Sometimes I Lie

Now

Boxing Day, December 2016

I try to picture my surroundings. I’m not on a ward, it’s too quiet for that. I’m not in a mortuary; I can feel myself breathing, a slight pain in my chest each time my lungs inflate with oxygen and effort. The only thing I can hear is the muffled sound of a machine beeping dispassionately close by. It’s oddly comforting; my only company in an invisible universe. I start to count the beeps, collecting them inside my head, fearful they might end and unsure what that might mean.

I conclude that I am in a private room. I picture myself confined within my clinical cell, time slowly dripping down the four walls, forming puddles of dirty sludge that will slowly rise up to drown me. Until then, I am existing in an infinite space where delusion is married to reality. That is all I am doing right now, existing and waiting, for what, I do not know. I’ve been returned to my factory settings as a human being, rather than a human doing. Beyond the invisible walls, life goes on, but I am still, silent and contained.

The physical pain is real and demanding to be felt. I wonder how badly I am injured. A vice-like grip tightens around my skull, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I begin to assess my body from top to bottom, searching in vain for an explanatory self-diagnosis. My mouth is being held open, I can feel a foreign object sandwiched between my lips, my teeth, pushing past my tongue and sliding down my throat. My body seems strangely unfamiliar, as though it might belong to someone else, but everything is accounted for, all the way down to my feet and toes. I can feel all ten of them and it brings such a sense of relief. I am all here in body and mind, I just need someone to switch me back on.

I wonder what I look like, whether someone has brushed my hair or cleaned my face. I’m not a vain person, I would rather be heard but not seen, preferably not noticed at all. I’m nothing special, I’m not like her. I’m more of a shadow really. A dirty little smudge.

Although I am frightened, some primal instinct tells me that I will get through this. I will be OK, because I have to be. And because I always am.

I hear a door open and the sound of footsteps coming towards the bed. I can see the shadows of movement shuffling behind my veiled vision. There are two of them. I smell their cheap perfume and hairspray. They are talking, but I can’t quite make out the words, not yet. For now, it is just noise, like a foreign film with no subtitles. One of them takes my left arm from beneath the sheet. It is a curious sensation, like when you pretend your limbs are floppy as a child. I flinch internally at the feel of her fingertips on my skin. I do not like to be touched by strangers. I do not like to be touched by anyone, not even him, not any more.

She wraps something around my upper left arm and I conclude it is a tourniquet as it tightens on my flesh. She gently puts my arm back down and walks around to the other side. The second nurse, I presume that’s who they are, stands at the end of my bed. I hear the sound of paper being manipulated by inquisitive fingers and I imagine that she is either reading a novel or my hospital file down there. The sounds sharpen themselves.

‘Last one to hand over, then you can skedaddle. What happened to this one?’ asks the woman closest to me.

‘Came in late last night. Some sort of accident,’ replies the other, she is moving as she speaks. ‘Let’s get some daylight in here, shall we, see if we can’t cheer things up a bit?’ I hear the scratchy sound of curtains being reluctantly drawn back and find myself enveloped in a brighter shade of gloom. Then, without warning, something sharp stabs my arm. It is an alien sensation and the pain pulls me inside of myself. I feel something cool swim beneath my skin, snaking into my body until it becomes a part of me. Their voices bring me back.

‘Have they called the next of kin?’ asks the older-sounding one.

‘There’s a husband. Tried several times, straight to voicemail,’ replies the other. ‘You’d think he’d have noticed his wife was missing on Christmas Day.’

Christmas Day.

I scan my library of memories, but too many of the shelves are empty. I don’t remember anything about Christmas. We normally spend it with my family.

Why is nobody with me?

I notice that my mouth feels terribly dry and I can taste stale blood. I’d give anything for some water and wonder how I can get their attention. I focus all of myself on my mouth, on forming a shape and making a dent, however tiny, in the deafening silence, but nothing comes. I am a ghost trapped inside myself.

‘Right, well, I’m off home, if you’re happy?’

‘See you later, say hi to Jeff.’

The door swings open and I can hear a radio in the distance. The sound of a familiar voice reaches my ears.

‘She works on Coffee Morning, by the way, they found her work pass in her bag when they brought her in,’ says the nurse who is leaving.

‘Does she now? Never heard of her.’

I can hear you!

The door swings shut, the silence returns and then I am gone, I am not there any more, I am silently screaming in the darkness that has swallowed me.

What has happened to me?

