The Lying Game (20 page)

He collapsed beside her, panting, and the two of them lay in a sweaty tangle on top of the damp covers, breathless and spent.

It was Zoey who broke the silence. ‘You should go,’ she whispered.

‘I know,’ he said quietly.

She curled away from him, the full realization of what they’d just done suddenly hitting her. She’d betrayed Richard. Harriet. Florence. Nell.
Oh God, how could she ever live
with this?

He wrapped his arms round her, and she couldn’t bring herself to resist. ‘Zoey, I’m so sorry. I should never have put you in this position. This is all my fault.’

‘Don’t say that. We did this together,’ she said softly.

‘Do you wish we hadn’t?’

She closed her eyes. How could she be sorry for what had just happened, when it had made her feel more alive than she had done since she’d lost Patrick? But she’d sworn she’d
never repeat the mistake she made with him, never cheat or betray another woman. And it wasn’t just Harriet. Richard loved her with his whole heart; this would devastate him if he knew. Not
to mention the terrible betrayal of trust they had just committed against Florence and Nell.

He buried his face in her hair. ‘I know every man must say it, but I’ve never done this before,’ he murmured. ‘You need to know that.’

Tears leaked silently between her lids. She believed him, which only made her feel more responsible, more guilty.

‘Zoey, listen to me. I love Florence with all my heart, you know that. I’ve watched her grow up, I know her inside and out. And then Nell comes along, a total stranger, but part of
me. I barely know her, yet somehow I love her anyway, just as much as I love Florence, though in a totally different way.’

He paused, choosing his words with care. ‘I love Harriet,’ he said steadily. ‘She’s my wife, and the mother of my children. We’ve been married sixteen years. Some
good years, and some not so good. But I love her, and I can’t imagine life without her.’ Gently he turned her in his arms to face him. ‘And then you come along,’ he
whispered. ‘A total stranger, but it feels like I’ve known you for ever. And I find there are different ways to love a woman, as well as a child.’

Her breath caught in her throat. What was he saying? He loved her? Was that the sex talking, or did he mean it? But if he did mean it, what then?

‘You should go,’ she said, her voice suddenly hoarse. ‘She’ll be wondering where you are.’

He hesitated, then got out of bed and started to pick his clothes up from the floor.
Was there anything more depressing than watching a man dress when he was leaving you?
Zoey wondered.
Turning clothes the right way in. Hunting down missing socks. Picking tell-tale blonde hairs from dark jackets. Restoring order and propriety – as if nothing had ever happened.

She got up and wrapped herself in the hotel bathrobe, suddenly hollowed out and exhausted. How could he have got under her skin so quickly? The thought of not seeing him again was excruciating,
but what else was there? Even if they ever overcame the logistics, she couldn’t be the other woman again. She wanted more. She wanted it all.

Miserably, he finished buttoning his shirt. ‘Are you going to be OK?’

‘This never happened,’ she said wearily ‘It can never happen again. We can’t ever let anyone find out. Promise me, no guilty confessions to make you feel
better.’

‘I don’t want to lose you—’

‘You need to go.’

For a moment she thought he was going to argue. He nodded once, then turned and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

She sank onto the bed, finally able to let the tears flow.
Oh God, what had she done? How had she ever let this happen?

She had to keep away from him, that’s all there was to it. If she couldn’t say no, which she clearly couldn’t, she had to make sure he stayed beyond reach.

Even if that meant losing Florence for ever.

‘She still says no,’ Harriet said, putting down the phone with a bewildered air. ‘She won’t even
talk
to me now. I had to call Nell on her
mobile just to find out what was going on, and she obviously didn’t want Zoey to know she was speaking to me.’

Oliver pulled another potato out of the bag and began peeling it. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘She suddenly started talking about homework in the middle of our conversation. Zoey must’ve walked in or something.’ She frowned anxiously. ‘I don’t understand.
Everything was fine when they went back to England. That’s only three weeks ago. What on earth could’ve happened since then to upset her?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.’

