Your Truth or Mine? Page 23

  MIA

  Saturday, 19th December

  He’s in the water with me. The pool, it has no walls. The water’s swirling, trapping me in a whirlpool. I can sense him behind me. Strong hands on my shoulders, the comforting voice in my ear. I turn to look at him but the current is too strong and I only manage to catch a glimpse of his hand before the water sucks me under. I struggle upwards, telling myself not to panic. He’s here. He’ll pull me out. But I am stuck under the surface, sinking. I thrash around, flailing my arms, kicking my legs, but it doesn’t help. The water stills. Why am I still sinking? Why isn’t he pulling me out? Then I feel it, the sharp push downwards, the hand over my mouth. I am drowning.

  He is drowning me.

  I push the front door open and blink twice. The house is flooded with light. I step inside to find that all the blinds have been taken down. I walk around. The rooms have been cleaned, walls painted, all the furniture removed. The house looks new, ready for another family to fill with their own stories. I set my bag down on the kitchen counter and check my phone. There’s a text from George to say he’s emailed Phil the deed, we should hear back later today.

  I didn’t see George this morning. I waited in the guest room, pretending to be asleep, until I heard him leave. I wasn’t ready to see him, not yet. It was all too confusing. I haven’t thought of George like that in a long time and I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. It was hard on him when we split up. He refused to accept it, proposing to me three weeks later as he drove me to the airport. I laughed, thinking he was joking – I was only nineteen, after all – until I looked at his face. I backtracked immediately; George was my best friend and I didn’t want to hurt him. So I let him kiss me when we said goodbye. ‘Wait for me,’ I whispered in his ear before I pulled away. ‘Wait for me.’ Even though I didn’t mean it.

  A knock on the door jerks me back to the present.

  ‘It’s open,’ I shout out and the agent appears after a minute.

  He called me last night to say everything was in place; all he needed was the original freehold certificate. A young couple had put in an offer. Cash buyers, so there was no survey or mortgage approval to worry about.

  ‘What happens now?’ I ask after he’s inspected the document I hand him.

  ‘All the paperwork is drawn up. I just need you to sign the contract. The buyers are wanting to move quickly so we should be able to complete the sale early next week.’

  He pulls some papers out of a folder and lays them out on the kitchen platform.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Your sister’s solicitor’s already looked through these.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  I pick up the contract and have a read through. I pause when I see the buyer’s name.

  ‘I thought you said it was a couple?’

  ‘It is but the girlfriend’s the one with the money.’

  I shudder inwardly. Recipe for disaster.

  I gather the papers up into a pile and turn to the agent.

  ‘Look, why don’t you leave these with me and I’ll drop them off first thing tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s Sunday tomo—’

  ‘Monday then.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. I can pop into the office tomorrow. Ten a.m.?’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ I say. I shove the papers into my bag and take one last look around.

  Let it go, Mia, this isn’t home anymore, I tell myself.

  The voices correct me instantly. If this isn’t home, then where is?

  Even without any trace of our life here, memories crowd the house, drumming a frantic, relentless beat. I’m not ready to let go, I realize. Not yet. There’s one last thing I have to try.

  ROY

  Saturday, 19th December

  The door rattles and I sit up with a jerk. My back feels stiff and when I turn my neck to the right a sharp pain shoots through my whole body. I’ve been up all night, listening to the footsteps and voices filtering through from outside.

  The hatch clatters again and I realize it is the jailer. I grab the blue plastic tray he shoves through and inspect it.

  A handful of beans and something that looks like a sausage float in the watery orange sauce from last night. A piece of stale bread and a cup of tea accompany it. I dunk the bread in the tea and attempt a bite. Disgusting.

  I set the tray down on the floor and go back to lying on the concrete plinth and staring at the flaking paint on the ceiling.

