The Truth Club Read online

  That’s the person I talk about when I tell Aggie about my happy marriage to Diarmuid. I talk about how I sometimes look up to find him watching me, tenderly. How we walk along the beach and make squiggly marks on the sand with our bare feet. I talk about how we sometimes laugh at nothing; how he teases me when I get ‘too serious’; how we munch bowls of corn chips and watch really stupid television programmes. I tell her how, on our honeymoon, we drank too much champagne one night and decided to skinny-dip in the pool at midnight. I describe how warm the water was against our naked skin.

  Only when I talk like this I’m not describing Diarmuid. I wanted Diarmuid to skinny-dip in the pool on our honeymoon, but he wouldn’t. Even though it was in the wee small hours, he was sure that someone from Dublin would see us – probably someone who knew his mother.

  I don’t tell Aggie this, of course. She really likes this other Diarmuid, the one I make up. The one who tenderly traced his fingers over my naked skin by a blossom-scented pool. The one who kissed me under the golden, star-filled sky.

  ‘Sally…’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Aggie?’

  ‘Sally, that thing that happened with your parents… It wasn’t your fault.’ Aggie is looking at me like a bird. She is thin-faced; her mouth was once full and soft, but now it’s a sort of crevice. Her wispy grey hair still has its curls. They lie limply on her forehead.

  ‘Sally, I’m talking to you.’

  I look down. That’s the thing I can’t stand about visiting Aggie these days: she says things like this. She reminds me of stuff I don’t want to remember. She seems to have formed opinions about certain things, and they leap out of her suddenly. It’s as if part of her has travelled ahead, seen the big picture. But I don’t want to see the big picture. I don’t want to know what was my fault and what wasn’t. I just want to sit with her and love her while I can.

  ‘Thank you, Aggie.’ I say it because I know she thinks I’ll be pleased to hear her pardon. Her amnesty. Her exoneration.

  ‘It’s true.’ She studies me earnestly. She looks as though she expects me to keep talking. Her scrawny hands clasp the top of the duvet. They look so sweet and sad and lost, somehow, on the bright-orange fabric. Why did she have to mention something I try so hard to forget?

  Mum gave birth to April around the time we discovered she’d been having an affair with one of Dad’s best friends. He was called Al, and, like Dad, he was a musician. They played in the same orchestra when we lived in California. Al played the oboe and Dad played the cello.

  I’m the one who discovered the affair, actually. I was on my way home, and I was wearing loads of mascara. I’d been playing make-up with a pal called Astrid; this involved sneaking into her parents’ room and trying on her mum’s eyeshadow and lipstick and eyeliner. I decided to walk home along a lonely dirt track, because I wanted to look for raccoons. Instead, I saw a couple kissing in a parked car. I was interested in the techniques of kissing, so I had a closer look. That’s when I realised the woman was my mother.

  I just stood there, and she must have felt me watching; she looked up. I ran home, my mascara streaming in black lines down my face because of the tears, and phoned Astrid. I tried to make my voice a whisper, but I was so upset I didn’t hear Dad coming into the room. He was barefoot. I think he listened closely because I was almost whispering. He’d been sort of watchful and suspicious for months.

  When I saw him and got off the phone, he just looked at me blankly. I felt that his face should be contorted in misery, that he should cry and wail, but all he said was, ‘What’s that stuff on your face, Sally? Go and wash it off immediately.’

  There was a terrible row that night, and the night after and the one after that. They probably would have been more dramatic if Mum hadn’t been pregnant. As it was, Dad shouted for a bit and then just left the house, and Mum used to go up to her room and cry. I’d hear her sobbing as I stood outside the door. Sometimes I went in and offered to brush her hair; she always used to like that before, but now she had this distant, miserable look on her face as she said, ‘Thanks, darling,’ and patted my arm.

  April sprang into the world a week later, and we all had a good look at her as soon as she was cleaned up. Frankly, for more than a year she could have been anybody’s baby; it was only when she was going on two that her nose began to look like Dad’s, and we could see that her eyebrows had a similar configuration and her smile was almost identical. Deep down, I think it must have affected her. Few babies have been stared at quite so hard or so cautiously. She developed the technique of staring back just as intensely. ‘So what?’ her big baby eyes seemed to be saying. ‘This is your problem, not mine.’

