Tell Me No Lies

CHAPTER THREE

I make it to the school with seconds to spare, the walk taking me a little longer than I had anticipated. I should have driven, really, knowing that I was under pressure to get there on time, but the lure of fresh air and a brisk walk proved too much to be able to resist. This is my favourite time of the year, those few weeks between the start of a fresh new school year (odd how, even twenty years after leaving school, the first week of September still feels like a fresh start to me) and Christmas – all the giddy excitement of preparing for the festivities, made all the more fun since the arrival of Henry. The perfect time for us to re-evaluate things and make a go of our marriage after all that has happened, giving ourselves a clean slate and a chance to start over. It’s the best kind of day too – the kind that starts crispy and frosty, swirls of ice on the windowpanes and car windscreens, blades of grass turned white and crunchy with the frost. The kind of winter’s day where, even though there are bright-blue skies and sunshine overhead, the temperature doesn’t lift a degree or two above freezing, so all day long your breath puffs out in little dragon clouds as your boots slip and slide on the glittery, icy pavements. The best kind of day to pull me out of the thick, suffocating darkness that threatens to suck me under sometimes.

By the time I arrive at the school, the bell has rung and children are beginning to stream out of their classrooms, looking for their mothers waiting patiently in the playground. Half of the parents there don’t seem to pay any attention to the children pouring out of the school, not looking eagerly for their offspring, preferring instead to catch up with the school gossip with the other yummy mummies congregating in the playground. I stand to one side, away from the gossiping masses, my nose red from the cold, my cheeks flushed from the race to get there on time, and unzip my thick winter jacket as pregnancy and the brisk walk make me warmer than I should be. As I push my hat further back on my head I see Henry come out of his classroom, holding tight to his teacher’s hand. I feel my heart squeeze at the sight of his little face, a serious frown crossing his brow as the teacher leans down to speak to him. As she stands, she catches my eye and beckons me over with one finger. My heart sinks a little; today has obviously not been a good day for Henry. I make my way across the playground, dodging small children on scooters, their mothers still yakking away about nothing to their playground counterparts. I reach Henry and Miss Bramley, and lean down to give Henry a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

‘Is everything OK, Miss Bramley?’ I ask, knowing full well that something will have happened today at school. Henry is only in Year One, and this is only his first week in his new school, but he doesn’t seem to be settling in as well as they would like him to.

‘We just had a slight incident today with Henry, Mrs Gordon, nothing too serious, but I thought we should let you know.’

‘What is it? What happened? Henry, are you OK?’ He gives a small nod and a sniff, not raising his eyes to meet mine.

‘It seems Henry was pushed over by another child in the playground today, Mrs Gordon. It may have just been a little rough play that got out of hand, but I did think I should make you aware of it. Henry wasn’t hurt, just a scraped knee, and this is not the kind of behaviour we at the school condone, I assure you.’ Miss Bramley almost looks embarrassed at having to tell me my child has been hurt at school, her eyes looking everywhere but at me.

‘Henry, is that what happened? Was it just playing?’ Henry nods, a small, slight nod, and I look down at him helplessly. ‘OK. OK, fine. Thank you, Miss Bramley.’ I take Henry’s hand and lead him away towards the black railings at the far end of the playground, to collect his scooter and get us out of the gate before I can speak to him properly. Henry is a sensitive boy, much more like me than Mark. I think when he was born, Mark thought he would be getting a rough-and-tumble boy, one he could play football with in the garden and take to the green to play cricket in the summer. A boy who would appreciate vigorous play, wrestling on the living-room carpet with his dad, instead of one who preferred to sit quietly, drawing or painting. Since he started school and discovered the joys of reading, he has become a voracious reader, devouring all the picture books I collected and read to him when he was tiny and clamouring for more every time we venture into a bookshop.

As we begin the walk back down the hill towards home, he scoots a little ahead, using his school shoes as a brake – something that would normally infuriate me, but today I don’t mention it. We cross with the lollipop lady, a cheery soul who stands there morning and afternoon in sunshine and torrential rain, always with a smile on her face. She waves to Henry and hands him a lolly as he crosses, which brings the first smile to his face that I’ve seen today.