  The plan was simple. I would wait till after Christmas to tell Mia I wasn’t happy. She would cry, and I’d hold her hand. I’d explain to her that my heart wasn’t in our marriage anymore. I’d tell her I needed to pursue the Arctic project, that maybe that would fill the hole in my life. Maybe that was all I needed, some space and time to do my own thing, recalibrate. I wouldn’t mention divorce, not yet. She would let me have the money. Just come back, she would beg and I’d hug her and let her cry. It would work. All I had to do was make sure Mia never found out the truth.

  Your husband was a little more complicated. Dave wouldn’t let you go willingly, so the only way was to run. I wanted you to leave him immediately but you were terrified that he would track you down before we had the chance to get away. I won’t let him hurt you, I said, but you shook your head. Dave is going to Oxford for a job in January, you told me. He’ll be gone for three days. If I can just keep him calm till then, you said, that will give us all the time we need. It was killing me, but I knew your mind was made up. No contact till then, you said. Once Dave left, you’d text me and I was to come and pick you up. We’d fly out the same day, somewhere in Europe at first, and then Africa and finally somewhere in South America. No pre-bookings, you insisted, no trail. By the time Dave got back, we’d be on the other side of the world, with enough money to set us up for at least a year, two if we were prudent. This will work, won’t it? you asked me, the ever-present fear in your eyes seeping into your voice. It broke me to see how scared you were and I pulled you in closer. It’ll work, I promise, I said and you smiled, burrowing your head in my shoulder.

  It was a good plan. It would have worked.

  But of course Emily had to fuck it all up.

  I hear the jingle of keys and the cell door swings open. The custody sergeant tells me they are ready for me.

  How long till they figure it out, my love?

  MIA

  Saturday, 19th December

  Stepping into Uncle Bill’s home feels like stepping into a time machine and going back twenty years: the heavy curtains, the floral-patterned sofas, the mahogany dining table . . . it is exactly as I remember it. Right down to the custard tarts and milky tea Aunty Jane places in front of me as soon as I sit down.

  ‘It’s good to see you, love,’ she says, pulling up a chair next to me. She positions the chair diagonally, stretching her left leg out to one side when she sits down. ‘Bad knee,’ she explains.

  I smile and ask her about Uncle Bill. He got called in for an emergency surgery, she tells me. We talk easily over the next hour: about me, my job, Roy, Roy’s job, Aunty Jane’s good knee, her bad knee, Uncle Bill’s practice, James’s practice, her hair, the cost of butter, my hair, the cost of jam, Kate Middleton’s hair, all while I work my way through the dozen or so custard tarts arranged prettily on the baby pink two-tier cake stand. Turns out even at twenty-nine, I can’t leave one sitting in front of me.

  ‘I’ll pack some for you to take back. It’s lovely having you here after all these years, Mimi,’ she says, using her special nickname for me.

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t come over more often.’ Even as the words leave my mouth I try to figure out just what went so wrong that we all but cut off from Aunty Jane and Uncle Bill. ‘It’s a shame we lost touch over the years.’

  ‘Yes, well, I wish things had turned out differently. After David, everything just sort of crumbled, didn’t it?’

  I nod quietly.

  ‘Why didn’t you ever come to visit us in India?’

  ‘Rekh
a never invited us.’ Her words scissor through the room, snipping away any ties I’d restored in the last hour.

  ‘I remember how close you and Mummy were,’ I say tentatively.

  She nods slowly. ‘She needed time to heal. So did we.’

  We sit in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Will Uncle Bill be back soon?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mia,’ she says, her exasperation evident. ‘He’ll come when he comes. Do you need to speak to him about something?’

  It’s unlikely she will know much but I recall Uncle Bill’s face the last time I saw him and decide to take my chances with Aunty Jane.

  ‘Do you know anything about a house in Eastbourne, Aunty J?’

  ‘Eastbourne?’ She tenses up, her spine pulled taut.

  ‘Yes,’ I say slowly. ‘I was clearing out some things at the old house and I found a copy of a deed for a—’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She pulls her leg in and places both hands on the table, shifting her body weight to her left, preparing to get up.

  ‘I need to know, Aunty J. Please. Maybe we can keep the house in Bristol. Wouldn’t Uncle Bill like that?’ I try to appeal to the husband-pleaser in her.