  Somehow Mum and Dad worked it out and stayed together. Only it wasn’t like before. Sometimes you could see they really wanted to be somewhere else. They went out a lot. Dad spent hours hiking in the dry brown Californian hills. Mum went over to her friend Veronica’s a lot, with April, and sat on the wooden deck beside the wind-chimes and the hummingbird-feeders. She always came back with puffy eyes, walking slowly. I used to make them cups of tea when they got back from wherever they’d gone to. Mum liked Earl Grey, not too strong and not too weak, with a splash of milk and half a spoon of sugar. Dad liked ordinary tea with no sugar and lots of milk.

  Diarmuid takes his with half a spoon of sugar. Since then I have had a mental database about how people like their tea.

  ‘Marie’s going to have another of her big family get-togethers in September,’ I tell Aggie, mainly just for something to say. Then I wish I hadn’t mentioned it, because Aggie actually likes Marie’s gatherings and I doubt if she’ll be able to attend this one. It’s still months away – it’s only May now; Aggie mightn’t even be here. I must get off the subject.

  I’m about to mention that Diarmuid wants to take me to a Thai restaurant when Aggie says, ‘Marie who?’

  I look at her sadly. ‘Aunt Marie. She’s… she’s married to Bob.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Aggie says. ‘Poor dear Marie. Always asking questions, always wanting to know exactly what one’s plans are. As if life’s like that. As if one always knows exactly what one wants.’

  I stare at Aggie. When she is with it, she is as bright as a button. That’s it, exactly: Marie always wants to know the details. If you’re separated, she wants to know why, and where you plan to live, and if there’s a financial settlement, and what’s happened to her wedding present (a frightful set of table-mats that has to be retrieved from the attic any time she visits). One of these days I think she may ask me for a five-year plan.

  ‘Aggie…’ I draw the chair closer and touch her cheek softly. ‘Aggie, I love you. I always have. You understand things. You understand me.’ I stare at her dear, familiar face. It looks like someone has been at it with a chisel – whittling away the curves, diminishing the features, making deep lines just for effect.

  She hasn’t heard. She’s staring at the wall; she does that when she’s tired. It’s time to go. I lean forwards and kiss her.

  ‘Are you going?’ She looks towards me, wide-eyed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say you’ll try to find DeeDee for me.’

  I look at her warily.

  ‘Say it… please…’ Aggie is leaning towards me earnestly. I’m afraid she’ll fall out of the bed.

  ‘I… suppose I could do some… research,’ I mumble.

  She leans back. ‘Oh, good. Thank you.’ She clasps my hand. ‘Thank you so much.’

  I suspect that on my next visit she will have forgotten all about this conversation. I certainly hope so, because knowing that someone likes hats and Rio de Janeiro and marble cake isn’t quite enough to establish her exact location. DeeDee may not even be alive – and, if she is, she may not want to be found. I store the whole thing in the ‘too difficult’ file and start the ritual I always go through before I leave Aggie’s room. I make shooing noises towards a corner cupboard, like a shepherd directing my flock. ‘Go on, sheep,’ I say. ‘Go on towards th
e field. It’s bedtime.’ As I get nearer to the cupboard, I pretend to open a gate. ‘That’s right, on you go – out into the field.’ I clap to get them going faster.

  Aunt Aggie watches. ‘Bye, Sally, dear,’ she says. ‘Give my love to Diarmuid. I’m so glad you found yourself such a nice, sensible young man.’

  I kiss her softly on the cheek, and then I leave, with the word ‘sensible’ ringing in my ears. Diarmuid is sensible. He knows what he wants. He knows who he is. And he wants me to be sensible, too – sensible in his terms, the only ones he understands. That’s one of the things I find most difficult about my husband: he doesn’t see how different people can be. Maybe that’s why he likes mice so much. They seldom vary in their desire for cheese.

  I creep out of Aggie’s room, and suddenly I don’t know what to do with all these feelings inside me, popping like popcorn. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to lose her. I walk down the corridor, past the sitting-room and its blaring television; the group of residents sitting there, waiting for the stew and the relatives that might just visit. I open the front door and crunch down the gravel path. The winding road to the bus stop is familiar now, and even it is tinged with grief.

