After the Lie: A gripping novel about love, loss and family secrets (13 page)

‘That plane’s worth the best part of a grand. You should keep her on a lead if you can’t control her.’

I waved my little bag of chicken at Mabel, which had the effect of making her twirl round and smash a bit of the wing into an oak tree before eyeing up the corridor of escape between me and Shouty. She did a rugby dodge through the middle of us, with me making a grab for her collar, Shouty pouncing for the plane and both of us feeling the whoosh of air as she cantered by. In desperation, I scattered chicken in a circle. She stopped and looked at us. Then edged a bit closer. Shouty made to move towards her. ‘No! Let her come to us, otherwise she’ll just run off. Let’s sit down. It’s chasing her that’s making her think it’s a game.’

So there I sat, in an uncomfortable silence, wondering how much it was going to cost me. I looked at Shouty, his little rodent face all pink and anguished.

‘I’m so sorry.’

He didn’t answer.

Mabel was shuffling towards us. As soon as she got close enough, I launched myself from a sitting position in a move that should feature in the next gymnastic Olympics. The ‘tail grab, simultaneous body immerse in mud’ trick. Damp was seeping through the front of my shirt.

‘Get her collar.’

Shouty hesitated. I could feel her tail slipping through my grasp.

‘Will she bite me?’

‘No.’ But I would, if he didn’t get hold of her before we had to go through all these shenanigans again. Once Shouty had got her in a firm grip, I started to wriggle the plane free. ‘Drop! Mabel! Drop!’ I swear the damn dog would have laughed if it hadn’t meant that she would have had to let go. Eventually, I prised the plane out of her mouth, wincing as her teeth scored deep grooves into the shiny pink fibreglass.

Shouty snatched it up, tutting and huffing, clutching it to him like a vulnerable kitten. I wanted to tell him to grow up, that my son had spurned remote-controlled everything by the time he was eleven and he should do the same. He stomped off, shouting over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to report you to the National Trust, I am. Shouldn’t be allowed.’

‘You do that, mate. I bet they’ve got all the time in the world to come after me over a toy plane.’ Mate? I hated that word. I barely recognised myself. And judging by Mark’s puzzlement every time I spoke, neither did he.

My fingers curled around my phone as I thought about Tomaso and the luxury of just being myself, imperfect and honest.

I couldn’t go where that thought threatened to take me.

M
y mother’s
favourite saying was ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a war,’ leaping on stories in the newspaper of siblings using up their entire inheritance fighting over who got what. In our family, however, it appeared that ‘Where there’s a wedding, there’s a war’ would be far more accurate. The news that my brother’s daughter, Tara, was getting married acted like fertiliser on my mother’s ability to radiate disapproval.

‘I don’t know what Michael is thinking of, letting her get married at twenty-one. I don’t know what the big rush is. She’s got it in her head she wants to get married two days before Christmas.’

‘I was only twenty-four when I married Mark.’

My mother pulled the face she wheeled out whenever a proper fact got in the way of her spurious arguments. She waved a hand. ‘Completely different, darling. You couldn’t keep Mark waiting in case he changed his mind and you fell at the final hurdle.’

It was always so gratifying that my mother spoke as though she’d been standing on the edge of a showjumping ring, fingers crossed, counting down through the water jump, the hogsback and the combination – hopefully no time penalties – before she could hustle me down the aisle and wash her hands of me.

‘And there was me thinking Mark couldn’t bear the thought of another minute without my hand in marriage.’

My mother glared down at the invitation. ‘According to Michael, they’re all over the place with the planning. They’ve left it to the last minute and there’s so much to do.’

‘They probably need some professional help to make sure all the basics are in place.’

My mother paused. ‘I did suggest you helping out, but Michael thought that the budgets and ideas might be more sophisticated than you’re used to dealing with.’

There she went, beating about the bush again. I slammed the bin shut. ‘How does he know what sort of budgets I work with? I haven’t seen him for five years. I won bloody Surrey Business Star of the Year. Just because I can’t look into someone’s brain and assess the likelihood of them locking themselves in the pantry to eat glacé cherries when they’re eighty-five, it doesn’t mean that I am thick.’

‘Darling. I do wish you wouldn’t swear.’

I loved the way my mother always focused on the way I said things, rather than the compelling, superior content of my argument.

‘Anyway, they’ve not given us much notice. I need a new frock. Your father’s coming up with all sorts of reasons why he can’t take me shopping, so I was wondering if you had any free days?’ There went another order, slinking about, disguised as a question.

