The Lies You Tell Read online

  THE LIES YOU TELL

  Ruth Mancini

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

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  About The Lies You Tell

  “I once read that the end of a relationship is like being involved in a road traffic accident. Which is quite fitting really, given what happened.”

  Cambridge, 1992.

  For Lizzie Taylor, one moment changes her life forever. When she accidentally steps out in the path of an oncoming car, an old friend comes to her rescue and everything she thought made her happy starts to unravel: the long-term boyfriend no longer feels like her soulmate and her job isn’t fulfilling anymore.

  Lizzie starts to make drastic changes, not knowing that a terrible betrayal will soon rip apart the new life she’s built. Set in the early 1990s in Cambridge and London, it’s a story of divided loyalties and the moral choices we face everyday.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About The Lies You Tell

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About Ruth Mancini

  Also by Ruth Mancini

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  For Tracey and Clare, with love

  “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

  —George Santayana

  “Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.”

  —Roger Waters, Pink Floyd

  1

  I once read that the end of a relationship is like being involved in a road traffic accident. Which is quite fitting really, given what happened. Only you’d probably think of an accident as something sudden, out of the blue, and I suppose breaking up is like that for some people. For me, though, the road had been rocky for some time, and I could see all too clearly what was about to happen: a multi-car pileup. People screaming and car horns blaring. And here we were, me and Larsen, gliding towards it, the wheels beneath us slipping and spinning out of control.

  It was spring 1992, a typical blustery April afternoon. The streets of Cambridge were gloomy, the pavements wet, and the turrets and spires of the city in the distance were lost in a sepia haze. A strong gust of wind and a smattering of chilly raindrops assaulted me as I jogged across Parker’s Piece, and crossed the road at Gonville Place to cut through to the red and grey brick building on the corner that housed the College of Arts. Even after over seven years of living in Cambridge, it still surprised me that such an ancient and architecturally stunning city could be cocooned within the boundaries of what was, on the outer fringes, a perfectly modest late twentieth century town. But this very building, of course, was where it all started for me; this was what had brought me here, to Larsen’s home, and into his life. It suddenly seemed a very long time ago.

  I cut through the cemetery behind the college and paused for breath, ignoring the droplets of rain that were dribbling over my forehead. I looked back again at the brick and glass building behind me and the strangest of feelings washed over me, something that I could only describe as homesickness. But for what? I had my own home – a pretty two-bedroomed Victorian terraced house in Vinery Road – and a stable life with Larsen. I had friends. I had a budding career in broadcasting. My life was full and busy and I had no reason to feel insecure. And yet, something was missing.

  I shifted my swimming bag on my shoulder and set off again down Coldham’s Lane, breaking into a jog, and a few minutes later I pushed through the revolving door into the swimming pools complex. I was met by a welcome wall of heat and the familiar scent of chlorine. I picked up my ticket and walked into the changing room, hot steam from the showers rising up to greet me. I didn’t in fact much feel like taking off all my clothes and immersing myself in cold water; I was wet and cold enough already. There was also a knot in my stomach and a heaviness in my chest that was more than the predictable outcome of having drunk the best part of a bottle of wine by myself and smoked numerous cigarettes the night before. I knew that I should have talked to Larsen long ago about the way I was feeling, about the thing that had come between us. But I couldn’t name it; I didn’t know what it was. So I carried on as if nothing was wrong. Because even thinking that I could lose him made me hold my breath until it stopped short in my lungs and nothing came back out again. Because saying it would make it real for both of us and I didn’t know how or why it had come to this.

  My heart sank even further as I exited the changing rooms onto the pool side; there were no lap lanes marked off. The pool was packed full of dive-bombing eleven-year-olds and elderly people doing widths. (“You’re going the wrong way!” I always wanted to shout.) It wasn’t the tranquil haven I had expected; it was one big wet free-for-all. I sighed, pulled on my goggles, took a deep breath, and plunged in, fighting my way in a frustrated crawl down to the shallow end. A girl on her back clipped me on the right ear as she meandered past me in an aimless kind of circle, then carried on regardless, while I wobbled around in her slipstream. I could feel the tension creeping up my shoulder blades and setting into my jaw. A length and a half later, there was a huge splash to my left and an elbow jabbed painfully into my hip. I was in mid stroke. I swallowed a large mouthful of water, choked and gasped for breath. My goggles filled up with water. I shot an angry and waterlogged glance around me and grabbed for the edge of the pool.

  A face appeared. “You okay?”

  I pulled off my goggles and hauled myself up onto the edge. “It’s supposed to be lengths,” I said, making no attempt to mask my irritation. “Two ‘til four.”

  “Sorry, love,” said the lifeguard. “Not in school holidays. Different timetable.”

  “So where’s that advertised? How is anyone supposed to know that?” I was simultaneously angry and ashamed at the tone of my voice. I seemed to have been speaking like this to people a lot lately. I pulled the elastic back on the strap of my goggles. They pinged out of my hands and landed at the lifeguard’s feet.

