After the Lie: A gripping novel about love, loss and family secrets (10 page)

Footsteps echoed along the corridor. Tomaso opened the door to my room and bundled me inside. ‘I thought for one horrible moment you weren’t going to invite me in.’

‘I didn’t invite you in.’ Not very Parisian in repartee. More Surrey utilitarian. Getting rid of attractive men didn’t seem to feature highly in my current skill set. I stood, awkwardly, caught between knowing he should leave and enjoying the silliness, the flirtation, the ease of being with someone whose expectations you didn’t have to live up to. Though I wasn’t certain a human being existed whose expectations I didn’t feel obliged to meet in some way.

Tomaso laughed. ‘I’ll just stay for one more drink and then you can boot me out.’ He strolled over to the minibar. ‘Right. What now? More champagne?’

I didn’t even answer before he was popping the cork.

He led me over to the window and I stood, regarding my startled reflection in the glass. ‘Lovely romantic view,’ he said, pointing to the bins. I was shuffling my thoughts to find the card that had the lines for the dignified ‘That’s the end of this bit of fun’ exit on it.

I must have been still fumbling with the ‘Whooaa, this is all a little bit out of control’ card when Tomaso pulled me to him and kissed me.

It reminded me of being in the sea in Norfolk on a windy day, jumping the waves crashing onto the shore. One minute, it was the right side of safe. Rough enough for a bit of a thrill, but not really dangerous. Then, suddenly, my feet were whipped from underneath me and the force of the water was tipping me every which way and I wondered if I’d ever find the surface again.

My mind was pulling away, stretching out for safety, for the fleecy comfort of the status quo. But my body was pushing against him in a whirl of desire as though I had some catching up to do. His mouth was cold from the champagne and within no time at all, he had zipped off my dress and pushed me back onto the bed, freeing my breasts from my bra and nuzzling at my nipples.

I fought to locate my inner nun, a little late in the day. ‘Tomaso. Tomaso!’

He looked up, but didn’t stop his stroking. ‘What?’ His voice was gentle, teasing.

‘I shouldn’t be here.
You
shouldn’t be here.’ My voice still didn’t sound like I was trying hard enough. I was surprised how difficult it was to focus on my family, on how shocked and horrified Mark would be. How I just shouldn’t bloody well be doing this.

Tomaso shuffled up the bed. He brushed my hair back from my face and kissed me gently. ‘Who’s going to know? Live a little. But if you want me to, I will tear myself away from your beautiful body and go and sleep in my cold, cold bed, lonely till morning…’

Live a little. Christ, I wanted to live a lot. Stop this pale existence laced with fear, too scared to enjoy the moment in case the lid blew off the past and my life, everyone’s life, lay fragmented on the floor. A defiance I didn’t recognise gathered inside me. Tonight was big. I’d done well. Yet Mark had showed more of a reaction when I told him I’d looked at Jamie’s messages on Facebook. I’d spent too much of my life slipping past unnoticed, like a Wednesday in March.

So when Tomaso freed me from the rest of my clothes and loosened his belt, throwing off his shirt, that barefoot maverick on the streets of Paris took over. This would be my secret. My moment when I could just be me, my shoulds and should nots buried in the tangle of clothes piling up around us like debris at a church jumble sale.

He looked up. ‘They always say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch. You could be dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’ I said, as his mouth covered mine. I was about as dangerous as a pair of plastic scissors. But god, the mere thought that I could be perceived as anything other than the woman you’d trust with the spare key to your house made me feel wanton and daring; a flamenco dancer of a woman, steaming in, skirts swirling, direct and demanding. I was a woman who sipped champagne, who took her clothes off in front of a complete stranger and had sex with him. I was almost aggressive, staring him hard in the eye, challenging him. I’d thought I’d compare Tomaso with Mark, but my brain seemed to have forgotten that Mark ever existed. I was just there, with those exciting sensations and that mocking look in Tomaso’s eyes.

He was unfamiliar, but tender. I wasn’t the girl he’d won after a series of dates, intrigued by my gratitude that he should choose me. He didn’t know I liked a thriller over a rom-com, or Thai over Chinese. He wasn’t interested in whether I was a mother who’d fight my kids’ corner or a wife who never let the milk run out. He was interested in good sex.

Afterwards, I wondered if the sex could have been rubbish for him if it was good for me. It seemed that it was far more fun when you didn’t care what the other person thought. I wasn’t sure what was more liberating, the sex or the not caring.

Or both.