Despite my internal cries, on the outside I am voiceless and perfectly still. In real life I’m paid to talk on the radio but now I am silenced, now I am nothing. The darkness churns my thoughts until the sound of the door opening again makes everything stop. I presume that the second nurse is leaving me too and I want to shout out, to beg her to stay, to explain I’m just a little lost down the rabbit hole and need some help finding my way back. But she is not leaving. Someone else has entered the room. I can smell him, I can hear him crying and I sense his overwhelming terror at the sight of me.

‘I’m so sorry, Amber. I’m here now.’

He holds my hand a little too tightly. I am the one who has lost myself, he lost me years ago and now I will not be found. The remaining nurse departs, to give us space or privacy or perhaps just because she can sense the situation is too uncomfortable, that something is not as it should be. I don’t want her to go, I don’t want her to leave me alone with him, but I don’t know why.

‘Can you hear me? Please wake up,’ he says, over and over.

My mind recoils from the sound of his voice. The vice tightens around my skull once more, as though a thousand fingers are pushing at my temples. I can’t remember what happened to me, but I know, with unwavering certainty, that this man, my husband, had something to do with it.

Then

Monday, 19th December 2016 – Afternoon

I was grateful at first, when Matthew said I could take the rest of the day off. The team had already scattered for lunch, which meant I could avoid any questions or fake concern. It’s only now, as I make my way along Oxford Street, like a salmon swimming against a tide of tourists and shoppers, that I realise he did it for himself; no man wants to sit and stare at a woman’s tear-stained face, knowing that he’s responsible.

Despite being a December afternoon, the sky is bright blue, the sun pushing its way through the scattered unborn clouds to create the illusion of a nice day against a backdrop of haze and doubt. I just need to stop and think, so I do. Right in the middle of the crowded street to the annoyance of everyone else.

‘Amber?’

I look up at the smiling face of a tall man standing right in front of me. At first, nothing comes, but then a flicker of recognition, followed by a flood of memories: Edward.

‘Hi, how are you?’ I manage.

‘I’m great. It’s so good to see you.’

He kisses me on the cheek. I shouldn’t care what I look like, but I wrap my arms around myself as though I’m trying to hide. I notice he looks almost exactly the same. He’s hardly aged at all, despite the ten years it must have been since I last saw him. He’s tanned, as though he’s just come back from somewhere hot, flecks of blond in his brown hair, no hint of grey. He looks so healthy, clean, still uncommonly comfortable in his own bronzed skin. His clothes look new, expensive and I expect the suit beneath the long woollen coat is handmade. The world was always too small for him.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

I remember that I’ve been crying, I must look awful. ‘Yes. Well, no. Just had a bit of bad news, that’s all.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

I nod while he waits for a conversation I don’t know how to have. All I can seem to remember is how badly I hurt him. I never really explained why I couldn’t see him any more, I just left his flat one morning, ignored his calls and completely cut him off. He was studying in London, we both were. I still lived at home so I stayed at his flat as often as I could, until it was over, then I never went back.

A woman texting as she walks collides into me. She shakes her head as though it is my fault she wasn’t looking where she was going. The jolt shakes some words from their hiding place.

‘Are you in London for Christmas?’ I ask.

‘Yes. I’ve just moved down here actually with my girlfriend, new job in the Big Smoke.’ My sense of relief is soon replaced by something else. But of course he’s moved on. I tell myself I’m happy for him and force my face to reply with a less than enthusiastic smile accompanied by a lacklustre nod.

‘I can see this isn’t a good time,’ he says. ‘But, look, here’s my card. It would be lovely to catch up at some point. I’m meeting someone and I’m late, but it’s great to see you, Amber.’ I take the card and have another attempt at smiling. He touches me on the shoulder and disappears back into the crowd. He couldn’t wait to get away.

I gather all the little pieces of myself together and switch to autopilot. My legs carry me to a small bar just off Oxford Street. I used to come here with Paul when we started dating. We don’t come here any more, I can’t remember the last time we went out. I thought the familiarity of the place would make me feel safe, but it doesn’t. I order a large glass of red wine and manoeuvre my way to the only free table near the open fire. There’s no guard. I move my chair a little further away from it, despite wanting to get warm. I stare at my glass of Malbec, successfully blocking out the seasonal chaos rushing around. I need to persuade a woman who doesn’t like anyone to like me, and if I stare at my drink for long enough, I’m hoping I’ll think of a solution. At the moment, I’ve got nothing.

