Читать книгу Tell the Truth - Amanda Brittany - Страница 15

February 2018

‘She said there are things I should know about my past,’ I said, as Angela and I sat next to each other on my sofa. I admit, I’d have preferred to be with Zoe, who I could rely on to pull me round and tell me I was daft to worry, but she was always so busy with work and her new romance with Connor – who was so cute she could eat him, apparently.

Angela’s eyes were fixed on mine. Her curiosity, or maybe the wine, made them sparkle. ‘What do you think she meant?’

I shrugged. ‘She gets confused,’ I said, stating the obvious.

‘I know, sweetie. It must be dreadful for you both.’ Angela leaned forward and filled our wine glasses for the third time, before handing me my glass. I wasn’t sure I wanted another. I certainly didn’t need a hangover tomorrow. But I took it anyway.

‘She isn’t herself at all,’ I said. Another obvious.

‘How much do you know about your past?’ she asked.

I shrugged again. ‘I was born in Ireland, County Sligo, but I can’t remember that far back. We moved to Suffolk when I was about four, I think.’

‘So, you’re Irish?’ she said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, as though the topic fascinated her.

‘Half Irish – although my father could have been Irish, I guess.’

‘You don’t know who he is?’

Angela had asked about my dad before, but I’d changed the subject. I hadn’t known her well enough at the time to discuss my personal life. She often pried into areas I wasn’t ready to share with her. In fact, she’d only lived next door a week when she brought round moussaka that I could pop into the oven, gas mark 5, and a bottle of wine. She’d seen Lawrence go out for the third time that week, and thought I’d be glad of the company. I’d invited her in, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

But despite her flaws, she’d become a good friend. A friend I relied on to look after Grace.

I shook my head. ‘I’ve asked my mother lots of times over the years who my father was, tried prodding her memory – but she’s always insisted he was a one-night stand, and she’d been too drunk to even remember his name.’

‘Do you know where in Sligo you lived as a child?’

I shook my head again.

‘Could you ask your grandparents?’

‘They died in a car accident before I was born. My mum was never close with them. And I have no other family.’

I tried to shake my mum’s comment from my head. I liked that my memories started in Suffolk, that they were such happy times spent with my mum. But now I felt my curiosity rise, drawn to Ireland – to Sligo.

‘You should find out more about your grandparents, at least. I’ve done a family tree, and it’s been fascinating discovering things I never knew.’

‘But they may not be relevant to what Mum said. I think I just need to talk to her next time I visit, wait for one of her more lucid moments, and ask her what she meant – before it’s too late.’

My mood was spiralling downwards, like a child on a helter-skelter. I needed to change the subject, and managed to pluck a smile from somewhere. ‘Anyway. Enough about me. How’s the dating going?’

‘Awful,’ she said, leaning back, and peering over her almost empty glass. She was drinking too fast – and I wasn’t far behind her. ‘I feel like a fool selling myself to strangers. And the bra and knickers stage scares me half to death.’

I laughed. ‘It’s not easy,’ I agreed. ‘Have you met anyone you like?’

She shrugged. ‘There was one bloke. But after a couple of dates he told me he was married. Separated, he insisted, but I couldn’t face being part of a love triangle. I’ve been there before.’

‘You have?’

‘Mmm.’ She nodded. ‘A long time ago.’

‘Was it serious?’ I said, clutching at the opportunity to find out more about her. For a person who was so inquisitive about my life, she’d given little away about her own.

She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Anyway.’ Her eyes sprung open, and I knew the little insight into her past had ended. ‘There was another bloke I quite liked. He was a bit young though.’

I raised a brow. ‘How young exactly?’

‘Thirty – give or take a few years.’

‘Oh my God, Angela, you devil.’

‘I felt like his sugar mummy.’

I smiled. ‘Is there such a thing?’

She shook her head. ‘A panther then …’

‘Cougar.’

We burst into laughter, my mood lifting.

‘I think I’ll be alone forever,’ she said, fiddling with her earring as she drained her glass.

‘You and me both.’

‘But you will always have Grace.’ She unscrewed the lid of the third bottle, and filled our glasses.

‘Yes, Grace keeps me going,’ I said, rubbing my forehead with the tips of my fingers. ‘Although I worry about her, you know, how my breakup with Lawrence is affecting her. Nursery said she’s been a bit quiet lately, but they have no concerns.’

‘She loves you both very much, and you love her. She’ll be just fine.’

‘I hope so,’ I said, my mind drifting.

And as though sensing she was losing me, Angela put down the bottle, looped her arm around me, and pulled my head in to her shoulder. She smelt of Chanel No.5 – Mum’s favourite. ‘Is there anything else bothering you, Rachel?’ she said.

‘Just Mum.’ But in truth it was more than that. It was Lawrence. It was the fact I was letting the friend request from David Green blow out of proportion. And I’d definitely had far too much wine.

‘I’ll deactivate my Facebook account,’ I said. ‘Then the friend request can’t bother me any more. And the truth is I look at Lawrence’s timeline far too often. That can’t be healthy, especially as he seems to be having more fun than me – which isn’t that difficult.’

‘Do you miss him?’

I shrugged. Do I miss him? ‘I miss bits of him,’ I said. ‘The good bits.’ And there had been good bits. We had a beautiful daughter together. He would surprise me with flowers and a bottle of Prosecco, and lead me upstairs where we’d stay for hours. Yes, there’d been good times. Lots of them.