  “There’s a new timetable in reception.” The lifeguard bent down beside me and, seated on his haunches, picked up my goggles and began adjusting the strap. I watched him with a confusing combination of irritation and gratitude. I knew how to fix my own goggles, for Christ’s sake. But then, despite what Larsen thought, I didn’t always enjoy doing everything myself. I just never seemed to have had much choice.

  “There you go,” said the lifeguard, rubbing at the plastic lenses with his t-shirt, and handing my goggles back to me.

  “Thanks.” I looked at him more closely. He was tall, well over six feet, with thick sandy-coloured hair, hazel eyes, and, I noticed, eyebrows that met slightly in the middle. “Never trust anyone whose eyebrows meet in the middle,” Larsen had told me once. I had forgotten to ask him why. I smiled involuntarily at this thought, and the lifeguard smiled back. His eyes met mine and I turned away, embarrassed.

  “So, do you come here often?” he asked. I looked back at him, incredulously. Was he really trying to chat me up? “I just mean... you’re a strong swimmer,” he added. “Your technique’s good. I was wondering if y
ou had ever competed?”

  “I used to,” I said. “County level. The ASA. It was a while ago.”

  “You should give it another go.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t got time for that amount of training.”

  “Well, if you change your mind... I do a bit of coaching. I’ve got time for a few private lessons, if you’re interested?” There was something suggestive in the way that he said this and he backed it up with a raising of his eyebrows and a smile.

  “I’ll think about it. Anyway... must get on,” I muttered, embarrassed at his attentions and feeling disloyal to Larsen. I stood up to dive back in but became suddenly very conscious of the slippery tightness of my Speedo, which was more than a little chlorine-worn round the chest area. I had been meaning to buy a new one. I lowered myself back down again and glanced back over my shoulder. The lifeguard was still smiling at me.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Lizzie.”

  “See you again, Lizzie?”

  I nodded without meaning to. “Maybe,” I added, then turned and plunged awkwardly into the water.

  At precisely twenty-nine lengths, I went through the pain barrier, the lifeguard was forgotten, and the kids went home for tea. As my body grew lighter and my strokes became effortless and even, my thoughts drifted back to Larsen. The ephemeral nature of everything scared me. Why did nothing last? I couldn’t bear the thought of failure, of losing him, of giving up. And yet I wasn’t happy. I just didn’t know why. Was it me? Was I congenitally dissatisfied? And if so, what did it matter whether I was with Larsen or... or that lifeguard, for instance? How could I be sure that I would not arrive back here again in another seven years’ time, in this fog of unhappiness, the pain of yet another break-up looming up ahead in the distance? This is what scared me the most: how could I be sure that I would ever be happy again?

  I showered and dressed. In the foyer, I spotted the lifeguard, still in his shorts and flip flops, leaning with one leg up against a wall and chatting with a young woman in a pink neon leotard and Spandex tights, who had clearly just come out of the dance studio. She had long blonde hair and, I noticed, an exceptionally tiny waist. I watched as he appeared about to place one hand on her arm, but then he looked up and saw me and took his hand quickly away. He smiled at me and I smiled back briefly as I passed. What a flirt he is, I thought. I knew the type: good looking and knows it. And chases anything in Spandex. Or a see-through Speedo. I fed some coins into the vending machine and pressed the buttons. My cereal bar wiggled a little and went through the motions of dispensing itself but had barely moved by the time the metal robot arm came back and captured it again. I glanced up to look for an assistant and saw the lifeguard coming towards me. The woman in Spandex was nowhere to be seen.

  “Having trouble?” he said.

  “This happens every time. I don’t get it. F6. I pushed F6. This machine never works properly.”

  “You have to let the money drop down fully first. Otherwise it gets confused. You just need to wait a minute before you make your selection,” he said. He smiled and looked me straight in the eye. “Although, of course, sometimes that’s difficult when you know straight away exactly what it is that you want.”

  “That was really corny,” I said, shaking my head.

  The lifeguard just laughed and shrugged his shoulders, as if he didn’t really need to try that hard. He waved his hand at a junior member of staff and clicked his fingers, beckoning him over. The young lad appeared beside him, blinking vaguely.

  “Keys, Sean,” he said. “Hurry up. Off you go.” Sean glanced up at him and rushed off at a pace.

  “So,” said the lifeguard. “What are you doing now? I finish my shift in a minute. Do you fancy a coffee somewhere?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I need to get home. I’ve got work in the morning.”

  “Come off it,” he said. “It’s only four o’clock!”

  “Yes, but I’ve got an early start. Really early.”

  “Why, what do you do?”

  “Radio. I’m a presenter.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed. Which station?”

  “Oh God, only local. You know. GCFM. I’m normally on the lunchtime programme, but it’s my first shot at Breakfast tomorrow. I need to be up bright and early.”

