The Truth Hurts Read online

  “It just seemed right,” said Drew. “I met you on a Thursday.”

  In a moment Poppy was next to Drew’s seat, kissing him and twisting her arms around him.

  “You’re sure you like it?”

  Poppy laughed. What must Drew’s life have been like for him to think being bought a house could be a bad thing—something she could be cross about. Poppy had assumed, just like everyone else she knew, that she would never own anything, let alone something enormous, something beautiful.

  “You bought me a house as a wedding present,” she said. “I’ve been living in someone else’s storage room for years. In what world would I not like it?”

  “That,” Drew said, pulling Poppy onto his lap, apparently unconcerned about the people in the restaurant looking at them, “is quite a relief.”

  Before

  The Walkers lived in a leafy corner of north London, on a square with a garden in the middle. The area had everything people told estate agents they were looking for. Good schools, clean streets. A community. They had barbecues on the green; in the summer children ran in and out of each other’s houses. It was like living in an era that hardly existed anymore.

  It was a warm Tuesday morning and Mel, somewhere between a friend and a neighbor, had popped round for a cup of tea, which inevitably meant she wanted gossip.

  “She’s amazing,” Mel said as they sat at the kitchen table and looked out into the garden. Agnes was chasing the children around with the hose. They squealed as she sprayed them. “So much energy.”

  Caroline knew what was coming. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Oh, to be twenty-one again. That’s why they tell you to get the kids thing over and done with as early as you can.”

  Mel snorted. “Yeah, just as long as you’ve found Mr. Right, got your career sorted and bought a house first.”

  Caroline sighed. “Too bloody right.”

  “She’s pretty too.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? Her.” She pointed outside, toward Agnes.

  “Oh, Agnes? Yes,” said Caroline, getting up to put the milk back in the fridge. “She is.” She hoped her tone wouldn’t invite any further comment.

  “Patrick was saying it last night.”

  “About Agnes?”

  Mel nodded. “Saying how brave you were.”

  Caroline’s skin prickled with irritation as she sat back down. “Brave?”

  “You know!” Her labored laugh suggested that the conversation wasn’t going quite the way that Mel had hoped.

  “No?”

  “Brave! Hiring a nanny like her?”

  “Because she doesn’t have any formal qualifications?” Caroline’s tone was harsher than she’d intended.

  Mel looked down into her mug, saying nothing.

  “Or because my husband won’t be able to resist screwing her?”

  Mel’s cheeks stained dark pink. “You know that’s not what I was saying.”

  “So what were you saying?”

  “Oh God, I don’t know.” Mel got to her feet and reached for her sensible parka. She wore the same thing they all did. Jeans, Converse, drapey T-shirt, hair tied up in a mum-bun. When did that happen? When did they accidentally start wearing a uniform? “I’ve got to go and pick up Bella from ballet. I didn’t mean anything by it, OK? I just . . . Patrick can be a bit of a lech so I’d be nervous putting temptation in his way. But obviously Jim isn’t like that, so it’s not a problem. She’s clearly great. I’m probably just jealous that you’ve got help for the summer and I’ve still got baby sick in my hair from yesterday.”

  “Don’t.” Caroline relented. “I’m being over-sensitive. I’m just a bit tired of hearing people worrying that Jim’s going to cheat because there’s a younger woman in the house.”

  “Course not,” said Mel. She leaned forward to bump her cheek against Caroline’s. “You two are good. And she’s not that pretty.”

  Caroline raised one eyebrow, but resisted pushing Mel on the subject. It wasn’t her fault that Mel was so insecure about her own husband.

  Chapter 8

  The first three weeks of Poppy and Drew’s marriage were bliss. They spent their wedding night in a hotel in town, in a room that had floor-to-ceiling windows and a bath in the middle of the bedroom. The next day they had gone to a spa up in the mountains to be polished and smoothed and by the time they came back to the cliff house Poppy had almost begun to believe that this was who she was now. Occasionally she would catch sight of herself in a window and pause, though she knew it was the kind of vanity her mother would have despised. Her hair, which had been tied in a bun every day for the last six years, was shiny from the expensive products in Drew’s bathroom. Her skin glowed from all the sleep and sun; her hips were a little softer. It was as if someone had put a filter on her.

  Poppy lay stretched, brown and slick with oil, on the hot stone by the pool. It was a Wednesday afternoon, not that days mattered much to them, and she was naked but for a pair of pink bikini bottoms. A shadow fell across her torso. She put her book down and looked up at Drew, olive-skinned in a pair of blue swimming shorts. “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Jane Eyre,” she said. “I found it on one of the shelves inside.”

  “Any good?”

  “You haven’t read it?” She sat up, instinctively reaching for her white cotton kaftan, still not quite used to being so very naked in front of another person during daylight.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I thought everyone had to read it at school?”

  “Not me.” Drew slid his feet into a pair of sandals. “I thought I might go down to the market to get something for supper. Any cravings for tonight?”

