The Truth Club Read online

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He gets into his car.

  ‘Good luck with the exams.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He smiles at me and waves as he drives off.

  At least it’s sunny. I try not to think about anything as I walk towards the bus stop. I look at the flowers in the gardens and feel the fresh breeze on my face.

  Diarmuid no longer loves me. Why do I find that so surprising? I have never believed he loves me – not deep down; I’ve always believed he loved Becky more, just as my parents love April best. Maybe he’s with Becky right now.

  Why do I think about food so much more than I used to? Sometimes I spend ten minutes wandering around the kitchen late at night, just looking for something tasty to stuff into my mouth. I go into a newsagent’s and buy a bar of chocolate. I have walked way past my bus stop; I want to walk for miles, but I don’t know where I want to go. I can get used to this, I tell myself. I can get used to Diarmuid not loving me. What have I done to show him I love him?

  On my way out of the newsagent’s, I notice the darling place has a special offer on my favourite brand of cheese-and-onion crisps. I’m about to grab four packets when I feel someone watching me.

  ‘Hi, Sally!’

  ‘Hello, Nathaniel!’ I turn away from the crisps and force my mouth into a big fake smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Renting a DVD. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh…’ I hope my voice doesn’t sound too wobbly. ‘I was just… you know… buying some necessities.’ I show him the bar of chocolate.

  ‘Would you like to eat that chocolate while watching a DVD?’

  ‘What kind of DVD?’

  ‘A funny DVD. Something really stupid.’

  I think of Eloise. ‘I should really be getting home.’

  ‘Fred wants you to stay. He says you’ve had a difficult, though exciting, day and could do with a bit of company.’

  I look at Fred. He is looking up at me expectantly.

  ‘That’s very kind of him, but… but I’m tired.’

  ‘That’s what Fred said, too. He said he thought you’d be tired and could do with a large plate of takeaway fish and chips.’

  ‘Look, Nathaniel…’ I gaze straight into his swimming-pool eyes. ‘It’s very kind of you – and Fred, of course – but…’

  ‘Eloise really is in Paris.’

  I wasn’t even going to mention Eloise. I was going to say I needed to wash my hair.

  ‘You look as if you want to cry.’

  ‘I don’t!’ I protest. ‘I look happy. See, I’m smiling.’ I stretch my lips as far as I can.

  ‘They might even have spring rolls at the takeaway place. We could ask, anyway.’ Nathaniel grabs a DVD from the shelf and goes to the counter. ‘I don’t share the house with Greta, by the way. I know she kind of frightens you. I’ve borrowed her ground-floor flat. It has its own entrance.’

  ‘Nathaniel, I’d really –’

  ‘Maybe you could give me advice on doing up the bathroom.’

  ‘Look, I only pretend to care about that stuff.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t care about it at all. I’m sorry.’

  We leave the store together, and somehow I am getting into Nathaniel’s car, while still discussing why I really should be going home. Fred is panting excitedly in the back seat and Nathaniel is trying to find the nearest takeaway.

  ‘Diarmuid doesn’t love me any more,’ I say, as Nathaniel tries to remember the right turning. ‘I think he’s seeing someone else, actually. That’s why I should go home. I think I should grieve a bit… in a bath.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Nathaniel grimaces sympathetically. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I find baths very comforting, especially when I add lavender oil.’

  He glances at me, his eyes twinkling. ‘I wasn’t querying the bath, Sally. I was asking about Diarmuid. How do you know he’s seeing someone else?’

  ‘Well, I don’t actually have any evidence,’ I say slowly. ‘But he doesn’t seem to want to see me. He has a whole other life that he won’t tell me about, and he says he’s at home when he isn’t. He lies, and he’s become very good at it.’

  We sit in silence for a while. Then I add, ‘In fact, he’s with someone else right now, and I don’t even know who.’

  Nathaniel squeezes my shoulder. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it – all this love stuff? I think we should all be born with a clear instruction manual about who to meet and who to avoid… and who to marry. We’re supposed to keep wanting to find love, even if we’ve been love-mugged and left gasping and can scarcely summon up the enthusiasm to do our laundry.’