I take a sip of the wine, just a small one. It’s good. I close my eyes, swallow it down and enjoy the sensation as it coats my throat. I’ve been so foolish. Everything was going well and now I’ve risked it all. I should have tried harder with Madeline, should have stuck to the plan. I can’t lose this job, not yet. There will be a solution, I’m just not convinced that I can come up with it on my own. I need her. I regret the thought and decide I need another drink instead.

When my glass is empty, I order another and pull my phone out of my bag while I wait. I dial Paul’s number. I should have called him straight away, don’t know why I didn’t. He doesn’t answer, so I try again. Nothing, just his voicemail. I don’t leave a message. My second glass of wine arrives and I take a sip, I need it to numb myself but I know I should slow down. I have to maintain a coherent state of mind if I’m going to get things back on track, which I will, because I have to. I should be able to deal with this on my own, but I can’t.

‘I see you’ve started without me,’ says Jo, unwrapping a ridiculously long scarf from around her neck and sliding into the chair opposite. Her smile vanishes when she takes a proper look at my face. ‘What’s wrong? You look like shit.’

‘You don’t know then?’

‘Know what?’

‘I had a chat with Matthew.’

‘That explains your depressive state,’ she says, glancing down at the wine list.

‘I think I’m going to lose my job.’

Jo stares at my face as though looking for something. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Madeline has given him an ultimatum. Either I go or she will.’

‘And he’s told you you’re out? Just like that?’

‘Not quite. I have until the New Year to change her mind.’

‘So change her mind.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know, but they can’t do this to you.’

‘My contract ends in January, so they can just not renew it without there being any mess. I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Plus, I suppose it gives them time to find a suitable replacement over the Christmas break.’ I watch Jo process everything I’ve said and I can see she’s reached the same conclusion I had a couple of hours ago.

‘Drama really follows you like a shadow, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m fucked, aren’t I?’

‘Not yet. We’ll think of something; but, first, we’re going to need more wine,’ she says.

‘Can I get another glass of this, please?’ I ask a passing waiter. I turn back to Jo. ‘I can’t lose this job.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I haven’t had time to do everything I needed to do.’ The waiter is still hovering nearby and gives me a look of concern. I smile. He nods politely and goes to get the wine. I glance around the bar and a straw poll of eyes confirm that I’m being too loud. It happens sometimes when I’m tired or drunk. I remind myself to be quiet.

As soon as the wine arrives, Jo tells me to take a notepad and pen out of my bag. She instructs me to write PROJECT MADELINE in big red letters across the top of a blank page, so I do, underlining the words for good measure. Jo is the kind of girl who likes to write everything down. Being like that can get you into trouble if you aren’t careful. She stares at the notepad and I drink some more of the wine, enjoying the feel of its warmth surging down through my body. I smile and Jo grins back, we’ve had the same idea at the same time, like we so often do. She tells me what to write and I furiously scribble every word on the pad, struggling to keep up with what I’m hearing. It’s a good idea.

‘She thinks they’ll never get rid of her, Madeline Frost is Coffee Morning,’ says Jo. I notice that she hasn’t touched her glass.

‘That’s exactly what Matthew said. Perhaps it could be a new jingle,’ I say, expecting her to smile. She doesn’t.

‘But she doesn’t know how your chat with Matthew went. So, maybe what we need to do is get Madeline to think they’ve had enough of her temper tantrums and that they are going to get rid of her,’ she says.

‘But they’d never do that.’

‘She doesn’t know that for sure. Nobody is irreplaceable any more and I’m starting to think if we plant enough seeds, the idea will start to grow. If she didn’t have that job, she’d be nothing. It’s her life, it’s all she has.’

‘Agreed. But how? There isn’t enough time, not now.’ I start to cry again. I can’t help it.

‘It’s OK. Cry if you need to, get it out of your system. Luckily, you’re a pretty crier.’

‘I’m not a pretty anything.’

‘Why do you do that? You’re beautiful. Admittedly, you could make more of an effort . . .’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry, but it’s true. Not wearing make-up doesn’t make you look pale and interesting, it just makes you look pale. You’ve got a nice figure but it’s like you’re always trying to hide beneath the same old clothes.’

‘I am trying to hide.’

‘Well stop it.’

She’s right, I’m a mess. My mind rewinds to Edward, he must have thought he’d had a lucky escape not ending up with me.

‘I just bumped into an ex on Oxford Street,’ I say, studying her face for a reaction.