‘Henry, wait!’ I shout to him as he whizzes along the path, narrowly missing a lady walking a yappy Chihuahua that snaps at Henry’s legs as he passes. He slows and I catch up with him outside the small convenience store, panting slightly. ‘Leave the scooter there. We need milk. And some hot chocolate, if there are any good little boys about?’ I peer around and Henry giggles, his laughter tickling my skin like summer sunshine, pulling a smile onto my face. Henry chatters on as I fill my basket with milk and other little bits we’ve run out off. I am only half listening, concentrating on packing my shopping bag as the man behind the till scans the items.

‘Eight pounds forty, please.’

I smile at the man behind the counter and give him a ten-pound note. He hands me my change before reaching under the counter and popping a small purple packet into my hand.

‘Your change. And a treat for the young man.’ He winks at Henry, and I give him a small smile, nudging Henry into a ‘Thank you’ before adding the bag of chocolate buttons to the rest of my shopping.

A short while later, via a small diversion to the green, leafy park that we pass on the way home, we let ourselves in and Henry busies himself putting away his scooter and tugging off his school coat. I wait until he’s finished and then follow him through into the kitchen.

‘So then, hot chocolate?’ I ask, turning to the shopping bag and pulling out a large carton of milk.

‘Can we have marshmallows?’ he begs, his face lighting up. ‘And squirty cream?’

‘Well, of course,’ I reply. ‘Is there any other kind?’

He giggles and I pour the milk into a saucepan and set it on the hob to boil.

‘Is everything OK at school, kiddo?’ I ask him, watching his face carefully for any clues. He is just like me, so insular. Neither of us likes to open up unless we have to, both of us preferring to keep things bottled up and deal with them in our own way, something I’ve started to realise is not always healthy. I want to encourage him to start to be more open, to let him know that I’m his mum, that he can always tell me anything and I would never judge him. Something I didn’t have growing up, which I think has contributed to the way I deal with things. I have to encourage him, even though I know it means I’ll have to force myself to do the exact same thing.

‘Yeah. Mostly.’ He carries on scribbling away, colouring in a drawing of a tiger. I turn to the milk pan, catching it just before it boils over and splashes all over the hob. I wait a moment, leaving him a chance to expand, but he carries on colouring, taking painstaking care to make sure he doesn’t go over any of the lines. I pour the milk, whisking in the cocoa powder, topping them both off with squirty cream and marshmallows. It turns out that baby number two is far more partial to horrifically calorie-laden hot chocolate with all the trimmings than he or she is to coffee. Placing the mug in front of him, I try again.

‘Just mostly?’ I ask, nudging him gently. ‘Why just mostly? Is it something to do with what happened in the playground today?’

‘No.’ He grasps the hot chocolate in his hand and blows gently on the top, like I showed him. ‘That was just silly. Bradley doesn’t know how to behave himself. He always GOES TOO FAR, that’s what Miss Bramley says. He’s not my friend, anyway. I don’t care if he doesn’t want to play with me any more.’ Henry takes a sip of his hot chocolate, managing to slurp up several of the mini marshmallows dotted on the top at the same time. I give him a small smile and pat his hand, turning back towards the kitchen sink to blink away the tears that rush to my eyes.

Later that evening, once Henry is safely tucked up in bed, I tell Mark about Lila coming to visit.

‘She seems nice,’ I say, neglecting to tell him how my first instinct was to close the door in her face. ‘She said she had met you already.’

‘Hmmm?’ He looks up from his laptop, pushing his glasses back on top of his head. ‘Come here.’ He pats the sofa next to him and I slide along until our thighs are pressed together. ‘That’s good – you know, that you had tea with her and everything. It’ll be good for you to have a girlfriend; you don’t seem to have anyone close, not since Tessa left for New York.’ He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me towards him.

‘So, you never said you’d met Lila already.’ Although I know we said it’s a fresh start, I can’t help the spark of … what? Jealousy? Mistrust? I don’t even know what it is that flickers inside of me. Mark rubs his hand across his forehead, tiredly.

‘I didn’t really think about it, to be honest. She introduced herself and I told her about us, that we had a little boy and a baby on the way. Nothing exciting. Now come on, up to bed with you, you look exhausted. I’ll be up in a minute. I just need to send a couple of emails.’ He kisses my head and I shuffle off the couch to head upstairs.