  ‘You should really ask your mother about this,’ she says.

  My mother? So it did have something to do with her affair.

  I take a deep breath. I pick my words carefully. ‘Mummy’s ill . . . it’s cancer. We just found out. I can’t ask her right now and I really need to know.’

  ‘Rekha’s ill? Oh Mimi.’ She reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘Is she going to be okay?’

  ‘They’re doing what they can, but it’s stage four.’

  She nods, the hint of tears in her eyes. She labours up and goes into the kitchen wordlessly.

  ‘It’s really not my place to talk about all this,’ she says when she comes back, two mugs of tea in hand. ‘William will be furious.’

  ‘I know why Mum and Dad were fighting in his last few months, Addi told me.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says, unconvinced.

  ‘I know about the affair, Aunty J.’

  She nods, massaging her knee.

  ‘What do you need to know, Mimi?’ Her voice is clipped, as if she fears saying too much.

  ‘The house in Eastbourne – did we sell it already? Is that why Mum is selling the one in Bristol now?’

  She shrugs. ‘I suppose Rekha needs the money. William’s furious, but to be honest, I get it. It’s her house and she has the right to do whatever she wants with it. I’m surprised she’s waited this long to sell it. It can’t be easy raising two girls on your own while holding on to those memories.’ She shudders. ‘As far as selling the house in Eastbourne goes, she can’t. David didn’t leave it to her.’

  ‘Oh. Did he leave it to Uncle Bill?’

  ‘No, Mimi. William tried to contest the will, he thought it should have gone to Rekha or him, but David had made sure there were no loopholes. It was shocking but what can you—’

  ‘Then who did he leave it to?’

  ‘Laurel.’

  Aunt Laurel?

  I stare at the mug of tea in my hand. I don’t want it. I hold it out and Aunty J reaches forward to take it from me.

  ‘I don’t get it. He must have been upset with Mum about her affair but why would he—’

  ‘Her affair?’ The shock in Aunty Jane’s voice is genuine. She puts her cup down on the table and puts a hand on my knee. ‘Mimi, love, your mother wasn’t the one having an affair.’

  MIA

  Saturday, 19th December

  I stare at her, stunned. She’s lying. She has to be. What she’s saying is not possible. It can’t be. I press my fingers onto my eyelids and try to process her words. The room goes black. It just doesn’t make any sense.

  Aunt Laurel had been at Cambridge with Uncle Bill, two years behind Mum and Dad. She was one of Daddy’s best friends and featured in every story my Dad ever told me about Cambridge. She had been there for nearly every birthday party, every Christmas, every ill-advised barbecue when I was little. And then one day she stopped coming.

  ‘Daddy and Aunt Laurel?’

  Aunty J nods.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I was equally shocked, Mimi. Laurel was like a sister to me.’

  ‘How long . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure. A few years, I think. Since Cambridge. Rekha didn’t find out till much later, of course.’

  ‘There was a barbecue . . . at your house. The summer before Daddy’s accident . . .’

  ‘That’s when you – I mean, that’s when I found out,’ Aunty Jane says, shaking her head.

  I grip the chair, my fingers closing around the rough upholstery as the memory that’s been eluding me for years hits me out of nowhere.

  Addi and I were playing in the garden with the other kids. Uncle Bill had set up a trampoline for us. It was the sort of summer day when everything slows down. The grown-ups were scattered in groups around the garden, sipping their drinks and chatting. Mum was in the kitchen helping Aunty Jane with the food.

  I hopped off the trampoline and wandered over to the conservatory. Uncle Bill was walking around passing drinks to everyone. I stared up at him. I used to think he was the tallest human on earth when I was little. I would beg him to carry me on his shoulders so I could be tall too.

  ‘Are you tired, Mimi?’

  I shook my head. ‘I want to pee.’

  ‘Okay, run along, you,’ he said, ruffling my hair and smiling down at me.

