. I shouldn’t have kept this a secret, I should have let him make the decision whether to marry me or not, knowing all the facts about me.
‘What?’ he says again. ‘You think this is disgust and disappointment?’ He points to his face. ‘Really? After all these years, you think that I’d be disgusted and disappointed by you being sexually assaulted and the bastard taking photos?’ He comes to me and gets down on his knees, almost as though he is about to beg for forgiveness. ‘Ansi, I’m horrified. I’m horrified that it happened to you, and I am absolutely distraught that you couldn’t tell me because of what my mother might say.’
The Friend Page 31