I
was pathetically
grateful that Tomaso put on some boxers before he started wandering about the room, so I didn’t have to do the eye dance to avoid staring at his bits. I was even more relieved when he didn’t disappear with a ‘Thanks, see you around,’ but got back into bed and cuddled round me. While I resolutely refused to consider what any of this meant, he kissed my back. ‘You’ve got lovely skin.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I don’t think you see yourself as others see you.’

I rolled over to look at him. ‘How do you see me, then?’

He looked serious, then smiled. ‘I think you’re really bright, attractive and capable but you don’t think you are. I bet you think you’re shy but actually I think you’re just self-contained. I was watching you tonight.’

‘Were you?’

‘Yes. I was thinking that I would like to know two things.’

‘Can’t promise to tell you.’

He leaned over and kissed me until I didn’t care what he wanted to know. After all these years I’d discovered that the best silencer of the voice grinding away in my head was lust.

Several minutes later, Tomaso rested on his elbow. ‘Wow.’ He breathed out. ‘I wondered whether this cool, composed woman would be hot in bed. Think you’ve answered that.’

I felt as though I was looking in a comedy mirror and seeing a completely different version of myself.

‘Very deep. And the second thing?’

‘Your big secret? You promised you’d tell me.’

‘I was kidding about that.’

‘The existence of it, or that you’d tell me?’

The flattery had gone to my head. I wanted to be interesting with hidden depths.

‘That I’d tell you.’

‘Come on, that’s not fair. I’m betting that you’re not a woman who generally hops into bed with other men.’ He grinned. ‘So there must be something special about me.’

Tomaso lay down with his face so close to me I nearly had to reach for my reading glasses. I wriggled back slightly and brought his eyes into focus. ‘Correct on both counts.’

‘So. What have you done so bad that it cannot be shared with the world?’

I could feel myself withdrawing. I’d added sex with another man to the secrets that I’d have to bury deep inside. I wrestled to recapture the feeling of freedom, of abandonment that I’d felt a few minutes ago.

‘Shall I tell you my very bad thing? But then you have to reciprocate,’ he said.

He ran his hand lightly over my breast. Every fibre of me stood to attention. I glanced at the clock. Four am. The effects of the champagne were wearing off. I no longer felt giddy but almost otherworldly, beyond tired but not needing to sleep. His hand moved up my thigh.

‘Go on, then. It can’t be that dreadful.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Here it is. Bald facts coming your way. If you decide to chase me out of the room, please throw my clothes out after me.’

A picture of a dismembered body in a bucket with feet sticking out sprang to mind as I considered what Tomaso’s terrible truth might be.

‘I married an Italian, Raffaella, in my mid-twenties. She was the daughter of my mum’s friend and I knew her from holidays there. We spent long summers together every year as teenagers, then started going out more seriously when we finished university. We lived in Florence.’

For the first time that evening, Tomaso’s face lost the little amused sparkle that sat around his eyes.

‘When our son, Giacomo, was born a few years later, Raffaella changed completely. She was so protective of him, she wouldn’t go out even if her mother was babysitting. We couldn’t take him out if it was drizzly, or too hot or the slightest bit windy. We ended up just stuck in the flat all the time, watching crappy Italian TV, hearing the neighbours having sex next door, smelling the fish cooking in the flat below. Then her mum would come round and they’d both be cooing all over the baby, how amazing he was, how clever, how wonderful.’

Tomaso had lost his cheeky schoolboy sheen. He looked away. ‘I know. I sound like such a spoilt knob. I kept telling myself it would get better, that I would adjust. I couldn’t even feed the baby in the right way. Every time I lifted the spoon, Raffaella or her mother would be there “No, no, NOOO!” Too much. Too hot. Too bloody something.’

I could feel the misery in his body. His brow wrinkled at the memory.

‘So?’ I reached for his hand.

‘One day, when Giacomo was about three, I tried to take him for a walk. Because the pavements are really narrow in Florence, Raffaella wouldn’t let me go, didn’t trust me to hold his hand tightly enough. I just flipped. I wasn’t even allowed to go out for a wander with my own son. I took my passport, got a plane from Pisa and left. I didn’t even tell my parents. Just moved in with some friends in London, drank too much, partied.’

I thanked heaven for the condom.

‘Of course, it’s caused rifts all over the place. My mother’s not speaking to me…’ He did a great imitation of an Italian mamma dressing him down. ‘Raffaella and her family, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are knitting voodoo dolls of me at this very moment.’