She watched him drop the potato into a saucepan of cold water on the hob. She hated it when he got helpful in the kitchen: he hadn’t dug the eyes out of the potatoes, and peeling them dry
meant the earth and grit ended up in the pan too. But she appreciated the gesture; ever since Nell and Zoey had left, he’d gone out of his way to be kind and thoughtful, bringing home her
favourite fresh-ground coffee from City Market, popping out to Mirabelle’s for a delicious custard tart to cheer her up, doing the laundry without even being asked. She supposed it was his
way of trying to make her feel better, and she was grateful for his quiet support, even if it meant she ended up with tie-dyed pink underwear and grit in her teeth.

She reached for a copper pan from the rack and poured in some home-made chicken stock. ‘I just don’t understand what’s changed, Oliver. They both seemed to have a wonderful
time when they were here. Nell was in her element. Even Florence perked up by the end of their stay, and she and Zoey obviously got on well. So why the sudden change of heart?’

‘Who knows. Maybe Zoey just needs a little time to get her head round things.’

‘What things? I thought we’d got past all that before they came out here. Anyway, everything seemed to go so
well
during their stay. We all managed to rub along without too
much drama.’ She pulled out a wooden board and briskly started to chop some fresh parsley. ‘I thought Zoey liked spending time with you and Florence while Nell and I were off doing
things. She certainly didn’t seem jealous or upset.’ She stopped chopping for a moment. ‘Though she was a bit tense the last day or two, I suppose, after we got back from Maine.
She did seem a bit down, but that’s hardly surprising. No one ever likes the end of a holiday.’

She added the parsley to the simmering chicken stock and twisted a bulb of garlic from the string by the stove. Zoey obviously hadn’t enjoyed the whole Maine experience, but then she
hadn’t expected her to. Zoey was a hothouse urban flower, not someone to buck up and take a bit of bad weather or discomfort in her stride. On the contrary, the silly woman couldn’t
walk more than a few yards without complaining about having a stitch or feeling out of breath.

At least Nell had been a trooper, she thought proudly. Not a word of complaint about anything the entire time she’d been here. She’d hiked Mount Mansfield, mountain-biked thirty
miles around the lake, helped Harriet plant forty tomato plants in the back garden; and not once did she say she was tired or fed up or needed a rest. Nor had she got all silly and squeamish over
the lobster, ruthlessly tossing them in the pot and then sucking the meat from every leg and claw with relish.
My daughter.

It pained her to admit it, but somehow Zoey had managed to do a good job with Nell. She didn’t approve of the woman on any level: her political views were a ragbag mixture of tie-dyed
hippie and hand-me-down liberal, she couldn’t seem to keep a thought in her head straight for more than five minutes, and she was clearly an
appalling
businesswoman. That flat above
their shop barely qualified as a hovel, never mind a home. She’d sent Nell to a sink comprehensive in one of the worst parts of Islington, and until their trip to Vermont, the poor girl
hadn’t even been abroad as far as Calais. Then there were her morals, which could best be described as elastic. An affair with a married man, an illegitimate baby, and no doubt all sorts of
boyfriends paraded in front of Nell over the years. And she was far too lax with Nell. There was that boy she emailed all the time, Terry something, and Harriet hadn’t missed the belly-button
piercing or the henna tattoos. She was quite sure she’d even smelt cigarette smoke on Nell’s clothes a couple of times.

She slammed her pestle against the garlic cloves rather more energetically than was required. Against all the odds, Zoey had achieved something she hadn’t been able to do: she’d
raised a happy, fearless girl who was totally comfortable in her own skin. Florence had had every advantage: two loving parents, a stable home, the best schools, foreign travel – the perfect
childhood, in fact. And look at her: the girl wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

Blood will out,
she thought crossly. Nell simply had the right genes. She was a perfect combination of Oliver’s easygoing charm and her own single-minded will to succeed. Even
Zoey couldn’t go wrong. Whereas look at what
she’d
had to work with. With that dippy woman’s blood in her veins, was it any wonder Florence had turned out the way she
had?