  I ran up the stairs to the bathroom and peed. I remember taking my time washing my hands. Aunty J always had the coolest soaps. The one I used that day looked like a butterfly. It gave me an idea for a new game to play on the trampoline and I wiped my hands quickly, excited to show everyone. I heard Daddy’s voice when I stepped out of the bathroom and decided I should find him first, so he could see me be a butterfly. I knew I would be the best. I ran from room to room, looking for him. The first door was locked – Aunty Jane’s bedroom. The second door revealed a very frazzled-looking woman, ancient to my six-year-old eyes, reapplying her lipstick. There was only one room left, that’s where he must be! I threw the door open with a flourish and met with a sight, the memory of which, even today, years later, feels like a punch in the stomach.

  She saw me first. Her blouse was open, the front still tucked into her skirt. Her arms were looped around my father’s neck. His back was to me, head bent into her neck, hands on her hips. Aunt Laurel looked at me for a minute. ‘David,’ she said quietly. ‘David,’ she repeated, pushing him away. Her bra was red. He turned. I don’t know why, but I shrieked.

  He was kneeling beside me, telling me to be quiet, but I kept at it, my shrieks getting louder and louder until they stopped all at once.

  ‘Behave yourself, Mia,’ he whispered. I stared at my shoes, tears pooling in my eyes, too afraid to say anything. I ran down the stairs, straight into Aunty Jane.

  When I open my eyes, Aunty Jane is sitting next to me, with one arm around my shoulder. I allow myself a moment and then when the sobs subside, I wipe my face with the serviette and turn to her.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I heard screams. I was about to come up when I saw you running downstairs. David and Laurel weren’t far behind.’

  ‘Did you tell Mummy?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t – I couldn’t believe it myself for some time. I knew your parents were having problems but it was David and Laurel. I didn’t even tell William. But then I went to see Laurel a couple of weeks later, and when I asked her it all came out. She made me promise not to say anything. David wanted to speak to Rekha himself.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘Things between your parents got worse. I tried to speak to David but he blew me off. Then one day, a couple of months later, your mum turned up here. She was hysterical. First I thought it was one of you, that there had been an accident of some sort. But you were both at school. She – she
’d found out. One of her friends from work saw David with Laurel and—’

  ‘Why didn’t she leave?’

  Why didn’t you?

  ‘It wasn’t that simple for her, Mimi. She had two little girls to look after and her family, your grandparents, they were all the way back in India . . . David bought the house in Eastbourne for Laurel and he started spending more and more time there. He didn’t even bother lying once Rekha knew. Your mother . . . she came to William as well, but he didn’t want to get involved. David had always been so strong-minded, trying to talk him out of something only made him more stubborn. William tried to explain that to Rekha but she didn’t want to give up. She asked me to speak to Laurel. I tried, but Laurel . . .’

  I lean back on the sofa and close my eyes.

  It all falls into place, the memories completing themselves. The house, the garden, the stairs.

  And then his voice, just a whisper in the air.

  Unbreakable.

  ‘Aunty J?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Did Daddy . . .’ My throat closes up, the words refuse to come. ‘I mean . . . was he violent?’

  Aunty J strokes my cheek. My tears wash over her wrinkled fingers.

  After a long pause, she nods, her own eyes watering.

  I walk, first slowly, and then break into a scramble towards my car. Doors bolted, hot air blasting out of the vents, I drive around aimlessly, circling the neighbourhood. Aunty Jane’s words crowd the car, suffocating me. I lower my window, drawing in gulp after gulp of the crisp air I grew up with. I keep my eyes fixed to the road, focusing on the cars in front of me, but it doesn’t help. My brain is exploding. Every familiar bend in the road brings something back but the memories no longer belong to me.

  I tighten my grip around the steering wheel, my fingers cramping with the effort. She’s lying, I tell myself. Of course she is. She has to be.

  Why would she do that?

  He wasn’t like that. My father was a kind, honest and generous man, I repeat to myself over and over again. That is how I always describe him to strangers. It’s an easy routine. A cock of the head, a sad smile, the smattering of ‘awws’ afterwards. But the more I think about it, the more practised it sounds. A past manufactured to protect my future.