  “Maybe sea bass?” Poppy got to her feet. “If you wait for me to change I’ll come too.” She gathered her things, turning for the house. “What did you read at school?”

  “I don’t remember,” he replied, following her into the house. “Shall I just go to the market? It’ll close before long.”

  Poppy scanned the room for her shoes. Maybe they were upstairs. “How can you not remember?” she called as she ran up the stairs. “You must have done a Brontë or an Austen or something. Everyone does.”

  He didn’t reply. In their bedroom Poppy pulled a sundress on over her naked chest and pulled her hair into a ponytail. “Drew?” she called again. He didn’t reply, so she went to the hall, leaning down over the banister. He was standing still, tapping his foot.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re being weird.”

  “I’m just keen to get going.”

  “Is it the book thing?”

  “No.”

  Poppy walked halfway down the stairs and sat on a step. “Why won’t you tell me what books you did at school?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  It matters because you won’t tell me, she wanted to say. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s just weird that you’re being so secretive.”

  “I thought we had an agreement?” The words were staccato, like machine-gun fire. Poppy flinched at them, moving back on the step where she sat.

  “Sorry,” Drew added, seconds later. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s OK,” Poppy replied, too quickly. “I just didn’t realize. I thought . . . I wasn’t asking you about how many people you’ve slept with or anything. Nothing, like, important. I didn’t think . . .” She trailed off. “I didn’t think stuff like school would be a big deal.”

  “We did Othello, I think,” Drew said, pulling himself upward. “And Great Expectations.”

  Poppy nodded, trying to be pleased with the information.

  “Listen, do you mind if I go to the market alone? I could use a few minutes. I’d like the drive . . .” He left the end of the sentence open.

  Poppy pulled her face into a smile. “Of course. You go. I need to shower this oil off anyway.”

  She stood in the shower for a long time. Drew mu
st have gotten home while she was still scrubbing at her skin because when she came back into the bedroom, swathed in a huge white towel, Drew was sitting on the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, before she could speak.

  “Me too,” she replied.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Poppy shook her head. “Is that OK?”

  “No one’s going to make us.”

  “You’re supposed to, aren’t you?”

  “Says who?”

  “I don’t know. Therapists. Magazines. People.”

  Drew stood up and gently took the towel from her head, letting her warm wet hair down onto her shoulders, heavy on her back. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  There were so many things that she needed to ask him. About whether the “rules” really did mean she couldn’t ask about school or books or how he learned to ride a bike, because that wasn’t what she had thought the deal was at all. But as he kissed her, she didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want to throw grenades into the warm, safe peace that existed between them. So she didn’t.

  That evening Poppy took her shiny new phone into the guest bathroom and called her mother. She had chosen the time carefully. After six thirty, which was supper time, but before 8 p.m. Anyone who phoned after 8 p.m. had better be ringing with news of a serious emergency. Poppy had once had a phone call from a boy she was seeing at half past nine. Her mother had refused to speak to her for three days.

  The phone rang six times before her mother answered. Poppy didn’t need to hear her voice to know it was her. Her breathing, hundreds of miles away, was all it took.

  “Hello?” came her mother’s voice.

  “Mum. It’s me.”

  Her mother said nothing.

  “It’s Poppy.”

  Still nothing.

  “Mum? It’s Agnes.”

  A pause, and then a breath. “Agnes. Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  Poppy drummed her foot on the stone floor, begging for some inspiration as to what she should say next. “How are you?” she said eventually.

  “I’m fine.”

  “And Teresa?” Asking after her sister usually worked. Her mother liked to talk about her.

  “She’s well.”

  “Good.”

  It was clear that her mother wasn’t going to ask how she was. Poppy was sweating; she could feel pricking under her arms and down her spine. “I just wanted to ring to tell you that I got married.”

  The silence was, if anything, even louder than before.

  “That’s all. He’s called Drew,” Poppy ventured. “He works in finance.”

  More silence.

  “Mum,” Poppy said, her voice shaking. “Please say something.”

  “Congratulations,” said her mother finally. “Was that everything? I need to get on.”

  “Yes,” said Poppy, trying to keep the break out of her voice. “That’s all.”

  The dial tone told her that her mother had hung up.

  Poppy turned on the shower to cover the noise, then buried her face in a thick white towel and allowed herself a brief, shameful sob. Why did she still care what Karen thought? Why did it still matter to her? All her cruel words and vindictive punishments, all the judgment and the mind games, and yet she could still reduce Poppy to a sobbing mess with just a few words.

  Eventually she got to her feet, took three long deep breaths and filled the sink with cold water. Just as she had a hundred times before when she needed to hide the fact she had been crying, she sank her face into the coldness and opened her eyes underwater. Eventually, when her lungs started to burn, she allowed herself to come up for air.

  “Where have you been?” Drew smiled from his seat on the terrace where he was reading a book.

  “Just in the bathroom.”

  “Are you OK? You look . . .” He trailed off.

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not upset about earlier? I really am sorry—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Really. I’m fine.”