  What, in truth, is there to keep me in Dublin after Aggie is gone? Of course, Diarmuid and I may get back together; but if we remain apart, it might be nice to move somewhere new, with no associations to remind me of my failed marriage. I might even go back to California…

  Just for a moment I feel a burst of lightness in my heart, a blaze of excitement. My step quickens; and then it slows again, as I realise there is no way I can go back to California. I have a life here in Dublin. People expect things of me. I have a job, and parents who aren’t getting any younger; I have friends and a mortgage. I can’t be like DeeDee and turn my back on it all. I could never just leave without even writing a note. I already nearly hate her and the heartbreak she has caused.

  It looks like it might rain. I start to walk more quickly. I want to get home so I can curl up under the duvet with a nice big mug of hot chocolate and watch the telly. That’s one of the nice things about being alone: I don’t have to bargain with Diarmuid about whether to watch one of my favourite American sitcoms or one of his sports programmes.

  My mobile phone rings, and I grab it from my pocket. It could be Diarmuid. I want to talk to him and apologise. I really want to keep the lines of communication open.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ Fiona says cheerfully. Fiona is my oldest friend and a cheerful sort of person. Even if she didn’t own a big tasteful house and have a silver sports car and a garden pond full of koi carp, she would probably be happy. And she is even happier now that she and Zak are expecting their first baby.

  ‘Hi there, Fiona!’ I raise my voice an octave. When I compare my life to Fiona’s, I can’t help thinking that she seems to know how to be Fiona O’Driscoll so much better than I know how to be Sally Adams. I’ve known her since secondary school, and she’s always had this sort of glow and buzz about her. It’s almost impossible not to like her; but, now that she’s even happier than ever and I’m frequently far from ecstatic, I have not been seeking out her company. But Fiona is the kind of person who keeps in touch with her friends, especially friends who have recently separated from almost-brand-new husbands – I’ve only been married to Diarmuid for a year, eight months and four days.

  ‘Look, why don’t you come round for a nice big glass of wine?’ Fiona says. ‘I know you need a bit of cheering up after visiting Aggie.’

  ‘How do you know I’ve just visited Aggie?’ I enquire, wondering if all the people I know are suddenly becoming telepathic.

  ‘You always visit Aggie on Tuesday evenings between seven and half-eight,’ Fiona laughs. ‘It’s part of the Sally Adams schedule!’

  I frown. Fiona has clearly decided I’m a stickler for routine just because I like to keep Tuesday evenings – and sometimes Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons – free for Aggie. I hesitate before replying. Do I really feel up to visiting Fiona’s exquisite house and drinking wine out of one of her huge billowy hand-blown glasses?

  ‘Sally? Sally, are you still there?’ Fiona says. ‘I’ll come and collect you if you like. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m getting on a bus,’ I reply. In fact, the bus nearly sailed by as if it were in a Formula One race, and I had to stick my arm out and jump up and down to get the driver’s attention. ‘Thanks so much, Fiona. That glass of wine sounds great. I should be with you in…’ At this point I drop the phone, because I have been attempting to extract the exact fare from my purse and the driver has been glowering at me. I toss some coins at him and bend to retrieve my phone before he stampedes off again. Even though I scurry, the bus lurches off dramatically and I am flung into a seat and sit there scowling. Do drivers do that on purpose? And why have I said ‘Yes’ to Fiona, when what I really want to do is just go home? Sometimes I really envy April’s ability to say ‘No’ without the slightest trace of doubt or guilt. If I were living in San Francisco, I bet I’d feel I had to fly home for Marie’s big do. I am the dutiful daughter, the one who turns up and phones and remembers people’s birthdays. That’s why everyone finds it so hard to believe I left Diarmuid. I am just not the sort of person who does that kind of thing.