  ‘And keep wanting to eat things,’ I add. ‘Even when we’re not hungry. And we suddenly start wanting to find lost great-aunts just for the distraction of it, so we can escape from our own lives into somebody else’s for a while.’

  He glances at me dubiously. ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘But why should I suddenly care about DeeDee now?’ I say. I’ve barely thought about her for years. I should spend more time trying to get to know the relatives who are actually here, instead of wondering about someone who didn’t bother to hang around.’

  ‘It is very intriguing, though.’ His look is soft, searching. ‘Even I’m getting pretty curious about what she got up to – and Aggie seems desperate to see her again.’

  ‘Yes. That’s the dreadful thing. It’s like she wants to settle something, whatever it is, before she dies.’

  We turn onto another road – another road without a takeaway. ‘Should we get some wine?’ Nathaniel asks.

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t want any.’

  ‘I think I’ve got a bottle at home, actually, if you feel like some later. You’ll have to excuse my flat. It’s a bit… dishevelled.’

  ‘I don’t mind that. You should see my cottage.’

  ‘I’d love to see your cottage.’

  I stare straight ahead and try to compose myself. ‘Actually, Nathaniel…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Actually, I might just stay for the food. I don’t know if I really want to watch a DVD.’

  Nathaniel doesn’t seem to hear me. Where on earth is this takeaway? He clearly doesn’t have a great sense of direction. But, just when I think we may spend the whole night hunting for fish and chips, he finds it. It appears clean and nondescript, and it doesn’t do spring rolls.

  ‘We’ll just have to go to that Chinese place I told you about – you know, the one with scowly Henry.’

  ‘Tonight?’ I peer at him cautiously.

  ‘No, of course not.’ He grins. ‘It’s nearly in Howth. I mean another time.’

  Another time. Maybe there won’t be another time for us, but I don’t say it. He’s so casual about Eloise, but I can’t be. Sometimes I think he’s just as mixed up about love as I am. But, even so, I can’t imagine him sitting alone somewhere, getting through a whole packet of Hobnobs in one sitting.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We park outside a large red-brick building with a luxuriant garden. ‘Aren’t you going to lock the car?’ I ask, as Nathaniel heads towards an ornate wrought-iron gate.

  ‘It doesn’t lock properly, and who would want to steal it anyway?’ He grins at me resignedly. ‘Greta says that, since I’m probably going to have to have it towed away one of these days, I should just put a card in the window that says “Classic Car, Free to Kind New Owner”. I like the “classic” part. Greta knows how to talk things up.’

  ‘It’s a nice car.’ I’m surprised to find myself defending it. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Well, if I go back to New York, you can have her. I think she likes you already.’

  New York. Nathaniel may be going back to New York. I don’t know why I’m so surprised.

  The entrance to Nathaniel’s ground-floor flat is at the side of the house, shaded by an old oak tree. By the door is a blue ceramic pot containing a sturdy red geranium. I wait as he searches franticall
y for his keys. For a moment it looks like we might have to ask Greta to let us in. I really don’t want to meet Greta. She’s bound to tell me about some amazing new tiling; she may even stuff the press release into my hand.

  Nathaniel seems nervous, almost bashful. I suddenly feel protective of him. The vinegar from the chips is dripping stealthily onto my jumper. I’ll smell of vinegar all evening, when by rights I should be at home in a bath.

  ‘Oh, good, here they are,’ he says, delving in a forgotten pocket of his denim jacket. ‘Sorry about that.’ The door creaks. It is white, with a small frosted-glass window at the top.

  As I walk into the dimly lit hallway, I steel myself for the mess he talked about – papers spilling onto the floor, files and books cascading over armchairs. But we walk into a large room with a window that stretches expansively from the floor to the ceiling. It has orange velvet curtains; the armchairs are a restful dark blue, and the striped rug in front of the huge marble fireplace is a combination of all the colours in the room. It’s a lovely room, a spacious, cheerful sanctuary. It bears all the hallmarks of Greta’s good taste, but it also bears the precious hallmarks of Nathaniel: a jumbled heap of CDs by the stereo, important-looking books open and waiting by a wicker chair. A few mugs are dotted around, waiting to be retrieved and washed, and there is a crumpled navy sweatshirt on the comfy-looking sofa. There is an incense holder on the mantelpiece, and rocks and shells and a tiny replica of the Statue of Liberty. And, of course, there are boxes, boxes of things from the life he has left behind; some of the contents are already making a bid for freedom.

