Her Perfect Lies

by Lana Newton

  And then, under the old cinema tickets, under the brochures and the programmes, she came across a brown envelope. Intrigued, she peered inside at what seemed like an official document. One by one she pulled the papers out of the envelope and spread them on her bed. ‘Divorce on the ground that the marriage has broken down irretrievably,’ the papers said. Claire read it a couple of times, her brain refusing to process what it saw at first. Did she and Paul file for divorce? Although the names on the documents confirmed it, she didn’t want to believe it.

  So Gaby had told her the truth. They did have issues. But why would Paul lie to her? Why would he say they were happy together when clearly they weren’t?

  Claire shoved the papers under her bed as far as they would go and sat on the floor, her back against the wall. The silence was deafening. She felt the dizziness again, the darkness closing in on her, the scream rising in her chest. She didn’t want to be alone. What she needed was to hear a friendly voice, to talk to someone who cared. She forced herself to get up and change back into her casual clothes, then she walked downstairs and called her father. He didn’t answer for a long time. She almost hung up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked when she finally heard his voice. ‘You sound like you’ve been sleeping.’

  ‘I wish. Right now I’m playing chess with myself.’

  ‘You are? And how is it going?’

  ‘Very well. I think I might be winning.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Have you eaten?’

  ‘They gave me porridge. Gruel for breakfast.’

  ‘I hope they’re looking after you.’

  ‘Today they took me to the common room. It was like having a picnic on Brighton Beach. Wish you could remember those. We would go every August, just the three of us. We would dress up in our summer best. Your mother would prepare baskets of delicious food. We’d spread our blanket on the pebbles and race each other to the water. Then we would play badminton and cards.’ His voice sounded far away, lost in a dream.

  Claire felt relief flooding her body. The darkness retreated. Tentatively she smiled. ‘Let me guess. You always won?’

  ‘Of course. Unless we played charades, in which case your mother won. She was quite the actress. I often tell her she missed her calling. She should be on TV.’

  ‘Hope you made friends in the common room. Someone to play chess and share your porridge with.’

  ‘I won’t share my gruel with anyone but you. When are you coming over?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t wait!’

  She thought of her dad as she played the piano, hoping her brain would catch up with her fingers and remember this melody, or that one, or the next. And she thought of her husband, who told her they were in love, when he hadn’t once smiled at her or showed her any affection or even seemed concerned. She tried not to think of the divorce papers signed by both of them that were now hiding under her bed. Soon, Nina returned from the market. Claire concentrated on the noises in the kitchen, on oven door slamming, pots clanking and water running. Anything not to think. Finally, Nina’s dishevelled head appeared in the studio. ‘Food ready. Your favourite chicken fajitas. You need anything?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Claire. ‘I’m okay, Nina. Go home and relax.’

  In the afternoon, she swam in the pool and sat in front of the TV, finally falling asleep to the reruns of Bless This House. When she woke up, Paul was home. Absentmindedly he inquired about her day but didn’t seem interested in her response. His back was turned as he took his coat and boots off. All she wanted was to ask him about the documents under her bed. Would he tell her the truth? He had already lied to her once. ‘I found …’ she began.

  But Paul wasn’t listening. ‘Have you taken your medication today?’

  Suddenly he was leaning over her, making her feel small and vulnerable. Drowsy and disorientated, she tried to get up so she wouldn’t have to look up into his face when she spoke to him. ‘Of course.’ Did the doctor tell him she didn’t want to take her medicine anymore? She shuddered.

  ‘Next time, wait for me to get home.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want to see you take it.’

  She thought she had misheard. ‘You want to see me take my medication?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You don’t trust me to do it? I’m a grown-up, Paul. I can take care of myself.’

  ‘You’ve been through a lot. I need to make sure you’re okay.’ He didn’t look at her when he said that. Picking up a plate, he loaded it with food and locked himself in his study. Claire turned the lights off and sat in the dark, waiting for him to come out so she could ask him about their impending divorce and how it fit into his story of a perfectly happy marriage. At ten o’clock, when there was still no sign of him, she went to bed. She hadn’t touched the fajitas.

  Chapter 4

  The common room at the hospital was filled with flowers and balloons, wall to wall, as if it was decorated for someone’s birthday. As if at any time, a cake would arrive, followed by a clown. But there was not a smile in sight, and not a happy face. Just the opposite: the patients sitting on either side of Claire as she waited for her father to appear looked conquered by life and done with the struggle of it all. They looked just like she felt – tired and hopeless and deflated.

  Matt from neurology shook and stared. He couldn’t talk and couldn’t walk unassisted. He introduced himself to Claire, kissing her hand like she was the queen.

  Steve was missing a leg. He spent ten minutes lamenting the fact it was his right leg and not his left. How will I go back to work? How will I earn a living? Steve drove a taxi in the West End, something he’d done for forty odd years, he told Claire. He could imagine a life without a leg but not without his taxi.

