His Perfect Lies Page 2

  “I won’t be on my own. I’ve got Lily.” I turned and patted the dog, who had pushed her nose between the two front seats and was licking the handbrake.

  “Mum, Lily’s a dog. She can’t talk.”

  “Then I’ve got Suzanne.”

  “Mum, Suzanne’s a good friend. She’s great. But she’s a woman. It’s not enough. Ask him to move in. It’s about flipping time.”

  I shrugged. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  Helena started the engine again. “He loves you, Mum. Why don’t you give him a chance?”

  I shrugged again and smiled. “Oh I don’t know. Maybe I don’t believe in love.”

  “Mum! Come on. You’ve been seeing him for, what, five years now? He’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” I corrected her.

  “I know that. I’m fab.” Helena laughed incongruously. It was incongruous, because despite the fact that she’s my world and knows it, Helena has never acted in a spoiled or demanding manner, nor has she ever taken my love for granted. She’s confident, talented, beautiful – but never brash.

  I stroked a lock of her sandy hair back from her face and looked into her eyes. “You are fab, sweetheart. And don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Promise me.”

  “Mum!” Helena switched off the engine and turned to face me. She fixed her eyes on mine. “Look at me, Mum.”

  It was as though she was the parent and I was the child at times. I could tell I was in for a lecture. I turned to face her. Her eyes were hazel in colour, like her father’s, and the same attractive almond shape. She had a very small spattering of freckles on her nose, as he did, and I’d noticed lately that when she was watching TV or concentrating hard her mouth would drop open slightly in a stunned expression that reminded me, painfully, of him.

  Helena took both my hands in hers. “You’ve got to stop this, Mummy, this over-compensating that you’ve been doing. I told you I’m okay with what happened. It wasn’t your fault. I understand.”

  I sighed. “I know. I mean, I know that you say that. And I hope that it’s true.”

  “What do you mean, you hope it’s true?”

  “Well, people repress things, don’t they?” I persisted. “You may be more upset about it than you realise.”

  “I’m not repressing anything,” pleaded Helena. “I promise.”

  I laughed. “That’s the whole point about repression, Helena. We don’t actually know that we’re repressed.”

  “Are you calling me repressed? Huh? Huh?” Helena picked up my handbag and started to hit me over the head with it. Lily sat up and started to bark loudly.

  “Stop it,” I shrieked, shielding my head with one arm and grabbing at my bag with the other. “You’re upsetting the dog, and besides, Zara’s present’s in there!”

  “Suffer! Suffer! You will pay for what you did!” Helena said in a robotic voice, then stopped, grabbed my bag back and tried to open it. “What have you got her, then?” she asked.

  “Makeup. And a book.” I opened the zip of my bag and showed her.

  “Fifty Shades of Grey!” Helena laughed. “This is so totally Zara. Are you sure she hasn’t read it, though?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. She’s never mentioned it.”

  “Hmm. I’m not so sure. I did catch her looking at Christian in a rather sexual manner the last time she was here. A Frenchman called Christian; he must be getting all kinds of offers at the moment, Mummy. You’d better get in there quick.”

  “Oh, give over.” I rolled my eyes. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “He’s a catch. He’s got his own money, his own hair, and his own teeth. Not to be sniffed at, at your age.”

  “Thanks!”

  “And most important, he adores you. He’s been living on his own long enough. He needs the love of a good woman. And you need the love of a good man. So where’s the problem?”

  I sighed.

  “He won’t wait forever, you know.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to live with a man again.”

  “Again? You haven’t lived with a man for twenty years. Not since Larsen, Mum. How do you know it won’t be fun?”

  I always smiled when she mentioned Larsen, as if she knew him, as if they were friends. She knew all about him, of course. She knew how crazy I’d once been about him, although we’d separated long before she was born. They say you never forget your first love, and it was true, I’d never really forgotten Larsen. He was still the romantic yardstick against which I measured the depth of my feelings for every man I met, even though I knew deep down that that kind of passion could never last.

