A Version of the Truth. B P Walter
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Knightsbridge, London, 2018
I’m reaching for a Mulberry purse when I feel someone standing close behind me. Too close. I edge to the side and turn round to see a small, blonde-haired woman standing there.
‘Hello, Julianne,’ she says. She smiles at me warmly.
I glance around. There’s nobody else near us. She’s a bit younger than me, probably late thirties, and is wearing a big, fluffy, blue coat, even though it’s the height of summer outside. She starts to walk closer still and I take a step back.
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling back, worried she is someone I should know, although I don’t recognise her at all. ‘I’m so sorry, do I …?’ I feel her studying me, looking me up and down, almost like she’s sussing me out.
‘My name’s Myanna. I’m an investigative journalist for the TV production company Exploration Media UK. I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you?’
I stare at her. ‘How do you know my name? What’s this regarding?’ I’m still holding the purse and sense a shop assistant looking over at us. I feel like I’ve been caught in the act, doing something wrong.
‘It’s about your husband, James Knight. I need to talk to you. I was thinking we could go and get a coffee somewhere. Or maybe you could come into my office for a chat?’
My husband. Something about my husband. My mind is racing. Why does this woman know my name? And my husband’s name?
‘Please, Julianne. We really need to talk.’
The back of my neck is feeling hot and suddenly I want to get out of the shop, away from her.
‘This is all very strange,’ I say, and laugh a bit awkwardly. I take another look around to see if anyone else is listening, but we’re still very much alone, apart from the shop assistant, who is now tidying the centre clothes display.
‘Tell you what, take my card,’ the woman says, reaching into her bag and then holding her hand out towards me. ‘I don’t want to force you into anything, but I would really like us to meet. I think you might know what this is about. So, when you’re ready, just give me a call.’ Her voice softens. ‘And I’m sorry if I startled you. I’m on your side, Julianne.’
With that, she is gone, and I’m left standing in the Harrods accessories section, her card clasped between my fingers, wondering why it feels like the ground is moving beneath me.
Julianne
Knightsbridge, London, 2019
I lay my hands on the kitchen work surface and let my head fall a bit, just enough so the strands of my hair stay clear of the water in the sink. The sense of exhaustion throbs through me. Christmas should be an enjoyable time, but this year it feels like a stress on the calendar. I do love it, I really do, all the lights on the trees and the cold, although it never gets as cold as my childhood in Chicago. I’ve always thought that when English people moan about the weather they should be transported to the Windy City in the middle of winter. Then they’d really feel cold. Some part of me misses it; the layering up as if you’re about to go on some huge expedition up a mountain when you’re actually just going to the library or the shops.
I hear movement behind me by the door of the kitchen. ‘Do you fancy a top-up of wine?’ I call out to my husband. ‘My mother will be arriving soon, so you’d better get in quickly before she drinks us out of house and home.’
I take a pan of vegetables off the AGA as I talk, the billowing steam coating my face in a sheen of moisture.
‘Mum?’
My son’s voice takes me by surprise. He’s looking at the floor and something about his face makes me stop. Has he been crying? His eyes look red. Not red enough for me to rush to him and ask him what’s wrong, but just slightly tinged at the corners. He may be approaching his eighteenth birthday, but it’s amazing what little details can wind back the years and remind you that, not so long ago, your tall man-in-training was just a small, frightened child. Maybe he’s unwell, or his hay fever has been flaring up again. Unlikely in December, though.
‘Oh, sorry, honey. I thought you were Dad. You can have some wine, too. One glass.’ I wink at him and smile. I’m well aware his classmates are probably knocking back beer, wine, vodka and God knows what else every night in the run-up to Christmas. Not my Stephen, though. He’s not one of those seventeen-year-olds.
‘I’m cool with a Coke.’ He walks to the fridge and gets himself a can. He pours it in silence and then turns back to face me.
‘Mum,’ he says again, then hesitates.
I keep my smile going, but feel a slight coldness in my stomach. That simple word can be said in a whole galaxy of different ways. With love when they say goodnight, with anger when you tell them they have to do their homework, with annoyance when you probe too far into their personal lives or ask about who they’re dating. And then there are the times when they say ‘Mum’ in a way that makes your blood freeze in your veins. It’s immediately clear: something is very wrong. My mind starts to run wild, offering me a slide show of different horror stories, each more dismaying than the last. Maybe he wants to drop out of doing his exams? Is he being bullied? Has he got himself mixed up in something awful or criminal?
‘Stephen, honey, what is it?’ I say. I want to go to him and hug him but have learnt from experience it’s best not to crowd a teenager when they are about to tell you a piece of information that’s clearly causing them concern. In their overtaxed brains, flight is often an attractive solution to dealing with a problem. It’s best to stand well clear until the danger of this has passed.
Stephen moves his head, looking at the floor, as if he’s trying to gather his words but failing to get them in order. I try to be patient but fail. ‘Is it to do with your exams after Christmas?’ I see his face tighten as a result and curse myself for starting the interrogation too soon.
‘It’s … it’s nothing to do with that.’ He shakes his head, like he’s trying to brush his own thoughts away. I continue to stare, trying to keep my imagination at bay and remain calm.
‘Boyfriend trouble? Is it a problem with Will, then? Have you two had a fight?’ He winces, though I’m not sure if this is because I’m wrong in my presumption or because of my use of the word ‘fight’. He’s always been quite brutal about my ‘Americanisms’, as he calls them.
‘No, nothing to do with him either. It’s about … it’s about … Dad.’
This catches me by surprise.
‘What do you mean?’ I say, letting out a small, odd-sounding laugh. ‘What’s Dad done? Has he upset you about something? I know he goes a bit crazy with the pressure and all his talk about Oxford, but that’s only because he wants the—’
‘The best for me, I know.’ He cuts me off. His eyes are staring somewhere above my shoulder, still not meeting my gaze. ‘I told you, it isn’t anything about exams.’
‘Then I don’t see what he’s done to upset you.’
‘It … it isn’t like that. Forget it. I’m sorry, it was stupid to bring it up now. Especially when you’re doing all this for tonight and have your dinner party on Monday …’
‘It’s only Grandma coming to dinner, not a CIA operation,’ I say, playing down my own stresses. ‘And “dinner party” might be a bit of an overstatement – it’s just Ally and Louise and Ernest.’ The mere thought of the three of them descending upon us for our usual Christmas gathering makes me feel instantly tired, but I don’t let it show. ‘Just tell me. I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t fix. Has he said something