  A man from the psychiatric ward, who didn’t introduce himself and didn’t even glance at Claire, talked loudly to no one in particular. He was convinced he was a Russian prince, kidnapped after the Revolution. He couldn’t recall his name or speak Russian but Claire thought he looked old enough to remember the Russian Revolution. Claire tried to focus on his voice, which was loud enough to drown all the other noises in the room but not loud enough to drown the thoughts in her head. She was thinking about her husband looming over her last night, his voice loud and threatening. When he was in the room with her, she felt tense, like he posed a danger to her that she couldn’t remember but was aware of on some subconscious level. When she was with him, she didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing in case he disapproved of her. But was it really his approval she wanted? Or was it more than that? Was it possible that she was afraid of him?

  Finally, after she’d waited for ten minutes, a nurse wheeled Tony in. Matt, Steve and the old Russian prince had long returned to their rooms. Claire and her father had the common area to themselves.

  She hugged him hello, wanting to give him comfort, but it was she who felt comforted when he held her close. ‘You won’t believe the treats I have for you,’ she said, placing her large backpack on the table and undoing the straps. Her face lit up in anticipation, as if the treats were for her and not for him, and she showed him boxes of food prepared by Nina and half a dozen books.

  ‘You need Vitamin C, so I brought a kilo of oranges.’

  ‘Will Vitamin C help me walk again?’

  ‘A pomelo. I found it in the kitchen at home. It’s supposed to be good for you.’

  ‘What in the world is a pomelo?’

  ‘I had to ask Nina. Apparently, it’s a citrus fruit from Southeast Asia. Tastes a bit like a grapefruit.’

  ‘Nasty and sour? No, thank you. Next time bring me some good old apples instead. Granny Smiths, my favourite.’

  ‘I’m glad you asked,’ she said, pulling out a bag of apples. He nodded with approval. She reached inside her bag one more time. ‘And here I have something truly wonderful.’

  ‘As wonderful as the pomelo? Impossible.’

  ‘Mock all you wan
t. But this is Nina’s special Napoleon cake. It’s like heaven on a plate. You’ve never tried anything like it.’

  ‘It must be heaven if it’s named after the short French Emperor.’

  ‘Apparently it takes two days to make one Napoleon cake. And Nina baked one just for you.’

  ‘If she baked it for me, why do I only get one slice? Where is the rest of the cake?’ He smiled, winking. After Claire placed the stickers with his name on every box and placed the food in the fridge at the end of the corridor, she got comfortable in a plastic chair next to him. There was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if a little bit of his vitality had returned.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she said wistfully. ‘That covers just about everything, doesn’t it?’

  Gently he covered her hand with his. ‘You’ll remember. It’ll happen before you know it. And in the meantime, I’m here for you. We can build new memories together.’

  Claire watched the man in front of her with wonder and affection. Here he was, smiling at her, giving her hope, when it was him who needed support. Her chest swelled with feeling as she squeezed his hand. After a moment of silence, she said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about the accident.’ His smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. Without a word he waited for her to continue. She cleared her throat. ‘I spoke to the police and …’ How did she bring it up without accusing him of lying? ‘You’ve been through a lot. It’s understandable that you are still confused about what happened that day.’

  ‘I’m not confused. I remember everything perfectly.’

  ‘The woman …’ Claire tried to remember her name and couldn’t. ‘She told me she pulled me out of the car herself.’

  ‘She’s lying.’ Tony closed his eyes and turned away from her. For a moment he looked like he was about to fall asleep in his wheelchair. Claire wanted to shake him awake, to force him to look at her and answer her questions. Why would the police lie about something like that? And if they were telling the truth, did that mean her father was the one lying?

  If, as she suspected, he was suffering from partial memory loss, she knew from experience he would feel disoriented and confused. But here was the thing that bothered Claire. Her father didn’t seem disoriented or confused. He seemed absolutely, 100 per cent, certain of what he was saying.

  * * *

  Claire sleepwalked through the rest of her morning, staring at books and the television screen. But if someone asked her what she had been reading or watching, she wouldn’t be able to say. The window was open, trickling pale late-autumn sunlight all over the room. In the park, children were chasing one another, joyous and carefree.

  Finally, she pushed the books away and turned the TV off, jumping to her feet. She couldn’t stay here all day, aimless and unsure of herself. Hour after hour passed, day after day, and still she wasn’t any closer to finding the answers. She needed to do something that would shed light on who she was.

  ‘Nina, do you have a moment?’ she called out. When the housekeeper appeared, Claire asked if she could take her to the ballet studio.

  ‘I wish I could,’ said Nina, wringing her hands. ‘But Mr Paul … he say you no go to ballet studio.’

  Claire wasn’t sure she understood correctly. ‘Paul asked you not to take me to the ballet studio?’

  ‘Yes. He say too soon.’

  A chill ran through Claire. She remembered how her husband had made her feel the night before when he demanded she take her meds in front of him. This feeling was back again now – like someone was watching her and she couldn’t escape. Like she was a fly trapped in Paul’s web. ‘I’m not a prisoner here, Nina. I can go if I want to.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Claire. Paul fire me if I take you. Also we have guests tonight. Lots to do.’

  ‘Guests? What guests?’

  ‘You are having the Peters coming. Mr Paul not tell you?’