  You can’t go back to New York, I’m thinking as Nathaniel watches me. You belong here ... with Fred. He’d miss you. But what I say is, ‘It’s lovely. It’s a really lovely room.’

  ‘Eloise got me to tidy it up a bit.’ He goes over to the small kitchen tucked away in a corner. I see a row of big, brightly patterned mugs and a half-eaten packet of chocolate biscuits.

  Suddenly I feel angry with Eloise. I don’t want anyone taking Nathaniel in hand. He’s fine just as he is. He’s scurrying around the kitchen, peering at cutlery to see if it’s been washed.

  ‘So you miss New York, do you?’

  ‘Sort of. I like its restlessness – though I don’t want that stuff quite as much as I used to.’

  I curl up on his blue sofa. I feel like I’m back in the big wooden house in California and Dad is telling me bedtime stories, like he used to before his heart got broken. Stories about anything – the conversations between instruments in an orchestra; what two shoes might say to each other after a long walk.

  ‘I’m not quite so antsy and unsettled as I used to be,’ Nathaniel says. ‘I like the buzz, but there are days when I just want to retreat with a good dog and a book. I’ve even been known to watch TV programmes for the under-fives.’ He is opening and closing kitchen cabinets noisily. ‘Feck it… I really thought I had napkins here somewhere.’

  ‘I’m not a napkin kind of woman. I can eat perfectly happily without them.’

  ‘I’ve got vinegar all over me.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘I’ll have to shove it in the microwave for a minute.’ I assume he is referring to the fish and chips. ‘I don’t really like microwaves. There’s something unnatural about them, don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agree. ‘They’re like aeroplanes, and sugar-free biscuits.’ I am fiddling with my wedding ring. It’s always been a bit loose.

  ‘I was surprised to find you in that newsagent’s. I thought you’d be with…’

  ‘Diarmuid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So did I.’ The ring slips off my finger and I stare at it. ‘He’s got exams tomorrow. He says he’s revising with someone, but I can’t help wondering if he’s with Becky.’

  ‘Who’s Becky?’

  ‘His great lost love.’ I sigh. ‘When she was in New Zealand I didn’t really worry about her, especially since she’d got engaged… but then she decided not to marry the guy after all, and now she’s back here. Diarmuid says she’s got a boyfriend and is living in Galway.’

  ‘Maybe he’s telling the truth.’ Nathaniel presses buttons on the microwave and then backs away from it dubiously.

  ‘Maybe I should find out,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should get a taxi and race round there and find out if they’re in flagrante delicto… but he’s probably just studying with some nice male friend and talking to the mice.’

  ‘The mice?’

  I put the ring on the arm of the sofa. Why am I wearing it when my marriage has become a farce? ‘He’s very close to some mice,’ I say. ‘They’re part of a biology experiment he’s involved in. He has long conversations with them.’

  Nathaniel waits for me to go on. When I don’t, he returns his attention to dinner. ‘We should have vegetables with this stuff,’ he says. ‘I keep reading articles that tell me we should all be chomping on fifty carrots a day.’

  ‘Not quite that many, surely.’ I’m getting used to his exaggerations.

  ‘And fruit. I buy loads of fruit, but I keep feeling that it should be sweeter. In Rio the oranges are sweet, but these poor ones are probably picked early and put in fridges and sprayed. They may even be painted.’ He gives me one of his mischievous grins. His fringe is flopping over his eyes.

  ‘You should get your fringe cut.’ I don’t normally make personal remarks like that, but this one just pops out of me.

  ‘I know. Would you do it for me?’

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ I splutter. ‘The last time I cut someone’s fringe, they ended up with virtually no fringe at all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I kept snipping at it to make it straighter.’