He ran his hand through his hair. ‘My mum goes to see Giacomo whenever she can, but it’s destroyed her friendship with Raffaella’s family. Tarred with the same brush. She’d been friends with Raffaella’s mum since they were at school. I’ve caused such a lot of unhappiness.’

‘And you? When do you see him?’

‘I don’t. I haven’t seen him for nine months. Every day I have a little rush of shame that I couldn’t bloody hack it. When the going got tough, I cried in a corner. He’s probably better off without me.’

He rolled onto his back. I could feel the ache emanating from him. ‘Pretty bad, huh? Bet you’re feeling like Snow White now.’

I shook my head. ‘You probably won’t believe me but I’m not very judgmental.’

Despite the current Cold War with Mark over my spying on Jamie, I knew he trusted me with the children. Even in my darkest moments, I’d never thought Izzy and Jamie would be better off without me. I couldn’t contemplate not having any contact with them.

‘I can’t really be excused for deserting my son though, can I?’ His voice held a note of hope.

‘You have to live with it. That’s a huge punishment to carry through life. Is there no way back?’

‘Not at the moment.’ He sighed, as though the effort of telling me had wrung every last drop of energy from him. ‘Your turn.’

It was surprising how easy it was to be honest with a complete stranger.

H
eaviness laced
with guilt settled on me on the drive home. But coming around the corner into my road jerked me out of it. In full view of the neighbours, Jamie and Eleanor were leaning against a hedge, locked in an embrace with such a lot of face-on-face movement that it was a miracle their teeth had managed to stay anchored in their jawbones.

I jammed the brakes on and wound down the window. ‘Jamie!’

I swear there was a squelching noise as he unplugged himself from Eleanor. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. That bloody girl folded her arms and did not look anywhere
approaching
mortified.

‘Mum!’

‘For god’s sake. What on earth do you think you’re doing? Kathy across the street does not want her five-year-old witnessing your shenanigans. Say goodbye to Eleanor and go home.’

‘We’re going into town.’

Unlike Izzy, who was so hormonal that half the time I couldn’t breathe in a way that didn’t repel her, Jamie never really challenged me. But on a day when I’d had about two hours’ sleep and done things I should never have contemplated, it wasn’t a good time to start.

I flung the car door open. ‘Get in.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m going with Eleanor. We’re meeting some friends. It’s Saturday. Just chill out, Mum. God.’

I saw his lips taking on the silent but well-worn shape of ‘For fuck’s sake.’

I turned to Eleanor. ‘Do your parents know where you are?’

She put her face in the most bored expression that anyone had ever conjured up in my presence and said, ‘Yeah.’

Not a whiff of ‘How horrendously embarrassing to be caught in the privet hedge with your son, whose hands were way past where they should be for any decent girl’, but a sullen ‘yeah’.

I felt all the self-righteousness drain out of me as the lack of sleep muddled my mind. I couldn’t think how to discipline Eleanor in a way that wouldn’t provoke Sean and Katya, which might provoke god knows what. And I didn’t need to be poking any hornets’ nests right now.

I almost heard the rungs shaking beneath me as I staged my climb down. ‘Well, don’t be hanging around making a spectacle of yourself in town. And Jamie, I want you back here by five. No later.’

He shuffled off, hand in hand with that little tart. I started the car.

The big tart would now make her way home.

‘How’s my superstar?’ Mark was standing at the door, looking delighted to see me. He’d obviously decided to brush the fact that he’d put down the phone on me under the carpet.

‘Glad to be home.’ I forced a lightness into my voice.

He came out in his slippers to fetch my overnight bag, but I waved him away. Even though I’d checked it, I didn’t want Mark anywhere near the clothes that Tomaso had touched. Removed. In my mind’s eye, I saw his brown hands reaching up to unhook my bra.

Mark took me by the shoulders and shook me in a way that made every synapse judder in my poor hung-over brain.

‘Yay! You did so well! The star of Surrey. Did you know you were in the running?’

‘Not a clue. They just announced it at dinner.’

‘You look tired. Did you have a late night?’ Mark asked, giving me a hug.

‘Not too bad, awards went on a bit long.’ I didn’t tell him I felt so fragile that if I found a hair in my lunch I’d probably be sick.

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic. I thought you’d be on cloud nine.’

‘I was. I am. But you know I hate the spotlight.’ I thought of Tomaso’s business card, tucked in my purse between the kids’ baby photos and Boots loyalty card.

I kept avoiding his gaze. Shame was seeping into me like floodwater through a sandbag. Even though I had showered, I could feel Tomaso on my skin in caresses and kisses.