  Claire tried hard to hide her alarm. Why wouldn’t Paul tell her they were having guests? And who were these people? The last thing she wanted was to spend her evening pretending. Smiling to strangers like she was fine, like her life hadn’t been erased whole. Even if these strangers had once been friends. Angrily she reached for her phone. She was going to call Paul and tell him she was not up for a dinner party. She had just returned home from the hospital. She hardly knew who she was. What was he thinking?

  As she was about to press the call button, she heard the doorbell.

  Claire opened the door to a fresh-faced and happy-looking Gaby, who was dropping in on her way to the gym. She was like a breath of fresh air, all smiles and air kisses. Claire felt relief wash over her like a tidal wave. Gaby was just what she needed to inject some joy into her life, if only temporarily.

  ‘You’re having the Peters over?’ Gaby squealed in excitement, while Claire poured her friend a glass of wine. Red, her favourite. ‘Wish I could be here. Haven’t seen them since …’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since he left her for someone else and then returned two weeks later like nothing had happened.’

  ‘And she forgave him?’

  ‘What choice did she have? She’s almost 40,’ Gaby said as if that explained everything. ‘And you know what those doctors are like.’

  ‘No, I don’t. What are they like?’

  ‘Can’t resist a pretty face.’

  ‘Do they have children?’

  ‘Not yet. Although she’s desperate to get pregnant, so he never leaves her again. It hasn’t worked, and all she does is check his phone every time he goes to the bathroom. Pathetic, really.’

  ‘Why does she stay with someone who doesn’t love her? What’s the point?’

  ‘Because she loves him?’ Gaby spoke with confidence, as if she was an authority on the Peter’s marriage. ‘Often, when we love someone, we assume they love us back and ignore all the evidence to the contrary. We just can’t imagine it any other way.’

  ‘What about trust? Commitment?’

  ‘What’s trust? Nothing but the lies we tell ourselves to be happy in our relationships. You forgive, you trick yourself into believing, you convince yourself it’s you he wants to be with and not her.’

  Claire had a strong feeling Gaby was no longer talking about the Peters. She thought of the documents she had found in her room. ‘Were Paul and I getting a divorce?’

  Gaby’s face became guarded. Claire sensed she didn’t want to talk about her marriage to Paul, even though she was more than happy to discuss the Peters’ moments earlier. ‘You’d have to ask Paul,’ Gaby said finally.

  ‘I’m asking you. You are my friend. Paul is a stranger, distant and cold. Sometimes I feel like I’m terrified of him and I want to understand why. Honestly, he is the last person I would ask.’

  Gaby hesitated. ‘Paul is not the easiest person in the world to live with,’ she said. ‘He can be a bit …’ She seemed to look for the right word. ‘Controlling,’ she added.

  Claire remembered Paul’s face, cold and unsympathetic. She remembered his voice when he spoke to her. As if she had done something unforgiveable and he despised her for it. She thought of him ordering her around, like she was a schoolgirl he was responsible for but didn’t much like. Of not being able to go back to work, even for a visit. Controlling was an understatement. ‘I see,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You put up with it for ten years but finally you’d had enough. You told me you couldn’t take it anymore. You filed for divorce and asked him to leave. He was moving out and then the accident happened.’

  ‘So he pretended it never happened? That we were happy and in love?’

  ‘Is that what he did?’ Suddenly Gaby looked so sad. Claire felt bad for upsetting her. Her friend breathed in smiling and happy, and here Claire was, with her problems, ruining Gaby’s day. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about it anymore.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you something different.’

  ‘You haven’t told me anything I didn’t already know.’


  When Gaby left, Claire turned the music on, so loud that Nina came running from the kitchen to make sure everything was okay. Claire chose a Gucci dress for the evening and when their guests arrived, she was glad she had made an effort. The Peters looked like they were on their way to the opera. They seemed perfect together – Greg with his height and broad shoulders, slightly rotund around the middle like a retired wrestler, and Maggie, a tiny butterfly and just as pretty, like a fluffy meringue in her pink dress. They laughed, they were friendly and carefree. They refilled each other’s glasses of wine and piled each other’s plates with food. They smiled lovingly at each other. As if nothing was wrong.

  Claire almost doubted Gaby’s story. Except, every once in a while, the wife would look at her husband for a fraction too long, as if trying to read between the words. She would take his hand in hers, as if afraid to let go. And every once in a while, the husband would pull his hand back with an apologetic gesture.

  Over Nina’s lasagne and exotic avocado salad, which was an instant success, as well as a mango juice for Claire and a bottle of red wine for everybody else, after the pleasantries had been exchanged and the weather discussed, Greg said, ‘Nice choice of music. How did you ever agree to this, Claire?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Claire was enjoying Freddie Mercury’s mesmerising voice.

  ‘I thought only classical music was permitted inside these walls.’

  Maggie said, ‘Queen is a classic. And if it isn’t, it should be.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Claire. ‘I think the music’s beautiful.’ Turning to Maggie, she added, ‘Paul tells me you’re a photographer.’ It was the first thing she had said all evening. If the guests noticed how quiet she was being, they didn’t mention anything.