  He studies me. ‘It was your own fringe, wasn’t it?’

  I let out a yelp of surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Because I’ve done the same thing myself. I think it’s easier to cut a fringe if it’s someone else’s. You can see it properly.’

  ‘Look, Nathaniel,’ I say firmly, ‘I am not going to cut your fringe. Get Eloise to do it.’

  ‘I don’t want her to. I want you to cut my fringe.’ He is looking very determined about it.

  I change the subject fast. ‘Is that your guitar?’

  ‘Now you’re trying to change the subject.’

  ‘Can you actually play it?’

  ‘Sort of. Do you want to eat this at the table?’

  I look at the table. It is covered in magazines and files and papers. ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t have any trays.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. We’ll just put the plates on our laps.’

  I decide not to ask Nathaniel more about the guitar. Maybe he just knows four or five chords that don’t sound right. He may not even know how to tune it. I’ve spent hours with Erika while she tries to tune her guitar. She gets this dazed expression and hums tunelessly. It would drive my father crazy. He plays the cello so beautifully; a deep, soft look comes over his face.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Nathaniel hands me my plate and sits beside me on the sofa.

  ‘What are you sorry about? This looks lovely. You’re a great takeaway cook.’ I bite into a chip gratefully.

  ‘I’m sorry about what you said about Diarmuid not loving you any more. Even though he still might, of course.’ His look is soft, sympathetic. ‘Some people just aren’t very good at showing people that they love them.’

  ‘And some people aren’t very good at believing they’re loved,’ I say slowly. ‘I think I’m like that. I think I want a love diploma.’ I laugh hollowly. ‘“Diarmuid has passed his exams in loving Sally Adams.” I would want it to be framed, too.’

  ‘And signed.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And then, of course, he’d have to have one from me – but I don’t think they’d award it. I’m a marriage mitcher.’ I start to laugh again, a high, stupid kind of laugh. I sound as if I’m drunk. I try to regain my poise. ‘I… I may have been exaggerating a little about Diarmuid no
t loving me. Maybe he isn’t with Becky. Maybe he really is just revising.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nathaniel says, stuffing five chips into his mouth.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ I continue. Why do I spend so much time defending Diarmuid? ‘This whole partial-marriage thing has been desperately hard on him. I really couldn’t blame him if he’s decided to stray. He’s not a great talker, that’s the truth of it. And it’s amazing how helpful talking can be.’ I chomp sadly on my cod, which is covered in crisp batter. ‘When someone doesn’t talk, you start to fill the silences for them. You start to think, “Have I upset him? Did I say the wrong thing at breakfast? Am… am I a bad lover?”’

  ‘I’d say that’s most unlikely.’ Nathaniel shoots me a wry, bright glance.

  ‘Maybe I’m just not meant to be married.’ It’s something I’ve been thinking for some time. ‘Maybe I’m just meant to live alone and go to evening classes and comfort my friends and make lots of tea. I could do with a cat, too – a nice purry cat who runs up to me as soon as I get home.’

  Nathaniel reaches for the bottle of ketchup, which is on the floor between his feet. ‘I often think that, too – that maybe I’m meant to end up alone. It mightn’t be all that bad. I have lots of other interests.’

  The way he says it makes me laugh. ‘You make love sound like salsa dancing or something.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean.’ He throws a chip to Fred, who catches it in mid-air. ‘Do you think DeeDee found love?’

  I sigh. ‘Who knows? She sounds like a very complicated person. I alternate between disliking her and finding her fascinating.’

  ‘I must remember to give you that notebook.’

  ‘Yes. I could read the recipes out to Aggie. I bet she’d like that.

  I might even try to make some of the cakes; we could have little tea parties in her room.’ I pause. ‘But I really wish I could find that music box. It would mean so much to her. I think my mother must have given it away and forgotten. She seems to have lost any trace of sentimentality.’

  Nathaniel pats Fred with his foot. He has taken off his shoes; he’s wearing thick navy socks, which have a small hole in one of the big toes. ‘Have you ever asked your mother about DeeDee?’