Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks
8
Saturday, 18th June 2016
Simon really wanted to make it up to Millie for leaving her alone in the bathroom. When he thought about her battered head, her aching elbow, when he imagined the moment of panic she must have felt when she slipped, the fear, the confusion – he hated himself. He got up early on the Saturday morning and made pancakes with her. The first couple were misshapen, but he told her that they looked like Mickey Mouse’s ears and she was kind enough to agree with him. He got into his groove and then made twice as many as they could possibly eat. They took some up to Daisy in bed because Millie wanted to, even though breakfast in bed was usually only something that occurred on birthdays or Mother’s Day. As it happened, Daisy was already in the shower. But they persuaded her to put on her robe and climb back into bed to eat them. She said they were delicious. There was a lot of smiling. Simon’s smiles were bashful, then hopeful, then rather pleased with himself. Daisy’s were tentative, possibly forced, certainly smaller than he’d have hoped. Millie’s smiles were the most fabulous and uncomplicated. Her smiles buoyed everyone up. Like a life raft.
Daisy said she had a lot of marking to do. Simon realised that she’d probably intended to do it the night before but had had to abandon it to dash to the hospital. Usually Millie spent Saturday morning at ballet school and Daisy marked her books whilst she sat in the car waiting for the classes to finish, she had to do it this way because the ballet school was a serious one and not the sort that allowed the mothers to sit on chairs along the wall, chatting and distracting. However, Millie wasn’t allowed to dance for a week or so because of her injury. Simon offered to take her to the park instead but even that caused Daisy to look aggravated. ‘She can’t play on the swings or slides. She has a suspected concussion.’
‘We’ll just have a stroll about,’ he replied. Daisy didn’t look convinced. Her brow was knitted with concern. Simon decided not to pursue the matter. He wanted to entertain his child, yes, but he also wanted to please his wife. He’d woken up ashamed. Of course Millie was his child. Of course Daisy would never be unfaithful and then pass off another man’s child as his. That was madness. He was mortified by his own stupidity and only glad that he hadn’t shared his fears with anyone else, grateful that no one could read his mind.
‘How about we go and buy a tent?’ he suggested.
Millie had been begging to go camping for weeks now. She’d seen people camp on the beach during half term and fallen in love with the adventure and freedom that sleeping outside offered. They didn’t own any camping equipment, it wasn’t Daisy’s idea of fun. Simon used to camp as a boy, he’d been a Scout, and as a young man he’d had a few rowdy nights under the stars at festivals. He had a vague idea that one day they could all go on a family camping trip and he’d impress them with his tent pitching skills. Or, if Daisy wasn’t up for that, then maybe a father-daughter camping trip. It would be fun. Not now, not while Millie was injured. But the weather was starting to warm up, maybe they could camp in the garden to start with, to see if Millie caught on to it. If so, they could go further afield at a later date. He suggested as much to Daisy, taking care to do so when Millie was not in earshot, because Daisy would appreciate them talking about it as parents first and reaching a consensus before Millie’s exuberance railroaded them into a decision. ‘It would take her mind off her injury,’ Simon pointed out. ‘We don’t have to buy a tent. We can borrow one off someone.’
‘I’m not sure. Not all night, not when we’re still monitoring her. But maybe you could put up a tent, make a den, cook supper on a stove in the garden. She could fall to sleep out there and then you could carry her into her bed,’ Daisy conceded.
Millie loved the plan. She and Simon travelled by tube to Holland Park to see their friends, Luke and Connie Baker. They had three kids and all the trappings of a middle class west London family life. They owned little fold-out chairs that ‘Came in handy on prize-giving day or at the races’, they had a picnic basket with glass, silverware and china ‘for Glyndebourne’, and a roof rack that was useful when collecting the two-metre tall Christmas tree that they bought from a Chelsea garden centre every Christmas. Simon guessed they’d have camping equipment. One phone call to Luke had confirmed that indeed they had. Luke laughed and told Simon that a few years ago they’d tried camping, ‘Connie and my girls hated it. We spent a bloody fortune on all the gear. Only ever used it once.’ Luke laughed about things like that. He and Connie were loaded, the waste didn’t matter as long as it made an amusing anecdote. ‘Borrow what you like. It’s good to know it’s getting used.’
Luke was an architect. He sometimes put interior design work Simon’s way, decent work, Simon couldn’t complain. Connie was a photographer and was managing to make a good living out of it even though everyone had an iPhone and filters nowadays, and could take decent snaps for themselves. Simon had known Luke for twenty-something years, Daisy and Connie had made friends at university when they were still teenagers. Simon and Daisy met at Luke and Connie’s first wedding anniversary party. Somehow, the fact that they’d found each other through the Bakers, and Luke sometimes commissioned Simon, had led to an unarticulated hierarchy in their relationship. Simon always felt Luke was lording it over him. Simon felt stung by a sudden determination that his girl would like camping, and that they’d go on to have lots of memorable trips away together, which they’d record on his iPhone and post on Facebook.
The trip to the Bakers and back took most of the morning. By the time they returned, Daisy had finished marking her books. They had a sandwich lunch and then pitched the tent together. Millie filled it with pink cushions from her bedroom and a huge number of cuddly toys. Simon doubted there would be room for him to lie down. Daisy found some solar fairy lights in the back of the cupboard where they kept their boxes of Christmas decorations. They draped them over the tent and waited until it got dark. For supper they made beans and sausages. The Bakers’ camping stove worked a treat. Millie was too excited to fall to sleep in the tent. At 10 p.m. they all gave up and went inside, but it wasn’t with an air of defeat, it was a decisive victory. The day had been won. The day had been glorious. Daisy made hot chocolate in the kitchen.
Simon made his that bit tastier by adding a nip of whisky.
Thursday, 23rd June 2016
Connie has got it into her head that she wants to throw a party. The Bakers throw a lot of parties, they always have. They’re party people through to their souls. Over the years, Connie and Luke have thrown lavish Christmas, birthday, Easter and summer dos, any excuse. Connie is known for her incredible attention to detail and her generous hosting. I used to love them, I really did, but I haven’t been to one since Millie was born. I hate parties now. I find excuses. Some of Connie’s friends take their kids along but I never have. I tell Simon that I worry about drugs. Connie doesn’t indulge but a lot of her guests do. It’s not something I want Millie to be around. Truthfully, some of the people Connie mixes with leave me cold.
This is the third time she’s brought up the topic of us hosting a joint party, a ludicrous idea. The previous occasions were over the phone; I was able to say someone was at the door and cut the conversation short. This time, it’s harder to dodge. We’re sat face to face in a coffee shop in Covent Garden. I can’t even depend on one of the kids interrupting us because her three girls and Millie are all sitting at a different table. Fran, Connie’s eldest, is holding court the way only a thirteen-year-old can. Her younger siblings, Flora who is ten, Sophie age seven, and Millie are in her thrall. She’s showing them different apps on her phone. There’s no way any one of them will tear themselves away from that.
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