While Mark is downstairs finishing off emails or whatever else it is he has to do on the rare occasions he gets home from work before midnight, I sit in bed and slide my hand between the bed frame and the mattress to pull out my diary. I used to keep a diary, years ago, when all the bad stuff happened, but once I sorted myself out and met Mark I let it lapse. Now, though, following on from everything that has happened between Mark and myself, including after Henry was born, and on the instruction of the counsellor Mark found, I’ve started to write in it again. The counsellor, Dr Bradshaw, recommended I document how I feel about certain things that happen, in an attempt to keep at bay the dark feelings that threaten to overwhelm me sometimes, so now I sit in my pyjamas and write about today. I write about how sad I feel for Henry, as he struggles to fit in at school with the other kids; I write about how I wonder what Mark is doing downstairs – he says he’s checking emails but how do I know that’s really what he’s doing? I write about Lila – about how she brought a little bit of sunshine into my day today with her bouncy demeanour and her vomit-inducing coffee cake, and about how, maybe, after so long avoiding making new connections and new friends, I should learn to trust other people again. Maybe I should make an effort to make a new friend. Maybe if I pretend for long enough that everything is going to be OK, it will be OK. In fact, I write, I think Lila might be good for me.

CHAPTER FOUR

I push my way through the crowded restaurant towards the table at the back, the one Belinda always favours and somehow manages to bag, no matter how busy it is in there. She has arrived already, which is no surprise seeing as how I’m fifteen minutes late. I seem to be running at a pretty constant fifteen minutes late since I fell pregnant again, the morning sickness that lasts all day always appearing just as I am about to leave the house. Belinda sits at the table, eyes constantly scanning the room for people who might not want to be seen, permanently on the lookout for her next story. She puffs rapidly on her Vape, her nicotine addiction still as strong as ever. The day the smoking ban came into effect was a dark, dark day for Belinda. She tosses her icy blonde hair over her shoulder, squinting towards me in the dim light of the restaurant. Then, as she realises that it is actually me approaching her, she gets to her feet and waves at me enthusiastically, cigarette and all.

‘Darling. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’ Belinda’s voice is husky from far too many cigarettes, late nights and bottles of fine whisky.

‘Sorry. I felt a bit … yeuch. You know how it is.’ I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, inhaling the familiar waft of Chanel No. 5 and cigarette smoke, the signature scent that is Belinda.

‘You know damn well I don’t, and I never want to either. No offence, darling, but babies are not for me.’ She takes another deep drag on her fake cigarette, squinting at me again in the half-light.

‘None taken. I do think it’s time for you to dig out the specs again, though, Bel. You’re squinting at me like mad, and I don’t know why you choose this restaurant every time – the lighting in here is awful.’

‘That’s precisely why I choose it, darling.’ Belinda lets out a cackle, drawing the attention of two older gentlemen dining at the table next to us. ‘Soft lighting makes me look twenty years younger, plus no one can see the bags you’re carrying under your eyes. Speaking of which, is everything OK, Steph?’ Speaking her mind as ever, she eyes me with concern. Belinda may be a tough old bag, but she has been a huge support to me since I first met her. She was, and still is, the editor of a very successful magazine – not as posh as Tatler, but a few steps above the trashy weekly gossip mags. I did work experience with her, way back when I was doing my journalism degree, and never expected to even cross her radar, but it seemed I was the only one in the office who could make her coffee exactly as she liked it, and she took a shine to me. She took me under her wing, showed me the ropes, and eventually, once I got my degree, gave me a job as a features writer. Fifteen years older and infinitely wiser than me, Belinda taught me everything I know, and now, since having Henry and not wanting to work full-time, she still passes me interviews and features to write in a freelance capacity.

‘Yes, Bel. Honestly, everything is fine. Just a bit exhausting at the moment, what with sorting the house out and being pregnant. I’ll be fine.’ I take a sip of the sparkling water on the table as Belinda takes a hearty gulp of cold, crisp Chardonnay. Lunchtime is drinking time to Belinda, and no doubt she’ll carry on until late in the evening. Apparently, she writes all of her best features half cut.

