My Husband’s Lies: An unputdownable read, perfect for book group reading. Caroline England
advised him to move on and pretend it hadn’t happened, she’d obviously meant it.
He feels his dad’s interest drift back to the television. His mum rolls her eyes and offers the mints, followed by a selection of photographs of him as a blonde-haired plump toddler.
‘Cute,’ he says. ‘Lisa would like to see these. How about photos of Patrick when he was that age? Did we look similar?’
His mum holds out her hand for support and then stands up slowly. ‘This knee gets stiff if I kneel down too long. Arthritic, I expect.’ She picks up the framed photograph of Patrick wearing his pale blue National Health spectacles and leaning to one side. ‘There’s this and his other school portraits. But we don’t have many others. It was slides in those days. Negatives in little cardboard frames. I don’t know what happened to them. You’d look at them through a projector, wouldn’t you, Harry? Derek had one and we’d go round and have a film night. A shame really. Patrick had beautiful curly white hair.’
His father snorts, but doesn’t turn from the television. ‘Aye, Derek’s film nights. Those were the days.’
Nick eventually leaves feeling soulful. Even his mum who’s so fit seemed to be ageing today. He knows it’s pathetic for a man of thirty-four, but he wants his parents to live forever; severance or not, he fears the trauma of their death. He can’t imagine what it was like for Lisa to lose her mum. Though three years ago now, he feels her grief at the surface whenever mothers are mentioned.
He says goodbye to his parents, stands under the outdoor light and listens to the scrape of the keys and the chain before moving away listlessly. Then he sits in his car for a few moments, thinking. He doesn’t want to go home to Lisa empty-handed so looks at his watch. It’s quarter to ten, not too late, surely, to visit his godparents? And if it is, he’ll make his excuses and leave.
It is too late, for Iris at least. She has already gone for ‘a bath and to bed’ when Nick arrives in their lantern-lit driveway. But at the stained-glass bungalow door, Derek insists Nick comes out of the ‘bloody cold’ and joins him for a nightcap and a cigar if he fancies.
He follows Derek into the spacious lounge, which smells, as always, of spirits and tobacco.
‘Take a seat, son. It’s lovely to see you, and it’ll give me an excuse to escape from the wife’s scolding for ten minutes,’ Derek says with a smile.
Nick presents him with Patrick’s bottle of Barbadian rum: ‘A small gift from our honeymoon to add to the collection. From me and my wife!’
He wonders what he’ll give Patrick instead, but he still feels miffed at his brother’s inability to be even slightly flexible. Patrick lives on his own with his carefully stored gadgets and gizmos; it isn’t even as though he ventures to the pub on a Friday night.
Derek examines the bottle. He’s a youthful-looking man, smallish, trim and fit with a moustache and a full head of grey hair, which he still styles into a neat fifties quiff. Not at all like Nick’s dad with his white thinning hair, poor eyesight and constant hobbling. Though both their accents still have a Salford twang, it’s hard to believe the two men were born the same year.
‘Oh, and thank you very much for the wedding gift and the cheque. It’s incredibly generous,’ Nick adds. He’s glad he’s remembered. He and Lisa actually bought Derek a golf cap and accessories from Sandy Lane resort as a thank you, but he hadn’t anticipated visiting tonight.
‘Not a problem, son. Glad to share the few bob I have sitting bored in the bank. If it wasn’t for your dad—’
‘Yeah, I know. But still it’s very kind.’
Derek moves behind a leather and teak bar in the corner and offers Nick a tipple of his choice from the array of bottles on display. Nick has no doubt that nothing has changed since the Dillons had this mismatch of stone and brick built on the pricey Hale plot in the sixties. He stares at the bar, still feeling that prickle of excitement he had as a boy; kneeling on a stool behind the counter, playing barman. Though his mum would shake her head, Derek waved her worries away. ‘Let the lad have some fun. No harm pouring himself half a lemonade.’ But when Dora wasn’t looking, Derek allowed him to pour measures of Martini, Cinzano or Campari for the adults, adding soda from a crystal glass syphon. ‘Go on. Try it, son. Just a small sip.’
Nick would always cough or grimace; the cocktails were too dry.
‘They’re women’s drinks. Take a snifter of this,’ Derek would laugh, pouring him a wee drop of cherry brandy or amaretto, sweet and warming in his chest.
Gazing at the electric fire in the stone-cladding wall, the adult Nick sips his beer. The fake flames remind him of the opening credits of a James Bond film. Was it all the films or just one? Patrick would know. He loves the Bond movies. He could name each film’s third production assistant or set designer if you asked him. Nick wonders if his brother ever visits Derek and Iris. It’s not something he mentions, but they’re his godparents, not Patrick’s.
He shakes his attention back to Derek. He’s still ruminating about Barbados, how he and Iris once visited Bridgetown as a port on a luxury cruise. Keen on cruising, they’re trying to persuade Dora and Harry to go on the next one. But of course there’s the problem of Harry’s hip. There’s a lot of walking on the excursions, on the ship too. Perhaps they could hire a wheelchair.
Nick tries not to show his exasperation, but the words emerge harsher than he intends. ‘The doctor says the hip replacement was a complete success. The limping is just a matter of habit.’ He tries again with a jocular tone. ‘He’s just being a grumpy bugger, Derek. Don’t encourage him!’
Derek looks at his feet. Nick finds his loyalty to his father touching, if at times maddening; he’s never had anything but praise and admiration for Harry Quinn. ‘If it hadn’t been for your dad’s sound financial advice, and that first loan, I wouldn’t have made my few bob,’ he always says. They’ve been tight friends since school, nearly seventy years. It’s an astonishing feat, one Nick hopes to replicate with Will and Dan. The honorary boy, too.
He thinks of Will’s text: ‘Sorry, man. You can’t begin to know how sorry I am. I’ll explain when I see you. Have a great honeymoon.’
For the first few days in Barbados, it felt as though he and Lisa talked about nothing other than the blip. He didn’t really want to dwell on it, but Lisa was intrigued. How bloody awful was it to see Penny teetering on the ledge? Why did she do it? What had gone on with her and Will? It just went to show that no one knows what goes on in people’s heads. Behind closed doors too. But her interest eventually ran out of steam, thank God. Since then she’s been more vocal about his current concern. ‘Come on, Nick, I know it’s been eating you since the wedding, you just need to ask. It’s probably nothing.’ But as he gazes at Derek’s ruddy face, he knows he can’t do it; his parents and his godparents are of a different generation. If something hasn’t been mentioned, it’s deliberate.
He knocks back his half-pint. ‘I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening. Tell Auntie Iris that the two of you must pop in any time. We’re not far away. Tea and biscuits always available! And thank you again for your generosity. You really didn’t have to.’
Derek doesn’t move for a moment. He strokes his moustache, then nods, heading towards the open door which separates the lounge from the bedrooms, which he closes. ‘You’ve come to ask about Susan,’ he states. ‘It was a slip. Iris shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not our place to say.’ He sits on a leather- cushioned window seat and motions Nick to sit too. ‘Your mum and dad … lost her, long ago. I know young people like to talk these days, but some things are better left in the past. Do you see what I’m saying?’
Nick’s heart thrashes. ‘I had a sister called Susan?’
Derek nods slowly. ‘Your Patrick’s twin.’