I ducked out of Mark’s grasp and buried my face in Mabel’s neck.

‘The dog missed you. She kept whining at the door.’

‘I must go away more often,’ I said, grappling to think what a normal reply would be. ‘Did absence make the heart grow fonder? Bed too big without me?’ I stopped talking. Whenever Mark tried to be romantic, I got all waterproofs and wellies. Nothing would give me away more quickly than an unfamiliar declaration of love.

I left him in the kitchen making proper coffee. I recognised the apology in the gesture. He usually couldn’t be bothered to spend the extra half a minute it required to locate the cafetière. I wondered where all those little niceties disappeared to over time. Sucked away in petty niggles over who let the dog sneak upstairs to get mud all over the white duvet. Who forgot to put the recycling bin out. Who didn’t bother emptying the dishwasher but just stuck a bowl on the top for the tidying-up fairy to deal with.

Now, I’d obliterated in one huge stroke all the sly and secret ways that married couples mentally balance the who-does-what and I’m-not-if-you-don’t.

I’d touched someone else’s naked body, stroked that soft skin between his neck and shoulder, listened to a truth he hadn’t told anyone.

Told him the secret that my husband didn’t know.

I took my case into the utility room. I was desperate to wash away all traces of my betrayal. I was just stuffing my underwear with its invisible imprint of Tomaso’s hands into the washing machine when my mobile beeped. Unlike the kids, the noise of a text arriving wasn’t an irresistible pull for me but today, I shot into the kitchen and snatched up my handbag.

Mark smiled round, expectantly. ‘New customer already?’

The colour flooded to my face as I read:

I half-sat, half-buckled onto the kitchen chair, casting about for a cover-up. ‘Oh, just some bloke who wanted a few money-saving tips for his daughter’s wedding. I don’t expect he’s intending to pay me for anything.’

Mark moved forward to read over my shoulder. I stabbed at the off button, saying, ‘I’m going to have a proper rest today. Bloody phone keeps going.’

‘So you did get some concrete leads then?’

Tomaso’s words and the knowledge that Mark could have easily intercepted them were obstructing my thoughts. With a huge effort, I managed to say, ‘
Surrey Life
are doing a feature on the awards evening, which will probably lead to something. They’re pretty active on Twitter and Facebook.’

Izzy wandered in, still in her onesie, and gave me a big hug. ‘Shall I set up a Twitter account for you, then?’ she asked.

‘No thank you.’

Izzy looked at me as though I was still trying to write with a quill. ‘When that business expert came to talk to us about enterprise at school, he said social media was the way forward, that no business could afford to ignore the power of viral marketing.’

‘I’m quite tired today, lovey, so let’s not get into all that right now. You know I don’t want other people intruding on my life without me knowing.’

Izzy rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not intruding. Can I get Instagram then, just for me? I won’t put anything about you on it.’

‘No. You’re not putting god knows what pictures on there.’

She pushed the chair back. ‘Everyone has got it apart from me. Every time there’s a sleepover or a party, they forget to invite me because I’m not on there.’

‘Why can’t they pick up the phone? Or, god forbid, hand out an invitation? They can’t really be your friends if they ‘forget’ to invite you, just because you’re not on Instagram.’

For all the enthusiasm that greeted that observation, I might as well have suggested that Izzy spent the evening doing herringbone stitch on a smock. She snatched up her phone and stomped out.

Mark lowered his voice. ‘We should maybe think about letting her have Instagram. Most of them do use it.’

‘No way. I need you to support me on this. They do not understand that anything they put out there on the internet is there forever. One stupid photo could change her life.’

Mark shrugged. ‘It is hard for her, though.’

‘Tough. I’m only interested in keeping her safe.’

The conversation petered out as neither of us appeared willing to launch straight back into a row.

I tried to make amends. ‘Anyway, let’s have a nice Sunday lunch tomorrow. Anything you fancy? Lamb, beef…?’

‘What time were you thinking? Sean wants to discuss some kitchen designs with me tomorrow.’

‘Why do you have to see him on a Sunday? Why can’t he come into the shop like any normal person?’

Mark folded his arms. ‘Because most normal people aren’t spending £120k plus with me. Anyway, I like the bloke, even if you don’t.’

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I felt as though my secrets were biding their time in fragile chrysalises from which hairy great moths would emerge, blundering out into the world and smashing open the truth.

But for now, I was just desperate to call that unknown number on my phone to speak to the person who knew the worst thing about me and liked me anyway.