‘And Mark? What about him?’ Belinda’s nose turns up a little as she mentions Mark’s name. She doesn’t know what happened between us earlier in the year, and I want to keep it that way, but she doesn’t like him and never has, and she’s never told me why. I don’t like to ask.

‘He’s fine. He’s back to work and starting on a new project. Some wildlife, adventuring programme thing. Think Bear Grylls crossed with David Attenborough. Apparently he and the crew are travelling to some far-flung place next week to start shooting some footage.’

‘Bear Grylls slash David Attenborough, eh? Impressive.’ Belinda raises an eyebrow as she takes another gulp of her wine.

‘Oh, come on, Bel. Don’t be like that.’

‘Well, I just don’t like it, Steph. He leaves you and the baby on your own for weeks at a time. Anything could happen. He’s lucky you don’t find someone else to take care of you while he’s not around.’ She raises an eyebrow at me as I shake my head, a smile on my lips. Despite a tough exterior and a reputation for being a hard-nosed bitch, on the inside Belinda is as soft as spun sugar.

‘It’s fine, Bel, honestly. I knew what I was getting into when I married him.’ To some extent, yes … his behaviour six months ago, not so much. Belinda pulls a face and I think it’s best to change the subject. I don’t want to talk about Mark, about how he’s up and leaving me and Henry again just a few weeks after moving into a new home, a few weeks after promising me a fresh start. I don’t want to think about who will be travelling with him, or what he’ll be doing while I’m not there – that way madness lies. I’ll end up driving myself crazy wondering what’s going on, which is the reason why I took Belinda up on her offer of lunch today. I’m hoping she’s got some work for me, something a little more upmarket than ‘What He Thinks About During Sex’ and other such exciting features.

‘So? Why am I here, Bel? What have you got for me?’ Our starters arrive, steaming-hot, tiny bowls of creamy pasta with a Parmesan crisp sticking out of each one. I don’t know why Belinda bothers to order anything; it’ll just get pushed around her plate, while I will eat everything and then feel like a heifer afterwards.

‘I’ve got a great interview for you.’ As expected, Belinda swirls a forkful of pasta around her plate, before taking another sip of wine and letting the pasta fall from the fork before she’s even lifted it. ‘A TV star turned entrepreneur. Trashy-mag fodder turned rival to Alan Sugar. Darling of the reality-TV phenomenon turned bona fide business tycoon. It’ll be fabulous.’

‘Sounds intriguing.’ I shovel a forkful of pasta into my mouth, the morning sickness having left me famished. I have to eat while my stomach allows it; who knows how long it will be before the queasiness returns? ‘So, who is it?’

‘Melissa Davenport. You know, the girl that won that desert-island reality-TV thing? You must do; I’m sure you said Mark worked on that. She’s started her own lingerie business; it seems to have really taken off. Everyone’s going crazy for it, so I’m thinking we strike while the iron is hot. While she is hot. She’s kept a low profile lately – obviously she’s been working on this business idea of hers – but if we can get an interview with her now, before it all takes off, then we’ve got the scoop on all of the others. What do you say? Steph?’

The pasta has turned to ash in my mouth and I feel the blood draining from my cheeks. Melissa Davenport. Just the name alone is enough to start my stomach roiling in a manner far, far worse than morning sickness ever could. Saliva squirts into my mouth, heralding the fact that my stomach is about to revolt. Making my excuses, I jump up from the table and race towards the restaurant bathrooms.

Heart hammering, I make it to the ladies’ room just in time to watch the small amount of my starter, that I did manage to eat, come back to haunt me. Splashing cold water on my face, I raise my eyes to the mirror, not at all shocked at the fright staring back at me. My face is pale, dark circles surrounding my eyes. My fringe lies flat on my forehead, no sign of the sheen and bounce I carefully styled into it before I left the house. Sighing, I pat my face dry with a paper towel and make some effort to look normal by patting some powder onto my cheeks and adding a dab of mascara to my eyelashes. Satisfied I can pass Belinda’s inspection, I make my way back to the table. Belinda is on the phone and abruptly ends the call as I reach my seat.