‘Which one?’

‘There’s no need to say it like that, there weren’t that many.’

‘More than me. Who was it?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I just felt like such a frump, such a loser. I wish he hadn’t seen me looking like that, that’s all.’

‘Who cares? Right now you just need to focus on what matters. Go and buy yourself a new wardrobe; a few new dresses, some new shoes, something with a heel, and get some make-up while you’re at it. You need to look really happy and confident tomorrow, just stick it all on a credit card. Madeline knew he would tell you today, so she’ll be expecting you to be upset, probably doesn’t think you’ll come in at all, but you will. We’ll start some rumours on social media. We’ll take control of the situation. You know what you have to do.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘So go shopping, then go home. Get an early night and come in tomorrow looking fabulous, as though you don’t have a care in the world.’

I do as I’m told, drain my glass and pay the bill. I’ve always stayed within the lines when colouring in my life, but now I’m prepared to let things get a bit messy. Before leaving the bar, I rip the Project Madeline page from my notebook, screw it up and throw it on the open fire, watching the white paper brown and burn.

Now

Boxing Day, December 2016 – Evening

When I first start to fall, I forget to be afraid, too busy noticing that the hand that pushed me looked so much like my own. But as I plummet into the darkness below, my worst fears follow me down. I want to scream, but I can’t, that familiar hand is now tightly clasped over my mouth. I can’t make a sound, I can barely breathe. When the terror shakes me from the recurring nightmare, I awake into another. I still don’t recall what happened to me, no matter how hard I try, no matter how badly I need to know.

People seem to come and go, a cacophony of murmurs, strange sounds and smells. Ill-defined shapes linger over and around me, as though I am under water, drowning in my own mistakes. Sometimes it feels like I am lying at the bottom of a murky pond, the weight of the dirty liquid pushing down on me, filling me up with secrets and filth. There are moments when I think it would be a relief to drown, for it all to be over. Nobody can see me down here, but then I was always rather invisible. The new world around me turns in slow motion just out of reach, while I remain perfectly still, down in the darkness.

Occasionally, I manage to resurface just long enough to focus on the sounds, to speed them up so that they become recognisable to me again, like right now. I can hear the sound of a paper page being turned, no doubt one of the silly crime novels he is so fond of. The others come and go but he is always here, I am no longer alone. I wonder why he hasn’t put the book down and rushed to my side now that I’m awake and then remember that for him I am not awake, for him nothing has changed. All sense of time has left me, it could be day or night. I am a silent, living corpse. I hear a door open and someone enters the room.

‘Hello, Mr Reynolds. You shouldn’t really be here this late but I suppose we can make an exception just this once. I was here when they brought your wife in last night.’

Last night?

It feels like I’ve been here for days.

The doctor’s voice sounds familiar, but then I suppose it would if he’s been treating me. I imagine what he looks like. I picture a serious man with tired eyes, a furrowed brow eroded into a series of lines by all the sadness he must have seen. I imagine him wearing a white coat, then I remember that they don’t do that any more, they just look like everyone else and so the man I imagined fades away.

I hear Paul drop his book and fumble around like a fool; he’s always been intimidated by medical professionals. I bet he stands to shake his hand; in fact, I know he will. I don’t need to see him to know exactly how he’ll behave, I can predict his every move.

‘Do you need someone to take a look at your hand?’ asks the doctor.

What’s wrong with his hand?

‘No, it’s fine,’ says Paul.

‘You’ve bruised it quite badly. Are you sure? It’s no trouble.’

‘It looks worse than it is but, thank you. Do you know how long she’ll be like this? Nobody will give me an answer.’ Paul’s voice sounds strange to me, small and strangled.

‘It’s very difficult to say at this stage. Your wife sustained quite serious injuries in the crash . . .’ and then I zone out for a while as his words repeat themselves in my head. I try so hard, but still nothing, no memory of any accident. I don’t even have a car.

‘You said you were here when she arrived, was there anyone else? I mean, was anyone else hurt?’ asks Paul.

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘So she was alone?’

‘No other vehicles were involved. It’s a difficult question for me to ask, but there are some marks on your wife’s body. Do you know how she got them?’

What marks?

‘I presumed from the accident,’ says Paul. ‘I didn’t see them before . . .’

‘I see. Has your wife ever tried to harm herself?’

‘Of course not! She’s not that sort of person.’

What sort of person am I, Paul?