  Drew didn’t look like he believed her, but instead of pushing it he poured her a glass of wine. “Are you going to beat me at Scrabble or cards this evening?” he asked.

  Poppy laughed. “Just as long as you’re ready to lose, I don’t mind either way.”

  Chapter 9

  Drew had a habit of going into the smallest bedroom, on his phone, and staying there for half an hour or so. Poppy, trying to seem cool and relaxed, didn’t want to say anything. But the intensity of the phone calls, the length, the secrecy: all of it worried her. Drew’s words at their pre-wedding lunch played over and over again in her ears. “I don’t believe that total transparency is always the way toward happiness.”

  Panicked, she had called Gina, who had been infuriatingly sensible and asked her what Drew claimed to be doing. “Working,” Poppy had said.

  “If he says he’s working, he’s working,” said Gina, as if nothing could have been simpler. “He married you, for Christ’s sake. What more does the poor fucker have to do to convince you that he’s serious about you? Get a picture of your face tattooed on his back?”

  “I just have this feeling,” Poppy tried. But Gina had been distracted and noncommittal, so Poppy made the right noises and thanked Gina for her advice and hung up the phone feeling just as wretched as ever.

  “What do you keep doing in there?” she burst out one night during their last week in Ibiza, when Drew exited the bedroom, a smile on his face and the red line of his phone etched into his cheek.

  “Working,” he said, looking surprised.

  “On what?” Poppy demanded.

  Drew’s face clouded. He walked silently to the kitchen, poured two glasses of wine and took a seat on the terrace. Poppy followed dumbly behind him, mimicking his movements.

  “I don’t get it,” Poppy announced.

  After a while, looking out over the sea, Drew turned to her. “You look cold,” he said.

  “I’m not,” she lied. But summer was undeniably almost over, and the breeze coming over the sea was cool, pricking at her skin. Drew pulled off his sweater and gave it to her, still saying nothing. She didn’t want to talk about being cold. She wanted him to explain what he had been doing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said eventually. “I just don’t understand what’s going on. Why are you suddenly in there all the time? Why won’t you tell me what you’re doing?”

  Drew shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. It’s understandable.”

  “I am. Sorry, I mean.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been paranoid. I shouldn’t care.”

  Drew shook his head. “No, you haven’t.”

  Poppy felt a tightness wrapping around her throat. So there was something. Something he had been trying to hide from her. That nasty little voice, which sounded just like her sister’s, the one that had been saying “too good to be true” over and over again since the night that she met Drew, was right. It was all too good to be true. She couldn’t have this. It wasn’t for her.

  “What is it?” she asked weakly, wishing that she could be a better version of herself in this moment, a bolder, braver one who didn’t need to know what the story was.

  “I’ve been making calls to England,” said Drew slowly.

  Poppy nodded. “To who in England?”

  “My friend Ralph,” he said.

  “Ralph?” replied Poppy, her eyes wide.

  Drew seemed to catch her meaning, to understand what she thought. “It’s not like that,” he said. “He’s been helping me to arrange things.”

  “What things?” she asked.

  Drew drank a long sip from his glass and then put his hands behind his head. “Life, Poppy. Having your things picked up from the Hendersons’, having my things brought up from my London flat, having it prepared for rental.”

  “So?” asked Poppy, unable to understand how this could possibly have been a secret.

  “I’ve been having the house sorted o
ut too. Getting my cars brought up, the place opened, cleaned. Some furniture for some of the rooms. I just . . .” He trailed off.

  “What?” she asked, more confused than before.

  “I wanted it to be perfect.”

  Poppy gave a half cry, half laugh. “What on earth are you talking about? Why did you keep it all a secret?”

  Drew’s face was a picture of misery. “I thought it would be a nice surprise,” he said.

  Poppy’s half laugh turned into a full one. “You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met in my entire life, Drew. Utterly and completely ridiculous.”

  Drew looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  Poppy reached upward and kissed his forehead. “You should have just told me. I thought you were having an affair or something.”

  It was Drew’s turn to laugh now. “An affair? We’ve been married less than a month.”

  Drew got to his feet, holding Poppy in his arms. “Drew!” she shrieked. “Be careful! If you drop me I’ll break something.” But he ignored her protests, which they both knew were only for effect, and carried her inside where he threw her onto the huge sofa.

  “Promise there’s no one else?” she whispered as she lay, brown against the white fabric, her head resting on his chest.

  “No one but you,” said Drew, stroking her hair. “Why would I want anyone else when I’ve got you?”

  Poppy nuzzled into his skin. You wouldn’t be the first person, she wanted to say. But those stories belonged to the past, and they had agreed that the past could not and would not follow them into their new life together. So she said nothing, and kissed Drew hungrily instead.

  The room was only half lit now; the sun had slid into the sea hours ago and the air felt cool.

  Poppy shifted her body, wrapping it against Drew’s.

  “Poppy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve noticed something.”

  “What have you noticed, darling?”

  Poppy liked this game, where they talked as though they were in a 1950s sitcom.

  “Why do you close your eyes when you orgasm?”