The Lying Room Read online

  ‘How was Mabel?’ asked Renata.

  ‘Not great. We didn’t actually buy anything. I don’t even know if she’ll go.’ She looked across at Renata and thought of telling the two of them everything: the affair, the cover-up, the feeling of terror that was engulfing her. The urge to confess and unburden herself was so strong that her throat was thick with it. She was about to speak, but Tamsin got in first.

  ‘Gary is in a terrible state,’ she said.

  ‘Oh God, why? Jane?’

  ‘No, or not primarily. It’s money.’

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘He’s just told me that he’s up to his ears in debt.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘He thought we would get more when we joined Redfern. Because of that, in the year before the takeover he borrowed quite a lot. For his wife, he says. And then of course he got far less than he expected and couldn’t repay the loan, which is getting bigger every day.’

  Neve remembered how angry Gary had been with Saul and the whole management team: ‘Not just taken over but taken in,’ he kept saying.

  ‘We have to help.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Renata. ‘But how? Have you got any savings?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Exactly the same as me and Tamsin.’

  ‘No, I’ve less than nothing,’ said Tamsin. ‘The divorce wiped me out. I tried to get a second mortgage but was turned down. At least I don’t have children to worry about.’

  ‘But we’re all rich really,’ said Neve. ‘We might not have cash, but we’ve got houses that have tripled, quadrupled, or more, in value since we bought them. We’re all millionaires.’

  Tamsin snorted.

  ‘We are,’ insisted Neve. ‘Me and Fletcher couldn’t buy a shoebox on our income, but I bet our house is worth well over a million pounds and through nothing we’ve done. We were just the lucky generation. Except Gary never bought his own house. He didn’t want to be part of the capitalist system.’

  ‘So he’s properly fucked,’ said Tamsin gloomily.

  ‘Sssh.’

  Gary was crossing the office. His beard was straggly and his glasses were smeared. Watching him, Neve remembered when they first met as students. He’d been like an elf or a faun, small and quick and full of mischief. Now he just looked defeated. What had happened to him, to them all? And what was going to happen? She gave a long, slow shiver.

  ‘I just spoke to Terry in Accounts,’ said Gary when he came in. ‘And he just spoke to Bob. And Bob told him that he thinks the police have no leads at all.’

  ‘It’s only day three,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘It’s already day three,’ said Gary.

  Neve bent over her keyboard. If they had no leads, that was because she – and someone else – had removed all the evidence. She couldn’t put it back again, but she had to work out what it meant.

  A thought came to her. Saul was meant to be at a conference. He had gone to the flat secretly and told her to join him there. Who knew apart from her that he would be there? The obvious answer to that was: nobody. The thought of it was like the cracked tooth that she couldn’t stop probing with her tongue.

  She tried to put it out of her mind and get some work done, though she was almost unconscious of what she was doing. Although no time seemed to have passed, it was suddenly half past three. She had promised to collect the boys from school. She got up and started to gather her things.

  ‘So we’ll see you later,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘What?’ said Neve.

  ‘You know,’ said Tamsin. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  ‘I’ll definitely look in.’

  ‘That sounds like a way of saying you might not come at all.’

  The thought of not going at all felt attractive but Neve had promised that she’d be there. As she walked away, she heard a voice behind her. Renata had followed her.

  ‘You will be there, won’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Why do people keep asking me that?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.’

  Neve didn’t like the sound of that. ‘If it’s important, we can talk now,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a bit complicated,’ said Renata. ‘I’ll need a drink and some privacy.’ Her tone was light but she looked serious. ‘As long as you’ll be there.’

  There was really no need for Neve to collect the boys from school. Rory was eleven. Next year he’d be at a school with people who were old enough to vote. Even so, Neve quite liked the old familiar process of chatting with the other parents out on the pavement, sharing gossip, complaining about teachers. In the past year the conversations had become more complicated as the different choices for secondary school were revealed and debated and defended and argued about. On this day all that was irrelevant because she arrived late and Rory and Connor were at the gate of the playground with other children of parents who had failed to arrive. Connor was with his friend Elias, and Rory stood apart, his hands pushed into his pockets.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Neve said, preventing herself from reaching out and touching him. She hated being late for her children. And she hated seeing Rory at school, always on the outside of things, trying to pretend he didn’t care – or maybe he really didn’t care. Fletcher always told her that she was too anxious about him and she knew he was right. But how do you stop yourself, she thought. Those weeks and months of lying awake in the small hours, heart thundering and the taste of dread in her mouth, thinking about Mabel.

  ‘You don’t need to collect us at all,’ said Rory.

  ‘I like to.’

  Elias’s mother Sarah came up the hill, half running and half walking, arriving breathless, though she still managed to look neat. Her dark-brown hair lay in a coil at the back of her neck, her suit and jacket were well cut, her make-up discreet.

  ‘Am I late again?’