  “So you are... Lizzie... Lizzie...” He clicked his fingers again, making a good show of searching for my not-so-very famous name.

  “...Taylor,” I finished for him.

  “That’s it. I know the name. Though I can’t say I’ve ever listened. But I will now. Definitely will now. Ah, I’ve just realised. You’re Elizabeth Taylor. Ha ha. That’s funny.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “You’ve heard that before, I suppose?”

  “Just a few times,” I sighed.

  Sean came back with the keys to the machine. I watched uncomfortably as he fiddled around putting different keys in the lock, trying to find the right one to open it. I could tell that the lifeguard was getting impatient.

  “Hurry up Sean, the lady’s waiting,” he said. And then, “Oh, for God’s sake, give them here!” He snatched the bunch of keys from Sean, opened the glass door and released my cereal bar. He handed the keys back to Sean and steered him back in the direction he’d just come from, giving him a little push as he walked away.

  “You just can’t get the staff,” he commented tragically. He handed me my snack. “So. I suppose I am just going to have to settle for hearing your voice, then. On the radio. For now, at least.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I think you are.”

  Outside, the rain had stopped. I walked up Coldham’s Lane, my hair still wet and tangled, the late afternoon sun barely warming my numb ears. I’d buy tuna and pasta and salad for dinner, I decided, and a bottle of sparkling water. No wine tonight. And no fags. And only one more night without Larsen. He was away on tour with his band, due back tomorrow. One more night to try and figure out what it was that I actually wanted from him. Or, more to the point, from myself.

  I stood at the edge of the road, waiting for a gap in the traffic. The dual carriageway was busy; it was the beginning of the rush hour. I shouldn’t really cross there, I knew. There was a pedestrian crossing further up the road near the traffic lights, but that would mean an extra couple of hundred yards’ walk up the road, and the same back down again on the other side if I wanted to get off the road and cut through the park. I watched for several moments until the traffic slowed for the lights up ahead and then stepped out, putting a hand up and smiling at the driver of the car in front of me who nodded and slowed to let me cross. But then, as I ran across the next lane towards the crash barrier, I saw a car heading straight towards me.

  I heard a voice scream from a distance, amid a squealing of brakes. I tried to pull myself back but it was too late. My ankle twisted painfully and I stumbled in the road. The car in front of me screeched to a halt. I felt the bumper hit my leg and then I found myself sprawled, face down, my hands and chin bouncing against the hot metal of the bonnet. For a brief moment I lay prostrate, almost nose to nose with the startled driver who was staring into my face through the windscreen. And then I was thrown into the air.

  I hit the ground with a thud. It felt as though my heart had stopped.

  A young woman rushed over and kneeled down beside me. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. I could hear car doors slamming and people talking nearby. The woman leaned forward and put her arms around me. She was wearing a black fake fur duffle coat. I tasted fake fur and everything went black. The woman sat back up and the sky reappeared above me.

  “I think we’d better get out of the road,” I mumbled. My heart was beating like crazy. I felt really scared for some reason I couldn’t fathom. I could sense that a small crowd was gathering round, but all I could see was a pale yellow sky, and the clouds moving eerily above me, as if I were somewhere else, stuck in a parallel universe, or in some horror movie.
>
  “No! You mustn’t move!” The woman’s voice sounded familiar. She leaned forward again and I squinted up at her pale face and her long dark hair, which was hanging over me, tickling my chin.

  She gasped. “Lizzie? Lizzie Taylor! I don’t believe it!”

  “Catherine?” I breathed, recognising her as an old school friend I hadn’t seen for years.

  She bent down and kissed me. “Oh Lizzie, it’s so good to see you. You’re going to be alright, darling. Don’t worry. But you mustn’t move.”

  I couldn’t move at all, in fact. It felt like Catherine and her big black coat were still pinning me down, but at the same time I could see her standing up and talking to the driver of the car that had hit me. I heard her say, “Never mind whose fault it was! Has anyone called an ambulance?”

  An irrational ice-cold knot of terror tightened in my gut. “I don’t need an ambulance,” I protested, but my words were lost in the stream of traffic, which was now moving again in the next lane. I could feel the back of my head becoming heavier, and then everything really did go black. From somewhere nearby a voice bellowed out, “She just walked out in front of me!” but I was zipping through the air by then. When I glanced down, I could see the road below me; but instead of a busy dual carriageway, it had turned into an empty tree-lined avenue, a quiet street with a lone little girl with auburn hair and a pink dress, dancing on the pavement in front of a gate, crying. The silence was suddenly shattered by an ambulance, turning into the street, its siren blaring.

  I zoomed back down into the blackness and into the road again. Catherine was leaning over me and calling my name. Her voice became a man’s voice and she was wearing a green uniform.

  “Lizzie?” said the voice again. “Can you hear me?”

  I realised that this was not Catherine but a paramedic. “Oh God,” I groaned. “I’m not going to be doing Breakfast tomorrow, am I?”