Living a lie part 2 & last

Living a lie part 2 & last

By Janet Baldey

In another part of the house, a cistern flushed and I waited for sounds I was all too familiar with; the creak of floorboards, the slam of a door. My mind filled in the blanks and through the layers of brick and plaster, I imagined the sure, quick tapping of his fingertips on the keyboard. There would be no hesitation. The brain driving those fingers didn’t struggle; it spewed fantasies that boiled like rivers in spate, gathering momentum as they raced across the page.

I left my study and climbed the stairs. My husband was crouched in front of his computer like a spider about to devour its prey.

        

‘Morning Garry’. My lips brushed the back of his hair. As he turned his glasses reflected the sunlight making his eyes unreadable.

        

‘I’ve finished, Margot!’  He pressed ‘print’ and with a staccato rattle, pages rolled into sight.   

        

‘Well done.  Look forward to reading it later.’

        

All that day Garry had the jitters. He settled to nothing but walked about whistling tunelessly through his teeth, a habit he had when nervous and which drove me to distraction.  

        

‘Garry!’  I said. ‘Go for a walk. Leave me in peace and I’ll read your story.’

        

After I had finished, I sat for a long time watching the dusk slide across the lawn.     Eventually, I stirred myself and automatically picked up my coffee staring at its wrinkled surface in surprise. I glanced at my watch. The hours had flown by. Garry’s manuscript was magnificent. The others were good and I was sure one or two would be best-sellers but this one was different.  It swallowed the reader whole, spat him out and left him gasping for breath. It worried me. His writing had matured. Soon, he would no longer need me. I forced myself to face the truth - he didn’t need me now.  

        

I was smiling as I entered his room.  

        

‘This is good.’ I said.‘By far the best thing you’ve written so far.’ I opened a drawer and slipped it in to join its fellows; the pile of manuscripts that I secretly thought of as my pension pot.

        

Garry looked incredulous ‘Aren’t you going to send it to your Agent?’

        

‘You’re not quite ready Garry. Trust me.’

        

His pasty face flushed brick red as he stood up. ‘Margot, I’ve sweated blood over this.  I’m ready, I know I am.  And, I’m not the only one who thinks so…’

        

His voice trailed away but it was too late, the echo remained. As I stared at him, a muscle started to dance at the corner of his mouth.

        

‘Have you shown this to anyone Garry?’ 

        

His features sharpened and suddenly he looked crafty.  Then, his chin came up and his shoulders squared. ‘Look, Margot, I’m sorry but I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.’

        

‘A mistake?’

        

‘Our collaboration. Our marriage. Everything.’  He flung out his arms and looked miserable.

        

The tick of the clock sounded very loud as we stared at each other. In that moment, I knew the truth.  There was another woman. There must be. But who?  And when did they meet?  Garry rarely left the house. Then, I remembered the fat girl gazing at him in adoration.  Of course!   Wednesday evenings, when I was teaching.  She no longer attended and neither did Garry. At last, I remembered to breathe.

        

‘It’s been a long day Garry and you’ve been overworking.  Go to bed now and sleep on it.  We’ll discuss it over supper tomorrow. Maybe, I’m wrong.’

        

Of course, I was never stupid enough to believe that Garry had ever truly loved me.   When we met, he had been a driven loner, starved of human companionship. I had taken an interest in his writing and he had become infatuated.  I had taken advantage of this but now it seemed our marriage was threatened. I felt sick when I thought about the possible consequences. I took a deep breath and brought myself under control.  I thought of all the months I had spent coaching Garry and how far he had progressed and I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached. The more I thought about it, the more determined I became; there was no way that I would walk away and leave another woman to reap the benefit of my hard work. All through that endless night, I paced the floor, polishing a plan to a high gloss until it gleamed.

        

It was just after dawn when I left the house. Garry was particularly fond of wild mushrooms and they were best gathered early. The summer had been a disaster; for much of the time, the sky had hidden behind purple clouds that swelled and burst like ripe plums releasing a deluge of rain onto flooded land.  Now, as so often happens in early Autumn, the sky was a cloudless blue above a fleece of mist thrown over the fields.  Carving footsteps into the dew, I walked towards the woods, a basket on my arm. The wet summer had produced a bumper crop of mushrooms and soon my basket was full. But, I hadn’t finished, I was looking for something special and thought I knew where to find it.   As I walked between ragged trees I kicked up sparks of leaves, searching the forest floor.  At last, I saw it, half hidden behind a rotted stump. The glimmer of palest green like a piece of the moon fallen to earth. As I looked closer I saw there were two of them, huddled together in a sinister conspiracy. Pulling on rubber gloves, I picked them and a faint aroma of rose petals drifted towards me.  Amanita Phalloides.