  ‘You’re always late,’ said Elias, scowling. ‘And then you always ask if you’re late again.’ He kicked a stone. ‘As if it’s the first time.’

  Sarah gave a hurt laugh then turned to Neve. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel horribly guilty?’

  ‘Guilty?’

  ‘Being a working mother.’

  ‘Oh that. Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Guilty at work because you’ve got to rush off home, guilty at home because you’ve got to rush off to work. Those phone calls from school when your child’s ill or had an accident and you’ve got to go and collect them. My friend says I should never say I’m leaving work because of anything to do with the children – anything else is better, she says. But you’ve got three children and you’ve managed. You always seem so calm and sensible.’

  Neve managed to laugh. ‘That’s not how it feels. Anyway, Fletcher works from home and that makes the biggest difference. I’m lucky. Really, I’ve just muddled through, like the rest of us. Did my best, which is often not quite good enough. Tried not to punish myself too much.’ She aimed for a smile: two frazzled women against the world. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if we have a choice.’

  ‘No,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Damn right we don’t.’ She was a single mother. Neve and Fletcher often had Elias over to give her a break.

  They set off down the hill together, Neve wheeling her bike, Connor and Elias ahead and bumping heavily against each other, laughing. Rory trailed just behind.

  ‘Bye,’ said Sarah at the corner.

  As they entered the house and the boys ran upstairs, Neve remembered something.

  ‘Has Whisky been fed?’

  ‘How would we know?’ said Connor as he disappeared into his room.

  Neve wanted to shout after them: because when you asked for a guinea pig, you said that you would feed him and clean the hutch and Fletcher and I wouldn’t have to do anything at all. But she didn’t. Instead she got the box of pet food from the scullery, then went through to the kitchen, opened the fridge and tore off some leaves of lettuce and spinach and kale. She went out to the garden and opened the hutch, fi
lled the bowl and scattered the leaves, and shut it again. Whisky emerged from his little refuge and chomped silently on the leaves.

  Whisky. The name had been chosen by Connor. She wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if he was even whisky-coloured. He was a dirty sort of white with large black patches. She stood watching him as he ate. She had been feeling sorry for him but he looked contented enough. In fact, enviably contented. A life of living in warm straw gnawing fresh salad leaves seemed preferable to her own life. She opened the door of the hutch again and scratched him gently on the top of his head. He continued eating and paid no attention. She went back into the house.

  For the first time, she thought of the evening ahead of her. About once a year one or other of the old group of college friends organised a get-together. Sometimes it was a party but sometimes – like tonight – it was just a drink in a pub. Neve assumed this meant not many people were coming. That was good. She wasn’t in the mood for a big occasion. It would also mean it wouldn’t go on too long.

  Back inside, she went straight into the bathroom and locked the door. She ran a deep bath and as she sank down into it she tried to ignore the sounds of the house, the raised voices, someone dropping a heavy object. She submerged herself entirely and for a moment she was in a silent world, just the sound of her heartbeat. She could stay here, she thought, adding hot water every so often, watching the skin on her fingers shrivel, just a body in water.

  Someone rapped at the door. She sighed and hauled herself out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, opened the door.

  ‘Something’s burning,’ she called out.

  ‘Just toast,’ Rory called back.

  She dressed in loose-fitting trousers and an over-sized, rust-coloured sweater. She wanted to be comfortable, unsexy, invisible. She tried to avoid the mirror: she didn’t want to meet her own gaze. But some things couldn’t be avoided. She went up to Mabel’s room. The chair was finally gone, although there were scratches and gouges on the wall outside and the door was slightly askew on its hinges. Neve knocked. There was some sort of human sound from inside, which she took as an invitation to open the door. The blinds were pulled down and the room was dark.

  ‘Is it all right if I put the light on?’ she said.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Mabel’s voice.

  ‘Are you just lying the dark?’

  ‘What’s it look like?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like anything. It’s dark. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘I’m doing yoga.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course I’m not doing bloody yoga.’

  ‘All right,’ said Neve. ‘A couple of things. In case you’re worried, I’ve fed Whisky.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried.’

  ‘And I just wanted to remind you that Fletcher and I are going out to meet some people.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘It’s just an early evening drink. We shouldn’t be late. Perhaps you and the boys could make some supper together.’

  ‘Like what?’

  There followed a complicated discussion between Neve and the voice coming out of the dark about what was in the fridge and what was in the cupboards and how it might be assembled. After it was finished, Neve thought of the fourth person in the family who hadn’t fed Whisky. She walked across and knocked at Fletcher’s door.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I’ll come out.’

  Neve felt an odd resentment as she always did when he said that. It was as if there was some secret that she would violate by penetrating his sanctum, as if he had someone in there with him. He opened the door and looked out.

  ‘All right?’ said Neve.

  ‘All right what?’

  ‘The drinks. At the pub.’

  ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’d rather just stay in.’

  ‘I think you should come.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s good for you to get out of the house. And because I’d like it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Fletcher. ‘You go ahead. I’ll join you later.’