‘Darling. Are you OK? Is the morning sickness really that terrible? Thank goodness I never found myself in the family way. I’d die if I had to get sick in a public place.’ Belinda wrinkles her nose in distaste and roots in her handbag for her Vape, dragging it out and puffing furiously. She’s not good with illness, or sympathy for that matter. I sit down, leaning back in my chair as the waiter fusses around our table, removing the plates. Belinda waves him away impatiently.

‘I’m fine. I’m sorry to spoil lunch. I don’t know what came over me.’ I sip at the glass of water next to me, avoiding Belinda’s stern gaze.

‘Don’t apologise – you can’t help it. If anyone is to blame, it’s Mark.’ Belinda puffs and gives a short bark of a laugh. If only she knew how true that was. ‘So, what do you think about the Davenport girl? Is she worth an interview? We could make her the cover – she sells magazines by the bucket load.’

‘I’m sorry, Bel, I don’t think so. I’m sure she’d give you a brilliant interview but I just don’t think I’m the right person for the job at the moment.’ Just hearing her name makes my stomach flip over. There is no way I would be able to stand being in the same room as her. Melissa Davenport. The woman who slept with my husband. The woman who tried to steal Mark away from me. The woman who tried to destroy my life.

My mother has agreed to collect Henry from school today, so that I can have a long, leisurely lunch with Belinda. With this in mind, I take a slow walk home instead of jumping on the tube. Belinda is incredibly understanding about my not wanting to do the Davenport interview, blaming my hormones and the pregnancy (and Mark), and I am thankful I never told her what happened between Mark and Melissa. He says it was a one-off, a reaction to how I was after Henry was born, that it was a mistake and that it is only me he loves. She, on the other hand, didn’t say much at all, only to beg me not to tell the papers, as it would destroy her career – she was concerned about being seen as a homewrecker (as well she should), although it’s just unfortunate that that didn’t cross her mind before the affair began. I’ve told no one, apart from my best friend, Tessa, about what happened between them, shame and humiliation making me keep silent. I told no one about how I found messages from her on his phone, messages that were anything but the innocent texts he said they were. I stomp angrily home, her name beating a tattoo in my head, the rage and hurt still as white-hot and fresh in my mind as it was the day I found out.

Lila is in her front garden as I make my way down our street towards my own front path. She raises a hand to me as I pass, pulling off a pink gardening glove as she straightens up.

‘Steph! How are you feeling?’ She smiles at me, a perfect row of white teeth gleaming, and for some reason I feel even crappier than I did before, imagining my teeth slicked with the vile taste of vomit.

‘Hey, Lila. Not great, I’m afraid. Morning sickness still kicking in at the moment. I’m just going to go and have a lie-down before my mum brings Henry back.’ I barely look at her as I fumble in my bag for my door key, juggling my phone in the other hand.

‘Oh, bless you, you don’t look too well. Go and rest up. I’ll be home if you need anything, just give me a shout. In fact …’ She pulls out her mobile and holds her hand out for mine, before inputting her number into my phone. ‘You just call me if you need anything, OK?’

I nod wearily, half raising a hand to her as I cross the street and let myself in. I need a hot bath, pyjamas and my little boy snuggled on the couch next to me.

Two hours later, when I go to the front door to let my mum in, Henry jabbering away nineteen to the dozen about the Christmas fair she took him to, I notice a tiny bunch of winter flowers tied together with a piece of raffia tucked into the corner of the porch. A small slip of white paper attached to the raffia reads, ‘Just a little something from my garden to cheer you up’. A smile touches the corners of my mouth. Even though I was so rude to her earlier, practically ignoring her in my haste to get indoors, to get away from everyone, she still thought about me. She still cared enough to leave me a gift to cheer me up. The thought of it is warming, and I resolve to fight against my instinct to push her away, to make more of an effort to let Lila in properly, as a new friend.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mark calls later that evening to tell me not to wait up. It’s always like this the few hectic weeks before he and his crew go off on location to start shooting – meetings that start after hours and go on long into the night as they plan what equipment they need to take, which routes they’ll travel along and which flights they need to catch. For once, he calls early, just as I am about to put Henry to bed, so he says goodnight to our son and waits patiently as I finish tucking Henry into bed.