        

Many years earlier I’d had an affair with nature; I’ve forgotten most of what I learned but I’ve never forgotten Death Cap. For twenty four hours, there are no symptoms, then agonizing stomach cramps begin accompanied by diarrhoea and vomiting.  You’d wish for death. Then, you seem to recover but deadly toxins have invaded your body, destroying both liver and kidneys and a few days later, you get your wish. There is no cure. There is no treatment.

 Flavoured with garlic, cream and a dash of brandy, Garry never suspected the extra ingredient added to his portion. Anyway, he gobbled his food; just one of his habits I had grown to detest.

* * *

I thought I had been so careful but the trouble with living a lie is that one can never relax.    I didn’t release the first manuscript until six months after the funeral.  During those six months, I laboriously edited all of Garry’s work, altering the style ever so slightly until I thought no one would suspect.  My agent certainly didn’t.   She was ecstatic.

        

‘Just when I thought you were finished. You produce this masterpiece, you slyboots.’   Removing a cigarette from her cherry red lips, her mouth stretched into a delighted smile.

        

During the next few years, my life changed beyond all recognition.  Releasing other manuscripts like spurts from a rusty faucet, I became famous. I was courted, both by the literati and the general public, the latter helped by the universal appeal of my books and a generous portion of television interviews.  My life began to glitter.  People accosted me in the street, the money rolled in and I began to think of buying a castle in Scotland.  

Looking back, I realize that was when I made my mistake.  I became complacent. With sublime carelessness, I released Garry’s last novel almost unchanged.  It was a stupendous success.  Almost before the print had had time to dry, my phone rang off the hook with plans for TV mini-series and lecture tours, all offers being swept aside when a certain film producer entered the arena.

On the day my plan disintegrated, a wintry sun sparkled flecks of granite in the steps as I stood outside my publisher’s door.  Carefully, I made my way down to street level.  My head was reeling.  I had never been good with figures but one thing had got through to me during that euphoric meeting.  I now had enough money to live in luxury for the rest of my days.  But old habits die hard and I ignored the line of purring taxis and walked towards the Station.  On my way, I paused outside an exclusive patisserie ogling pyramids piled high with pastries studded with crystallized fruit and oozing cream.  On an impulse, I decided to treat myself.  I’d always had a weakness for afternoon tea and after all, money was no longer a problem.       

        

I was on my third meringue when I saw her. A great bear of a woman swathed in fur.   Trying hard not to choke I turned away quickly but was too late.  A moment later a shadow fell over my table and I was forced to feign surprise as I glanced up. I hadn’t seen Mary Ward for something like thirty years when we were both struggling would-be authors. Then I was discovered and we drifted apart.  I learned later she had married and left the country.  If weight equaled prosperity, she had done well.

        

‘Margot’ Her voice made the cutlery rattle. ‘I can’t believe my eyes.   It’s been so long…’   Without asking, she threw herself into the chair opposite. It groaned in protest.

Her face drooped in a semblance of pity. ‘I heard about your loss. So sad. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral but I’ve been abroad.’

Tilting her head to one side, she looked at me.

‘You are looking extraordinarily well. I hear you are quite famous now. I’ve read all your novels.’ There was a long pause. ‘I must say I was surprised. They are so unlike your usual style.’

She laughed; a rippling sound that came from nowhere. ‘Perhaps something rubbed off.’

I stared at her in bewilderment.  Then she continued.

‘My daughter was devastated when Garry died.   She was a close friend of his, you know.  Or perhaps you didn’t?’

She raised one eyebrow. I began to feel uneasy.  What daughter? Then, my brain dropped into drive. I stared at her doughy features. I could see the resemblance clearly now. The fat girl was Mary’s daughter.  My stomach took a dive off a very high board.  

‘She showed me some of his work.’

The sentence hung in the air. The silence lengthened and I looked at her. Her eyes were as hard as marbles and I knew that she had guessed.

I had to do something.  Hating her, I turned my rings and reached across the table towards her. Cupping her hands between mine, I squeezed until the stones cut into her flesh.

‘Darling, we have so much to catch up on.   Why don’t you come to supper?   I’ll cook us something special.’

Wincing, she removed her hands from my sweaty grasp.   She looked quickly at my cakes and then away again.

‘I think that would be an excellent idea.  But no food for me.’  She patted her waistline.  ‘Strict diet you know.’   

Copyright Janet Baldey