With my mother in tow, shopping catapulted itself into an entirely different category of hate. Inspecting Mabel’s bottom for threadworm was a positive joy compared with my mother picking up every frilly collared blouse with a droopy bow and saying, ‘Just try it. Everything looks different on a hanger. It’s perfect for you.’ Sometimes I gave in, just to keep the peace and then had to suffer my mother peering round the curtain: ‘How are you getting on?’ It was only a matter of time before I came home with something suitable for a night out at the whist drive.

My dad gave me a little wink when he dropped my mother off for our shopping trip later that week. ‘She needs some shoes as well.’

Jesus. It was tempting to join Mabel sulking in her basket. She’d turned her head away when I offered her a chew to ease my guilt at leaving her for the whole day.

We drove to Guildford where my mother offered helpful advice about the perfect parking spot, pausing only to grab the door handle, squeak ‘Careful, careful, you’re ever so close to the car next to us,’ and exhale loudly.

First stop was the shoe shop. My mother asked the assistant to check the fit because her fallen arches were playing her up and causing ‘untold agony’. She received the unhelpful reply that they were only allowed to do that for children, not adults. In the rambling diatribe that followed about the ‘problems with Britain today’, the poor girl had a potted tour of my mother’s various soap boxes from the Chinese economy, hard-working Polish immigrants, the lack of backbone in the young today and inexplicably, the fact that we were only now realising that it was sugar and not fat that was making us all obese.

It wasn’t until a queue was snaking round the whole department that I managed to guide my mother away from the shoes and into Debenhams. She started gathering up every dress with a frill or a flounce. When we reached the fitting room, she handed half to me. ‘I picked these out for you. My treat. Try them on.’

‘I don’t think they’re really me, thank you.’

Sure enough, the ‘you don’t know till you try it on’ speech cranked into action.

‘No. Sorry. Very nice offer but you go in and I’ll pop these back.’

Instead of backing down, my mother then waved over the shop assistant. ‘Can you just help my daughter with these? She wears such masculine clothes. She’s always had big legs, but some of these skirts might be quite flattering.’

While I wondered, not for the first time, whether my mother had always been a bitch or whether ‘the event’ had turned her into one, the shop assistant hovered in embarrassment. ‘If you wanted to just see…’ she said, gesturing to a fitting room.

‘No. I really don’t.’ I stuck them on the nearest rail and shouted back to my mother that I would wait for her outside. She came out a few moments later in a pink diaphanous number that reminded me of a crocheted toilet roll cover. Successive outfits bore an increasing resemblance to net curtains, which, even my mother with her wisp of a figure, couldn’t turn into a triumph.

‘I don’t know why you’re so negative about everything.’ The pot-kettleness of that statement left me goldfishing for a reply. My mother was so negative, it was astonishing she didn’t show up as a silhouette in photos.

Fortunately, the shop assistant picked out a beautiful sapphire suit that fitted her perfectly. I could tell she loved it by the way she did a little shimmy in front of the mirror. ‘How do I look?’

The shop assistant smiled and said, ‘You look fabulous. Not many women your age have such a wonderful figure.’

My mother sighed. ‘Lots of women my age let themselves go. Mind you, it’s not just women my age, is it?’ She turned to me. ‘I saw that Terri outside school the other day. Gracious. She’s piled on a bit of weight, hasn’t she? She needs to be careful with that.’

I headed to the till. ‘She is a bit chubby, but her figure isn’t her selling point. Everyone loves her because she is so warm and friendly.’

‘Do they? I always find her a bit loud. And her language!’

I almost staged a full-on swearing fest right there and then for the sheer delight of seeing the look on my mother’s face.

‘She’s a character. I really like her.’

My mother pursed her lips but fortunately, before we could fall out over something that mattered so much less than the other huge things we managed not to fall out over, she had to pay.

My mother suggested coffee. ‘Let’s pop into the Rose Hotel. I can’t bear these dreadful American cafés. Even the smallest coffee is enormous. And those clumpy mugs they serve it all in. Honestly, no wonder everyone is so fat. Is it necessary to have coconut syrup in a pint of coffee? I blame the Americans, really I do.’

We settled ourselves down in the lounge at the Rose Hotel. My mother was nodding her approval at the dainty cups and cafetières. I was just pouring the milk when a member of the hotel staff walked past, ushering a man in a suit over to the table with the cakes and patisserie.

Tomaso. I couldn’t remember my body ever reacting to Mark’s presence with the same burst of desire. Maybe eighteen years of marriage had blurred that memory.