And what was wrong with that?
She stopped pounding suddenly, brought up short by the thought. Nell wasn’t anything like the kind of daughter she’d once imagined having. She
was too knowing and streetwise, walking a fine line between independence and teenage truculence. Harriet loathed her edgy, street fashion; she hated the multiple earrings in her lobes and the thick
black eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes. And yet, despite all of it, she adored Nell. She was a sweet, smart, funny girl of whom Harriet was already immensely proud.

Florence wasn’t the kind of daughter she’d imagined having either. She hated the outdoors, she was too shy and hesitant for Harriet’s taste, they had practically nothing in
common. But she was sweet and smart and funny too, and wasn’t it better that she
hadn’t
become a perfect mini-me, that she’d dared to be herself? Didn’t she
want
a daughter who knew her own mind?

She should be
proud
of Florence, not resentful of her independence. How had it taken her so long to see that?

She elbowed Oliver crossly out of the way and added the crushed garlic to the bubbling pan. Zoey had told her the same thing, at least in as many words. How irritating that the wretched woman
was right.

Try as she might, she hadn’t warmed to Zoey. She knew the feeling was mutual; in her own passive-aggressive way, Zoey had made that abundantly clear. All those snide little remarks to
justify her own style of parenting, which could at best be described as benign neglect.
You can’t wrap them up in cotton wool, can you? Children need to be allowed to make their own
mistakes. Learning is about so much more than exam results, don’t you think?
She obviously considered Harriet an uptight helicopter parent obsessed with school grades, early nights and
plenty of fresh air and exercise. Well, if caring about your children and wanting the best for them were crimes, she’d be the first to plead guilty.

She was only too aware she’d been cast in the role of bad cop. They’d all treated her as if she was some kind of Nazi, including Oliver, just because she’d gone to the effort
of organizing things to do and trying to make sure everyone had a good time. The trip to Maine had been about them all bonding as a family; an unusual, hybrid family, yes, but a family of sorts
nonetheless. The boys had had a great time, of course, and Nell had been wonderful, but the others had made her feel like a Camp Commandant, chivvying and controlling. It was all very well Zoey and
Oliver laughing at her behind her back, but if she hadn’t taken charge, who else would’ve done?

Odd how Oliver had taken to Zoey, she reflected, watching him struggle to work out how to use the new dishwasher. Normally he was the first to complain about women who played the dizzy blonde
card.

‘Why don’t
you
call her?’ she asked impulsively. ‘You spent much more time with her than I did, and you two seemed to get on. She might listen to you.’

He froze in surprise, the dishwasher soap in his hand.

‘Please, Oliver. This isn’t just down to me any more. Something’s obviously happened to upset her, and we need to sort it out. For all we know, the lawyers at that hospital
have told her to keep away from us because of the settlement or something.’

‘It’s only been three weeks since they got home,’ he said, switching the dishwasher on. ‘Maybe she just wants things to get back to normal again.’

‘We all sat down and agreed when Zoey was still here that we’d go over to London for the summer,’ she argued doggedly. ‘She even called Richard to cancel their cycling
trip to France. Florence is really looking forward to it. The boys can spend time with my parents, who don’t see nearly enough of them, and you and I can work on getting the UK end of the
business back on track.’

Her husband was now attempting to extricate the black plastic liner from the metal rubbish bin, tearing it in the process so that chicken bones and kitty litter leaked all over the floor. He was
like a cat on hot bricks, busying himself with chores so he didn’t have to commit to anything. Sometimes he could be such a typical man. She wished he’d just
stop
and talk to
her properly. It was like trying to pin down quicksilver.

‘Oliver, could you just leave that for a moment?’

He put the bag down awkwardly. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s for the best. I’m not sure I shouldn’t stay in Burlington this summer anyway, what with Mark
stepping down as VP. Your parents could always come out to stay with us instead . . .’

‘My father’s just had surgery!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who knows if he’ll feel up to travelling in the summer? Besides, the whole idea was for me to spend time with Nell,
and for Zoey to see Florence.’

‘Let’s just see how things shake down over the next few weeks before we start overreacting. I’m sure it’ll all sort itself out if we give it some time—’