Perhaps if he’d paid me a little more attention he might know.

‘You mentioned she was upset when she left home yesterday, do you know what about?’ asks the doctor.

‘Just stuff. Things have been difficult at work.’

‘And everything was all right at home?’

All three of us share an uncomfortable silence until Paul’s voice smashes it.

‘When she wakes up, will she still be herself? Will she remember everything?’ I am so focused on wondering what it is that he doesn’t want me to remember, I almost miss the answer.

‘It’s too early to tell if she will make a full recovery, her injuries are very serious. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt . . .’

I always wear a seat belt.

‘. . . she would have been travelling at some speed to have gone through the windshield like that and she sustained a serious blow to the head on impact. She’s lucky to be here at all.’

Lucky.

‘All we can do is take things one day at a time,’ says the doctor.

‘But she will wake up, won’t she?’

‘I’m sorry. Is there anyone we can call to be with you? A relative? A friend?’

‘No. She’s all I’ve got,’ says Paul.

I soften when I hear him say those words about me. They didn’t used to be true. When we met, he was so popular, everyone wanted a piece of him. His first novel was an overnight success. He hates it when I say that, always describes it as the overnight success that took him ten years. It didn’t last though. Things got even better, then they got a lot worse. He couldn’t write after that, the words wouldn’t come. His success broke him and his failure broke us.

I hear the door close and wonder if I am alone again, then I hear a faint clicking sound and picture Paul sending a text message. The image jars a little and I realise I can’t remember him texting anyone before. The only other people in his life now are his mother, who refuses to communicate other than the occasional phone call when she wants something, and his agent, who tends to email now that they don’t have much to talk about any more. Paul and I text each other but I guess I’m not there when he does that. My thoughts are so loud he hears them.

‘I’ve told them where you are.’ He sighs and comes a little closer to the bed. He must mean my family. I don’t have many friends. An inexplicable chill makes its way down my spine as the silence settles over us once more.

I feel a stab of hurt about my parents. I don’t doubt that he’s tried to contact them, but they travel a lot and can be tricky to get hold of these days. We often go weeks without speaking at all, although that isn’t always to do with their foreign trips. I wonder when they will come, then I rearrange the thought and wonder if they’ll come at all. I am not their favourite child, I am the daughter they always had.

‘Bitch,’ says Paul, in a voice I barely recognise as his. I hear the legs of his chair scrape against the floor. The shadows over my eyelids darken and I know that he is standing right over me. Once more, I feel the urge to scream and so I do. But nothing happens.

His face is so close to mine now that I can feel his hot breath on my neck as he whispers in my ear. ‘Hold on.’

I don’t know what the words mean, but the door opens and I am saved.

‘Oh, my God, Amber.’ My sister, Claire, has arrived.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ says Paul.

‘Of course I should. You should have called me sooner.’

‘I wish I hadn’t called you at all.’

I don’t understand the conflict between the two dark shadows looming over me. Claire and Paul have always got on.

‘Well, I’m here now. What happened?’ she asks, coming closer.

‘They found her a few miles from the house. The car is a wreck.’

‘Nobody cares about your bloody car.’

I never drive Paul’s car. I never drive.

‘Everything will be OK, Amber,’ says Claire, taking my hand. ‘I’m here now.’ Her cold fingers wrap themselves around my own and it takes me back to when we were young. She always liked holding hands. I didn’t.

‘She can’t hear you, she’s in a coma,’ says Paul, sounding strangely pleased.

‘A coma?’

‘Proud of yourself?’

‘I know you’re upset, but this isn’t my fault.’

‘Isn’t it? I thought you had a right to know, but you’re not welcome here.’

My mind is racing and I don’t understand anything that is being said, I feel like I’m in a parallel universe where nobody around me makes sense any more.

‘What happened to your hand?’ Claire asks.

What is wrong with his hand?

‘Nothing.’

‘You should get a doctor to look at that.’

‘It’s fine.’

The room I can’t see starts to spin. I struggle to stay on the surface, but the water swirls around and inside me, swallowing me back down into the darkness.

‘Paul, please. She’s my sister.’

‘She warned me not to trust you.’

‘You’re being ridiculous.’

‘Am I?’ Everything is so much quieter than before. ‘Get out.’

‘Paul!’

‘I said, get out!’

There’s no hesitation this time. I hear my sister’s heeled feet retreat from the room. The door opens and closes and I am alone again with a man who sounds like my husband, but behaves like a stranger.