But there had been bad times too, and his voice suddenly hammered in my head: ‘You always over-react, Rachel.’ ‘The place is a pigsty.’ ‘You’re a mess.’ ‘Aren’t you getting a bit old for bright red hair?’ ‘Your mum isn’t going to improve, and you have to accept it, and just get on with it.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’

I grabbed my open laptop, thumped it down on my knees, and clicked into Facebook, determined to close my account. ‘Oh God, I’ve got another friend request,’ I cried, peering at the little symbol at the top of the screen.

‘Don’t look at it,’ Angela insisted, trying to pull the laptop from me.

I tugged it back. ‘No, no, I’m not going to.’ But I was already clicking on the symbol with shaking fingers.

Relief surged through my body, and I let out a small laugh.

‘Who’s it from?’ she said, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

‘You, you doughnut.’

She’d said a few weeks back that she was going to sign up, to stalk the men on the dating site, she’d joked. I gave another laugh as my heart, which I hadn’t realised was racing, slowed to an even beat.

‘Oh, yes, I forgot about that.’ She laughed too. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll use it that much. It took me all afternoon to work out how to set up a bloody profile.’

I accepted her friend request.

‘But I thought you were going to deactivate.’ Her forehead furrowed.

I shrugged, confused. ‘To be honest I feel a teeny bit pissed – not the best time to make such a life-changing decision.’ I giggled, picked up my glass, and drained it in two gulps, even though a nagging voice in my head was telling me not to.

Angela yawned and, stretching her arms above her head, glanced at the time on her phone.

‘Oh my God,’ I said, looking at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone midnight. I’ve kept you up.’

‘No problem,’ she said, rising. ‘It’s been fun. Better than a blind date any day.’

Five minutes later we hugged goodbye and, from my front door, I watched her stagger towards her house. Once she was safely inside, I closed and bolted my door, hating that I was alone – and hating even more that I hated being alone. I flumped down on the sofa, and picked up my phone, moving my index finger over the screen. Would Lawrence be up? Would he mind if I called? He’d said we could be friends.

I squeezed my hand into a fist. It was a ridiculous idea. If I called him after midnight he would be put out. He’d always told me he needed his beauty sleep if I ever woke him in the night desperate to talk about Mum.

I reached for the half-drunk bottle of red, unscrewed the lid, and refilled my glass. As I drank, I couldn’t expel Lawrence from my head. How happy we’d been in the early days. We’d met at an art exhibition I’d put on for Mum, in a small gallery in London. He’d bought a study of Lough Gill in Ireland.

‘It’s the lake mentioned by Yeats in his poetry,’ he’d said, locking me in with his grey gaze.

‘You like Yeats?’ I’d asked.

He’d nodded, and there was something about him that had captured my interest. Maybe it was simply because my mother had read Yeats and other romantic poetry to me when I was young.

I finished the wine and, my good sense heading out the door, brought up his number on my phone. I pressed call. It rang and rang, and I was expecting it go to voicemail when it was picked up. ‘Lawrence Templeman’s phone.’

It was a woman. American. Why has a woman picked up his phone after midnight?

‘Hello,’ she continued when I remained silent. ‘Is that you, Rachel?’

Damn you, caller-ID. ‘Sorry, yes, who is this?’

‘It’s Farrah.’ It was as though I should know exactly who she was. ‘Lawrence is asleep, I’m afraid. I heard his phone and, well …’ She paused. ‘Is everything OK? Is your mother OK?’

I bristled. Why had Lawrence told this woman, whoever she was, about my mum?

‘Is Grace OK?’ The sudden thought of a strange woman in the same house as my daughter angered me.

‘Yes, she’s been asleep since seven, bless her heart. She’s an absolute delight. You must be so proud.’

I wanted to yell that I was coming to get my daughter, and how dare Lawrence let her into Grace’s life without my permission? But I said nothing.

Farrah clearly picked up on my silence. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Listen, I shouldn’t have called.’ My voice trembled, and I knew it carried a slur. ‘I’ll ring back in the morning.’ And before she could respond, I ended the call.

A surge of tears hit my eyes as my thumbs thumped the screen and I sent a text to Lawrence:

How dare you let someone new into Grace’s life without telling me!

Oh God, would Farrah read the text? I let out an exasperated wail, raced upstairs, chucked my phone onto the bedside unit, and threw myself onto the bed like a lovelorn teenager. The room spun.

Eventually sleep saved me from my chaotic emotions.

Later, I woke from a vivid nightmare, certain something had stirred me. I was thirsty, my head throbbed, and the quilt was tangled around me like a cocoon. I normally planted a glass of water on my bedside table if I’d been drinking, but in my silly stupor a few hours earlier, I’d forgotten. I was still in my clothes.

I lay for a few moments listening, but the only sounds were familiar creaks of the old building, and the distant rumble of a train. It was odd how when Grace wasn’t with me, I felt more insecure.

I untangled the quilt, sat up, and swung my legs round, stuffing my feet into my slippers. I needed water before my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Flicking on the bedside light, I picked up my phone: 3 a.m.

I thought again about Lawrence. Were there photos of Farrah on his Facebook timeline that I’d missed? I dragged my fingers through my hair, still feeling pretty pissed. Water could wait. I clicked into Facebook on my mobile.

It was then that I saw it – another friend request. My heart bounced around my chest.

Ronan Murphy: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST

I clicked on his profile. As before, he didn’t appear to have any friends. His profile picture was another view, a mountain this time – and I knew it was Benbulbin in Sligo. The cover picture was of a building that reminded me of a workhouse, and it had a sign outside that read ‘Glastons Insurance. Dublin’.

I scrolled down his timeline. Just one status update:

Ronan, Ronan is no good

Chop him up for firewood

But this time I noticed he’d sent me a message.