  The truth was that my daughter was my passion, as she had been for the past eighteen years. But now, she wanted to spread her wings, to leave me, to go out into the world alone. She was worried about me, naturally – we’d always only really had each other – but she didn’t need to be concerned.

  Helena started humming. “I’m not in love... so don’t forget it...”

  I laughed and tickled her in the ribs. She fought me off, then patted my head. I’m at least ten centimetres shorter than her, which amuses her endlessly. She’d taken lately to patting me, the way she patted Lily, and resting her chin on my head.

  “Never mind, Mummy,” she said. “Never mind. Okay, then. Are you ready? Let’s hit the road.”

  *

  The lesson went well. Helena turned out to be a competent driver. We circled the block a couple of times more and then drove to the Place Aristide and circled that for a bit too, before heading out to Montlignon and up to the forest at Montmorency. It was a crisp, bright morning, perfect for Christmas, and we stopped to look at the lake. Helena fiddled with the seats and checked out the glove compartment and the boot while I leaned against the bonnet and watched Lily racing back and forth looking for squirrels.

  We were late getting back, and Zara had walked from the station and was there when we arrived, sitting on the porch wearing her trademark brown tea-cosy hat, which was pulled down over her ears. She was sitting on top of a small floral vanity case. I could see immediately that she’d put on weight, but it suited her. She’d always been so thin; she could stand to gain a few kilos. Her hair was longer too and she had a few more lines on her face. Well, I could talk. Didn’t we all?

  “Bonjour!” announced Zara, who despite spending an average of two to three months with us every year for the past eighteen years, had never properly learned to speak French. She still spoke it as though it were a funny, made-up language. “Où est la salle de bain, s’il vous plait? J’ai un poisson dans ma poche.”

  “Tu peux me tutoyer, Zara,” said Helena.

  “You what, guv?” asked Zara, blinking and putting on a Cockney accent.

  Helena ran up the steps towards Zara and flung her arms round her, lifting her up from the waist and holding her in the air.

  “Learn... to... speak... French,” ordered Helena. “Tu. You can call me – and Mum – ’tu’. It’s familiar.”

  “Chew,” repeated Zara. “Okay, I’ll try and be more familiar in the future. Anyway, a Joyeux Noël to one and all.”

  “Happy Christmas, darling,” I said, taking her suitcase from her and opening the door. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” smiled Zara, following me into the kitchen. She seemed well, and I was pleased. You never knew quite how you would find Zara; she’d been well, for the most part, since the major breakdown she’d experienced nearly twenty years ago. She now seemed to have settled into the right combination of medications. But there had been the occasional relapse over the years, at times of stress, and she’d had more than one of her episodes whilst here, resulting in more than one visit to the psychiatric hospital, the Clinique Médicale in Pontoise, over twenty kilometres away. The last time she’d been there for nearly three weeks and it didn’t help that she couldn’t speak the language. I hoped for her sake that that her illness wouldn’
t creep up on her again anytime soon.

  Helena filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She peered out of the window as a car pulled up outside. “Christian’s here,” she said.

  “Ooh là là,” said Zara. “Très bien.”

  Christian came in, smiling.

  “Salut Zara,” he kissed her.

  Zara smiled back coquettishly, pouted slightly, and adjusted her bra strap. “How are you, Christian?”

  I grinned to myself. Zara just couldn’t help herself; whenever there was a man in the room, she always turned into Marilyn Monroe.

  “Good. Good. And you?”

  “I’m well.”

  “You look well. That’s very good. So, you like the car?” asked Christian, turning to Helena, his face beaming.

  “Oui, c’est parfait. Merci.” She gave him a kiss.

  “Oh, it’s nothing to do with me,” said Christian. “Thank your mother.”

  “Liar. I know it was down to you,” said Helena. “You found the perfect car for me, you really did. We’ve just been right up to Montmorency.”

