Page 23 of None of This is True

She sits on the other end of the sofa from Walter and stares numbly at the football. She hates the sound of football – the dull bass monotone of male calls, the incessant up and down intonation of the commentators, the whistles and the drums; it sounds like the backdrop to a nightmare, an oncoming army of bloodless killers. It’s been the soundtrack of her weekends for twenty-seven years, since she first moved into Walter’s flat. She’d watched with him in the early years, professed her enthusiasm for the game, shouted when their team scored, pretended to be devastated when they lost. Although, no, not pretended. It had been real, at the time. Everything she thought, did, wanted, cared about back then had been through the filter of Walter. All she had wanted, from the moment they first got together, was to please him, to be the person he thought she was, to be his dream come true.

She finishes her tea and takes the mug into the kitchen. ‘I’m going to get into bed,’ she says. ‘I’m feeling a bit shivery.’

Walter looks up at her, concern shining in his eyes. ‘Oh, love. I hope you’re not coming down with anything?’

‘No. I’m sure I’m fine.’

‘I’ll bring you in a Lemsip?’

‘Oh, no. But thank you. I love you.’

‘Love you too—’ but the ‘ooh’ of his final word is torn in half as something exciting happens on the screen and his attention is gone from her.

She carries the dog into the bedroom and closes the door behind them. She feels poleaxed, beaten-up. She doesn’t know what happened to her. The last hour is a blur. The rain that descended down upon her, then Alix in her plastic poncho, her daughter staring curiously at her from under the hood of her raincoat, and then … a blank. Then sitting in the coffee shop, watching Alix at the counter, the beads of rain gleaming on her plastic poncho; then she’d seen something through the window – what was it? She’s not sure. At the time, she’d thought it was Roxy. Had been convinced it was her. Collected the dog, her bag, run out on to the pavement. No sign of Roxy. Was it real? Or was it a memory? A shadow? Maybe just someone who looked like her?

In bed, she searches for Alix’s podcast channel on her phone and selects one at random, lets the sound of Alix’s voice wash away the black noise of the mooing football fans from the living room.

Monday, 1 July

Josie listens to Heart FM through headphones. Behind the glorious crashing crescendos of ‘Greatest Day’ by Take That lies the buzz of sewing machines, the rumble of the tube trains, the chatter of her colleagues, the loud voice of the current customer, but she focuses on the music, the way it makes her feel, filling up her senses with rightness and certainty. The weekend feels like a blur. She spent most of it in bed. Walter diagnosed her with a summer cold and brought her food and beverages. He took Fred out for her and fed him. But this morning she’d awoken feeling fresh and normal, and headed into work despite Walter’s protestations that she should stay home, take care of herself.

In her break at three o’clock, she makes herself an instant hot chocolate using powder from a jar, and she writes Alix a message.

I am sorry about Saturday. I had a summer cold. Spent the weekend in bed, shivering. Think I had a touch of deliria! I’m fine now though and looking forward to our next meeting. I can do tomorrow morning.

Alix’s reply comes a moment later.

Oh no! I’m so sorry you were unwell. You did seem a bit out of sorts. Please come over tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to that?

Josie replies with alacrity.

I would love that. See you then.

Tuesday, 2 July

‘What does Walter do, now he’s retired?’ Alix asks as they begin their recording.

Josie sighs. ‘Good question,’ she says. ‘Not a lot. He’s quite happy just being at home, reading the news online, watching sport, emailing family.’

‘What family is he emailing?’

‘Oh, his sons. They’re in their thirties. They live in Canada.’

‘Both of them?’

‘Yes. Their mum emigrated there when she and Walter split up. He’s not seen them again since.’

‘And they were how old?’

Josie shrugs. ‘Ten and twelve, when they left.’

‘He hasn’t seen his sons since they were children?’

‘No. It’s very sad. But his ex wouldn’t let him anywhere near them.’

‘Why?’

Josie shrugs again. ‘I guess she was just really unhappy about what happened with me.’

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