Page 94 of The Fall-Out

‘Oh.’ Now, surprisingly, Zara blushed. I couldn’t see much of her skin between the high neck of her jumper and the stark black rims of her shades, but the ivory pallor was briefly suffused with mottled pink. ‘You weren’t supposed to find out about that. Never mind come dashing out to Paris to check up on me. Honestly, that was above and beyond.’

‘What the hell did you think would happen, though? You can’t just lie about shit like that.’

‘Well, no one wants to admit they’ve got a nasty case of thrombosed piles, do they? I had to tell Gabi, because I needed a place to stay, but I didn’t want it all over my social media, obviously. So I came up with something that sounded a bit more – émouvant. And you know what it’s like when you start telling a story. Sometimes you get carried away.’

I was silenced – shocked by the lightheartedness with which Zara dismissed her lies. And then I realised it was just more of the same – more of the elaborate stories she’d told us all, different ones for different people, tailored according to what would have the greatest appeal to each of us.

My appalled disbelief must have shown on my face, because Zara said, ‘Come on, Naomi. It wasn’t that big of a deal. No one got hurt.’

‘It is a big deal, though. Can’t you see that? Lying to people who care about you is a massive deal.’

‘And you’ve never done that? Really? Not even the teeniest snow-white lie?’

I felt my own face colour now. Of course I had. Telling Patch I was too tired for sex when the truth was I just didn’t want it. Telling the children I’d forgotten to bring their Easter chocolate home from Bridget’s when actually I’d left it there deliberately so they could have a bit every time they visited and hopefully rot their teeth gradually instead of all at once.

Telling myself I could make my marriage work, even though I was pretty certain that I couldn’t.

‘It’s different,’ I protested.

‘Maybe.’ She shrugged again. ‘I just don’t see it that way.’

‘Zara.’ I stood up. ‘I guess there are a lot of things you and I don’t see the same way. I hope maybe one day you’ll realise that some things we do aren’t okay, and we’ve got to deal with the consequences.’

‘God, don’t lecture me, Naomi! It’s not like you’re perfect.’

‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I’m as far from perfect as it gets. I’ve done plenty of things I’m not proud of. But I’ve got to own them, and try to make amends. That’s why I wanted to apologise to you, and I meant it. I’m sorry, Zara.’

I took one last look at her, hunched and small on the stairs like a doll, or a figure made by a child out of pipe cleaners. I didn’t say goodbye – I just walked slowly away. She’d done her best to hurt me, and she’d succeeded. She couldn’t hurt me any more – not if I didn’t let her.

THIRTY-FOUR

‘What, no picnic this time?’ Patch joked.

It was Saturday afternoon and we were on Hampstead Heath, sitting on a bench overlooking the London skyline, the world literally at our feet. I knew he was remembering, as I was, the time we’d come here years ago, on one of our first dates as an official couple. We’d sat on a rug in the May sunshine and eaten smoked salmon sandwiches and drunk champagne, and he’d told me he loved me for the first time.

It had been one of the happiest days of my life. It was still right up there with the day Toby and Meredith were born, the day I graduated from uni, and the day I got cast as Desdemona in the school play.

The memory of that happiness was almost physical, as real a thing as the wisps of cloud in the sapphire sky and the shrieking parakeets wheeling overhead, and as impossible to capture. I wondered if Patch felt it too.

But I didn’t ask him. I just said, ‘I’ve got a couple of packs of those dehydrated carrot puff things the kids like in my bag. They might be a bit squashed.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.’

We’d dropped the twins off at Imogen’s daughter’s birthday party, with a clear two hours before we needed to collect them (no doubt hyper and exhausted after too much cake), so I’d suggested a walk.

Not that I wanted to walk, particularly – but I did need to talk. The blindsiding shock of my meeting with Zara had gradually left me, replaced first with fury and now with a kind of leaden dread.

I knew what I needed to do, but that didn’t make doing it any easier. Looking at Patch’s face, the familiar lines of his half-smile, the threads of grey in his hair, the deep brown eyes the children had inherited, I felt overwhelming sadness.

When we’d come here all those years ago, I’d been filled with desire for him, leaping joyfully into our future together like a swimmer on a hot day. Now, I was living that future. We had our life together, our home, our children – all the things I couldn’t have dreamed of back then.

And I was about to throw it all away – dismantle it, somehow, untangle the very fabric of what we’d created.

Are you sure? I asked myself. You don’t have to do this.

I didn’t, of course. I could just put the past behind me, look to the future, move on. But it didn’t feel like it would be moving on at all. It felt like it would be taking a step back, far into the past, making myself revert to the person I’d been then, denying who I was now – older, sadder, perhaps stronger.

Only I didn’t feel strong. I felt more weak and fragile and alone than I’d ever felt in my life.

---