  ‘Don’t be too long,’ she said.

  It was only a short bike ride. The Urban Fox was on Kingsland Road, an old pub that had been renamed and refurbished so that it looked older and more traditional than the previous version that had been all flowery wallpaper and strip lighting. Now it was bare bricks and floorboards and second-hand tables and chairs. When Neve stepped inside, it was empty except for Tamsin, Renata and Gary sitting at a table in the corner. There were open bottles of red and white wine and plates of cheese and smoked meat. Neve poured herself a glass of red wine.

  ‘I thought this was a college reunion,’ she said. ‘Not a reunion of the office I’ve just left.

  ‘Aren’t you happy to see us?’ said Gary. ‘Anyway, if you’re not, you can just blame Tamsin. It was her idea.’

  ‘I’m not blaming anybody,’ said Neve.

  ‘It wasn’t exactly my idea,’ said Tamsin. ‘Remember Jackie Cornfield?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Neve. ‘God, it’s been ages since I last saw her. She’s one of the few people who actually stayed in Newcastle, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right. I think she’s had a bad time recently and she’s trying to reconnect with people she’d lost touch with.’

  ‘Oh lord,’ said Gary.

  ‘I think it’s nice,’ said Tamsin. ‘So I’m supplying you three grumpy people, and she’s contacted some others. I don’t actually know who’s going to turn up.’

  ‘It’s not exactly the old gang,’ said Renata. ‘I hardly knew her.’

  ‘Of course you knew her and she’s fun,’ said Tamsin. ‘Or at least she used to be fun. But then we all used to be fun and then we got old.’

  ‘So where is she?’ asked Neve. But she had scarcely finished talking when there was a cry of greeting and she looked around. Jackie Cornfield was not so much entering the room as erupting into it. Neve saw her as if in flashes, long wavy hair with streaks of green, purple dress, coloured beads. There was so much of her, it took a moment for Neve to see that there was someone with her, slightly hanging back, a man in a brown moleskin suit, and a dark burnt-red shirt, with a bulky case. He had almost-red hair, high cheekbones, slightly jug ears, and he looked half amused, half embarrassed by the scene in front of him.

  They all looked at each other the way they always looked at each other on occasions like this, all noting how much the other people had aged and then promptly denying it.

  ‘You all of you look completely fantastic,’ said Jackie. ‘None of you have changed at all.’

  ‘Tell that to my hair,’ said Gary.

  Everybody stood up and moved around the table to hug Jackie.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ Neve said to Jackie, and she looked at the man. ‘So is this your—’ She stopped. That was always a rather hard sentence to complete.

  Jackie laughed loudly and put her arm round the man, who looked a little sheepish.

  ‘You think we’d make a nice couple? Sweet. Don’t you recognise Will? Will Ziegler? Just off the train from Bristol.’

  Neve looked again and she did indeed recognise someone who had been in her year at college and who she had known quite well, back in the day.

  ‘I’m an idiot,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘We’re all idiots,’ he said. ‘And we’re idiots who’re getting old.’

  ‘All right, don’t rub it in,’ said Renata. ‘I’m feeling frail enough as it is.’

  Neve looked at them both. Jackie she remembered vividly: she had always seemed larger than life, more brightly coloured than other people, louder, more demonstrative. But she had vaguer memories of Will, just that he’d been there, in those heady days when everything seemed possible. She smiled at them both.

  Tamsin put her arm through Will’s and led him round to the other side of the table, his bag tipping a chair over as they went.

  ‘I feel like the country bumpkin,’ he said. ‘It’s been years sinc
e I was in London.’

  Gary fetched an extra chair. Jackie sat next to Neve. Renata ordered two more bottles of wine. She seemed to have recovered from last night’s hangover.

  There was an immediate flurry of conversation. Jackie talked about her work for the probation service.

  ‘It’s grim,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things I hear and see. It’s hard to keep optimistic, but you have to, don’t you?’ She made an expansive gesture that almost hit Will in the face.

  She had got married, had children, got divorced. ‘The old story,’ she said brightly.

  Will lived in a village just outside Bristol with his wife, Karen, and two rescue dogs. ‘No kids,’ he said. ‘It didn’t happen.’

  ‘Wasn’t Karen a friend of that Alison Ferrimore?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘Alison with the eyes of different colours?’ said Renata. ‘I remember! Whatever happened to her? She played the oboe.’

  ‘The saxophone.’

  Neve looked at Will’s slightly crestfallen face as the subject so quickly veered away from him, down the twists and turns of memory lane.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked him.

  He looked pleased. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I’ve got a company that deals with things like data.’ He looked at their expressions. ‘I said it was hard to explain.’

  ‘Sounds like management consultancy,’ said Gary suspiciously.

  ‘It’s more about logistics, infrastructure.’

  ‘And you run the company?’

  Will shrugged. ‘We’re a team really. It’s been a hard slog to get to where we are now.’