He didn’t notice me at first. The hotel guy was busy explaining how the cakes were freshly made every day. Tomaso was scribbling on a clipboard behind me, so I started glancing about, making noises about needing the loo, soaking up glimpses of his dark hands, his cufflinks. The wave of longing was blotting out my mother who was complaining – among other random rants – that she couldn’t persuade Dad to book a holiday.

A light touch on my shoulder made me jump.

‘Lydia! What are you doing here?’

Tomaso turned back to the man from the hotel and said, ‘I think I’ve got everything I need. I’ll pop into the office and get the fire safety certificates on the way out.’

I introduced my mother, expecting her to send out stranger-repelling waves like a startled skunk, but Tomaso’s charm offensive – a load of old guff about not looking old enough to have a daughter my age – soon had her patting her pearls.

‘Tomosi. Is that a Spanish name?’ she said.

‘No, my parents are Italian,’ Tomaso said, politely refraining from correcting her.

‘Do you speak Italian?’ my mother asked.

‘Yes, I do a bit of freelance interpreting work now and then. Keeps my hand in now I don’t live there anymore.’

‘Where did you live?’

I’d never seen my mother so chatty. We obviously had a shared genetic weakness for dark-skinned, blond-haired men.

‘Florence. Have you been?’

‘No, but I’d love to go. Have you been to the Convent of San Marco? There are supposed to be some marvellous frescoes by Father Angelico.’

I expected Tomaso to make a flippant comment but he managed real – or excellent fake – enthusiasm. ‘There are indeed. Wonderful. You should go sometime,’ he said.

‘My husband doesn’t really like churches. Or even cities. He prefers the countryside. Or anywhere there is a golf course.’ My mother shuddered. ‘I hate being out in the sticks. Too many animals. And the flies!’

Tomaso grinned, his perfect white teeth giving him the air of someone who should be sipping Martinis on a yacht off the Amalfi Coast.

Then my mother piped up with an invitation to take coffee with us.

Tomaso hesitated. He glanced at me. Something shifted in my stomach. I held his gaze long enough to remind myself how blue his eyes were. I nodded. ‘Of course, please do.’

After a polite enquiry about not encroaching on mother and daughter time, Tomaso lounged on the sofa next to me, chatting about Italy, explaining to my mother how we knew each other while I focused on a teaspoon. I barely said a word. I held my coffee cup with both hands to prevent myself reaching out to touch him. At one point, I escaped to the loo to have a break from feeling that I might give myself away.

Eventually, Tomaso swigged down the last of his coffee. ‘I’d better be going. Lovely to meet you.’ He raised my mother’s hand to his lips. Usually she would cotter on about all this European kissing nonsense, but not this time. He pressed a business card into her hand. ‘If you do ever make it to Florence, give me a ring and I’ll recommend some restaurants.’

I’d never seen my mother flirt. She giggled. Dorothy Southport actually let loose a spontaneous and joyful sound, twittering her thanks. Maybe I’d come round to my mother’s belief in St Anthony, performer of miracles, after all.

I stood up and put my hand out. Tomaso shook it, gently caressing my skin with his thumb. He kissed me on both cheeks, taking the opportunity to whisper, ‘Shall we get a room?’ in my ear, which sent a bolt of lust through me.

I backed away, my heart surging.

Tomaso helped my mother on with her coat and took her arm as he showed us out. Normally she would have shaken him off – ‘I’m not an invalid’ – but clearly, falling under Tomaso’s spell was a family failing.

On the way home, she chattered on about Tomaso, more complimentary than I’d ever heard her about anyone. My usual tactic was to say as little as possible about people I liked so that she couldn’t find anything to criticise.

‘I didn’t realise winning that award was such an accolade. I don’t know why you don’t tell me these things. When you went to the lavatory, Tomosi said that there were over two hundred entries. He also told me you were organising another wedding in Italy. I didn’t know you were going there again.’ My mother managed to make the most banal conversation into accusations, as though I’d been hiding round corners, giggling behind my hand at the triumph of withholding work secrets from her.

‘I don’t really like organising weddings abroad, but it is better paid. I hate leaving Mark to juggle the kids. And I always get a bit nervous about how I’ll cope with the language. I’ll have an interpreter there on the actual day, of course.’

‘Well, it’s a blessing you found a husband like Mark. Not every man would step in and mop up the slack while his wife swans around Europe.’

I clutched the steering wheel. Swanning had nothing to do with it, cheeky cow. Paying the bloody school fees did. I stamped on the accelerator, not caring that my mother’s little bird neck jerked forward.

‘Everyone drives so aggressively these days, don’t they?’