  The only people who don’t seem to be surprised are Fiona and Erika. Before I got married, I sometimes saw them huddled together in earnest conversations, and I knew they were discussing me because they always said things like ‘So you use five carrots’ when I joined them. Erika and Fiona are not the type of women who sit around discussing casseroles. I assumed they were talking about wedding presents; but now I suspect they were wondering how to tell me they didn’t think Diarmuid and I were suited. Looking back, I can see they gave me little hints, like, ‘They say a sense of humour is crucial for a healthy relationship; I could never be with a man who didn’t make me laugh.’ Diarmuid is a rather serious person, but I didn’t mind, because life is a serious business. You can’t just go around laughing at everything. There are decisions to be made, practicalities to be attended to. You have to know what’s important.

  Fiona’s large cream house overlooks a well-maintained, tree-lined square in Monkstown, which is an old and grand and very attractive Dublin suburb. As the bus bumps its way along, I think that, if I were Fiona, I wouldn’t be on this bus; I would have walked, because of my firm commitment to regular exercise. I also think that, if I were Fiona, I wouldn’t be wearing jeans with a zip that opens up stealthily every time I sit down and a pink cotton jumper with a small rip underneath the right arm. If I were Fiona, I would still be happily married, because I would have thought about it all long and carefully, before, not after, the wedding. She and Zak even went to a marriage counsellor before they said, ‘I do.’

  Fiona’s first question to me as I walk through her front door is, ‘Would you like some lasagne? It’s delicious. We got it from that swanky new deli. The chef is Italian.’

  I naturally say yes, because I am now in comfort-food territory. Any time I’m with Fiona, I eat far more than I should, while she pecks at salad and radishes. She and Zak never have large portions, which is why they haven’t finished the lasagne and greedy plump little Sally has been called upon to finish it. I was nine stone when I married, and now I’m ten.

  As I consume Fiona’s lasagne, my eyes are drawn to her large, luxuriant stomach, which is not caused by chocolate biscuits and crackers covered in hummus. There is a baby in there.

  ‘Sally?’ Fiona smiles. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I’m thinking about that lovely little baby that’s in your stomach.’ I smile back. ‘And I’m thinking you’ll make a great mother because you know how to love people.’ As I say this, I feel lighter. When I’m not comparing myself to Fiona, but just appreciating her, I feel more like her. I feel like I’ve been let in on some secret.

  She laughs. ‘I wish I were as sure about that as you are,’ she says. Fiona has a lovely, d
eeply playful laugh. This is not, of course, the only lovely thing about her. Her blaze of red-blonde hair frames a soft, thoughtful and extremely pretty oval face. It is the sort of face that manages to be an unexpected combination of qualities. Her nose, for example, hints at steely determination, while her full lips regularly curl up into a playful, stunning smile that reveals even, pristine white teeth. Her eyes are grey-blue and watchful, because she notices things. She is wearing a beautiful, voluminous woven shirt with buttons in unusual places, including the elbows. Fiona has those sorts of clothes – clothes that aren’t generally available in ordinary shops.

  Fiona gives me one of her looks. ‘Sally, I hate to bring the subject up, but have you thought any more about…’

  I know she is referring to Diarmuid. ‘No… I mean, sort of.’

  Fiona nods, and I know she wants me to talk about Diarmuid. If I were Fiona and had left my husband, I would be talking about it and getting advice and support and perhaps even crying. Because Fiona doesn’t just know how to be happy; she knows how to be sad. She cries at funerals and she cries at poignant films. She cried buckets when Alfie Armitage went off with Naomi O’Sullivan at that dance when we were fifteen; she was heartbroken for a week, until she met that French exchange student who was the first person to feel inside her bra. When Fiona has been dumped, she has been known to howl. Maybe that’s why she gets over it so quickly.

  But, now that she’s met Zak, her love life seems to be verging on the idyllic. And the thing is, he’s not even handsome. He’s bald and has rather small eyes and a plumpish nose. His mouth is too big; when he smiles, it virtually takes over the lower part of his face. But there is something about him – a confidence, an aura of strength and wisdom. His body is compact and muscular and his movements are lithe and agile, like a dancer’s. I wouldn’t have looked at him twice, so that’s another impressive thing about Fiona: she looked at Zak twice and saw he was special. And he is special. He is very kind and thoughtful and sweet and funny. He and Fiona look after each other. Sometimes they feed each other chocolate ice-cream in bed. Somehow I wish she hadn’t told me that little detail.