  “She drives well,” I told him.

  Christian put his arm round my waist and kissed me before handing me a carrier bag. I took it from his hand. “What have we here?”

  “Oysters, lobster, champagne, fois gras – and the cake,” Christian smiled.

  “Ah. La Bûche de Noël.”

  “Hush your Christmas Mouth,” said Zara.

  “Bûche. It’s a log,” I laughed. “Not a mouth. A Yule Log. Look.” I pulled out the box containing the traditional chocolate log-shaped cake, which was covered in chocolate butter cream and powdered ‘snow’ frosting. There was miniature fruit and sugar holly and berries, toadstools and even twigs and trees. The cake was intricate and detailed.

  “Let me see!” Helena pulled the box from my hands.

  “Careful!”

  “Oh, wow. It’s amazing, even better than last year’s.”

  “It’s a beauty, Christian.” I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Christian replied.

  We set about preparing the Christmas meal, but soon Christian and I were left alone, working contentedly together in the kitchen, while Helena and Zara sloped off to the computer.

  “Dating sites,” I said to Christian. “Bound to be.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, they’re perfect for Zara. They provide the no-strings opportunity for outrageous flirtation that she enjoys.”

  “And Helena?”

  “She thinks it’s fun. But I don’t think she’s seriously trying to meet anyone. She’s far too interested in her sporting career.”

  “All the same, you don’t worry?”

  I smiled. “You know me. I always worry. But she’s eighteen. It’s her life, at the end of the day.”

  Once the turkey was in the oven and the canapés prepared, Christian opened a bottle of red wine and sat down at the table with a newspaper. I surveyed him with fondness. Helena was right, he was a catch – there was no doubt about that. He was a true gentleman for a start. Knowing that I would be wanting to catch up with Zara, to find out her news, he had inconspicuously extricated himself, leaving me to the girls and them to me. I watched him for a moment, his back hunched and his dark head bent over the paper, wine glass in his hand. A big man – almost too large for my small kitchen – Christian had a look of Gerard Depardieu about him, in fact. His skin was a natural olive and he had a long Roman nose. I would describe him as nice looking, if not exactly handsome.

  I watched as he pulled his spectacles out of his top pocket and perched them on his nose. He was very short-sighted and his glasses were big and old-fashioned; they magnified his eyes so that, close up, they were the size of small saucers. The first time he’d tried to kiss me whilst wearing them, I’d screamed and fallen over backwards. Helena had been present and still found it amusing to this day.

  I found Zara and Helena at the computer in the study.

  “Look at this, Mum,” said Helena as I entered the room. She waved me over impatiently. “This is the one. It’s perfect.”

  I peered at the screen. “London South Bank University,” I read out loud.

  “It’s in Southwark. London. The Academy of Sport,” she said, excitedly. “They do sports science. It’s one of the best in the country!”

  I was stunned. “London? You want to study in London?”

  “Why not?” Helena swivelled round and looked up at me, her face lit up with excitement. “They’ve got exactly the course I’m looking for.”

  “I thought we were looking at Panthéon-Sorbonne or Mame-la-Vallée?” I said. “Or the Claude Bernard at Lyon?”

  “I know, Mum. But this is better. Way better.”

  “It is?”

  The conversation was making me uncomfortable and I didn’t really know why. It was Helena’s future, as I was always reminding her, and I’d never really attempted to interfere. I’d prided myself, in fact, on my parenting style: supportive but detached. Which didn’t mean that I didn’t worry about her, but I tried not to let her notice. All in all, for a single mum, I had been pretty relaxed all round really, by anyone’s standards. There had never been any limits on what she could do or achieve (within the bounds of reasonableness and safety, of course). I knew that loving someone meant giving them freedom and choice, and I wanted her to be independent – to make her own decisions, good or bad, to experience everything she needed to and to make her own mistakes. Whilst we were extremely close, I’d hoped that was simply because she had wanted to be, not because I’d moulded her that way, or made her into an extension of myself. Metaphorically speaking, I’d always been careful to walk just behind her, instead of leading her, to see which direction she would take if given the space, the free will, and the confidence to choose her own path.

