“Aren’t Mark and Toby looking after you?”
“They’re talking.”
“I’m so sorry,” Edie said. “I had a funny moment. I’m fine now, I’m coming.”
Paul stuck to his story on the way home. That Edie had needed his moral support to get through the wake. It was plausible, though it didn’t feel right to Emily. But she couldn’t put her finger on why. Something in the atmosphere between them?
Or was she paranoid that Paul would turn out to be as big a liar as her own father?
Paul knows he must never lie to her because Emily’s father told a lie so bad that it ruined her family, and her life. He told Emily and her mother that they were the only ones, his darlings. But one day hemade a mistake and they discovered that he had another family. With two little boys and a wife who he chose over Emily and her mother after the truth came out. It broke Emily’s mum. She never recovered. It turned their lives, their convictions, their identities, to dust.
Paul promised that he would not lie to Emily when they married. They are one hundred percent honest with each other. It’s the deal they made, because she insisted on it, the thing that separates them from other couples. Not their age gap, like everyone thinks, but this: honesty.
Paul also told Emily never to fall down that rabbit hole of comparing him to her dad. But perhaps, she thinks now, she should have. Is he really working today?
Emily stares out of the window. Is the rain easing a little? It looks like it. Maybe she can go back out again soon and try to reach the farmhouse.
Because what if Paul was lying about what passed between him and Edie in the bathroom that day? What if there’s some business between them that Emily isn’t aware of? What if Edie has a reason to hate Paul?
But there can’t be, because that would mean Paul’s kept things from Emily. Or can there?
There’s only one circumstance she can think of in which Paul might lie, and that would be to protect her. But she can’t imagine what he might need to protect her from.
Jayne is calling upstairs, offering a drink. Emily takes some deep breaths, summoning strength.
She’ll go down and find out what she needs to know. Her questions feel urgent.
The last few weeks have been some of the most challenging of my life. Reinvention is very hard work.
It’s nice, this house, but I won’t miss it. We need to move on.
From overhead, I can hear the bath taps roaring and Imogen’s footsteps as she pads between her room and the bathroom. It occurs to me that the towels haven’t been washed in a while, that she might like a clean one and she might think it thoughtful of me to bring it to her. I’ll earn Brownie points wherever I can.
On the half landing I delve into the airing cupboard, emerging with the best towel I can find. “Imogen,” I call but she doesn’t answer.
I’m careful not to invade her privacy and I put the towel, nicely folded, on the landing floor, right in front of the bathroom door, which is ajar. But as I turn to go down, I glimpse her in her room across the hall.
She’s wearing just pale pink knickers and a vest top. Her body is utterly transformed from the child I used to help build sandcastles on the beach and tickle on the grass. Of course, this should be no surprise, because I’ve watched her grow up, but somehow, it always is.
She has earbuds in and she’s dancing, her back to me, her slight hips swaying. I see the front of her reflected in a full-length mirror. Her eyes are shut, and she’s so absorbed in the music she almost seems to be in a trance, and I can’t tear my eyes away. Her skin is perfection, as smooth as silk. Her body is so young and pert. I envy that youth, I’ll admit it. I miss the days when everything felt possible, but it also makes me feel more determined than ever to protect her. She has everything to live for. She slowly raises her arms as she sways, lost in the music, and her top rises over her tummy.
I step away quietly, smiling. I’ll take this glimpse of her sweetness and store it in the mental space where I put the things that help me get up in the morning.
But when I’m halfway downstairs, something stops me.
Imogen has lied to me.
Because on the midriff of that glorious, young dancing body, there wasn’t a single sign of self-harm.
Which is good, of course it’s good. A relief so massive that I can hardly process it. But it also means, and this is hard to get my head around, that she’s lied about self-harming, that she’s been deceiving me for months, deceiving all of us.
It’s so bold.
And why would she lie about it? Did she want attention? Is the threat of self-harm a way to manipulate people?
I’m confused. And I can’t help thinking how lonely she must be to have done this and how it’s up to me to make her feel wanted and heard and understood. I’m tempted to confront her about it right now, but I think twice. It’s not the right time. She doesn’t need to know that I know, yet. I’ll talk to her about it when the time is right.
And when that time comes, I’ll make it clear that it’s not acceptable to deceive me. There will be consequences.