  And yet, here it was – my test. Had she ever really chosen a path that I hadn’t liked? Was it just good fortune that she’d chosen sport over nightclubs? That she’d chosen to hang out at racetracks rather than café’s? That she’d chosen to get up at five a.m. and swim, rather than lie in bed all morning like other teenagers? That she’d never smoked (I hoped) or drank or partied, and that she was motivated to study hard and get the very best grades?

  She wasn’t perfect, of course. We had our arguments, for sure. She was messy, for a start. Her bedroom was a tip and there were always clothes all over the floor. She had to be nagged to help with the housework and to take the dog out – “I’m tired, I’ve run/swum/ridden twenty K’s today” was her constant plea in mitigation – and she often didn’t listen properly when I talked to her, so that I had to repeat myself, over and over again. She was terrible with money and she was always losing things (that brand new pair of riding boots I’d given her last Christmas, and my Tiffany Twist Bow pendant necklace that I’d lent her for her school prom). So, yes, we bickered, even argued, as every mother and daughter do. But what had I ever really had to properly fall out with her about? When had she ever rebelled?

  It wasn’t surprising therefore that neither Helena nor Zara picked up on my disquiet. Neither had any reason to understand why I was rooted to the spot, barely listening to what was being said.

  “...sports psychologist, professional nutritionist, therapist or... coaching and instructing.” Helena finished reading from the careers list on the computer screen and turned to look at me. “So what do you think, Mum?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, the course is vocational, isn’t it? I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve always asked what I’m going to do next. So, I get a degree in Sport and Exercise Science, but the chance to gain coaching awards and professional accreditation too.”

  Zara chipped in, “Plus think of all the fit men!”

  Helena gave Zara a shove. “You’ve got a one-track mind, you have. But,” she paused. “Yeah, think about all the men.”

  She and Zara both burst into laughter.

  Coaching. My God, I hadn’t thought of that. Sh
e was interested in sports coaching, like him. Another small but not insignificant connection between them. Was it in the genes?

  “How long is it?” I asked.

  “Three years.”

  “And where would you stay?”

  “Mum!” Helena laughed. “Where would I stay wherever I went? There’ll be halls of residence.”

  “Or you can stay with me,” offered Zara. “It’s not that far from me.”

  Helena turned to Zara. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not. It would be fun.”

  My mind immediately went into overdrive at that point. I loved Zara dearly, but she was hardly the type to keep my daughter on the straight and narrow; it was more likely to be the other way round.

  Helena flung her arms round Zara and squealed. “Yay! Oh my God. This is such a good idea!”

  I forced myself to smile. “Well, let’s have a think about it. There’s plenty of time to look at all the options.”

  “What’s there to think about?” Helena shrugged.

  “Oh. Sorry, Lizzie,” said Zara. “Are you not keen?”

  “It’s not that,” I lied. “It’s just... well, she hasn’t even seen it yet. Been there, you know. You know nothing about it, really.”

  “Mum, we don’t know anything about Lyon, or the Université de Paris either. You never let that put you off.”

  “We were going to go and visit,” I said weakly.

  “Well, I’ll go and visit LSBU.”

  LSBU. It was already LSBU. She’d made up her mind already. It was London she was after. That was the thing.

  Helena read my mind. “I’ve always liked the idea of living in London.”

  “Have you?” I was shocked. She’d never mentioned it! Of course, we’d been to London, numerous times; it was only a couple of hours and two train journeys away. And we’d stayed with Zara numerous times over the years, too. It wasn’t as if she were talking about anything bizarre or unusual. In reality, it was a natural choice.

  “I won’t charge you rent,” Zara was saying.