Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks

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СКАЧАТЬ usual, I spent a lot of time playing with the children that were old enough to understand games like hide and seek. Everyone I cared for most in the world was at that party: my parents, my sister, her husband and children and, as my sister had sort of adopted my gang, many of my closest friends were there too, including Connie and Luke. Whilst I was playing rowdy games with the kids, I was constantly watching the door because Simon was late. His absence was profound. I suddenly realised that almost everyone in the world I most cared for was at the party, but not everyone. He’d leap-frogged into that special position in my heart. He was the most important.

      I was beginning to imagine all sorts of dreadful scenarios like he’d fallen under a bus or, worse still, he’d gone off me. No doubt he’d ditched the toddler party and the robust redhead and was sipping gin and tonics in a bar somewhere with a leggy brunette. Then suddenly, I spotted him. He was dressed as Santa with padding, a fake beard, a sack, the lot. I was pretty cross with Rose for roping him in for such a job; I couldn’t believe he’d really be comfortable with the role. On the other hand, I was totally delighted because he’d agreed to do it. I mean, no matter how shaky my self-esteem may have been, even I understood that a boyfriend dressing as Santa to entertain your baby nephews and their sticky, noisy, tiny friends, was an act of devotion. I intercepted him under the mistletoe. Giggly, blushing, breathless.

      The kids that were old enough to have clue about what was going on were rustled into a line and Simon did the whole ‘ho ho ho’ thing. He followed the traditional script and asked each child what they wanted for Christmas and whether they’d been good that year. They nodded their little heads, wide eyed and expectant. On cue he delved into his huge sack and produced a present; I can’t remember what the gifts were, something tacky and plastic. I remember being surprised because I’d thought Rose would opt for chocolate coins and wooden puzzles. I do remember the children’s happy, excited faces. Their pink rosebud mouths lisping thank yous, following the prompts of their watchful mothers.

      When all the children had received their treats and were beginning to get restless about what would come next in the constant stream of entertainment and goodies, Simon yelled above their noise, ‘There is one girl who hasn’t told Santa what she wants for Christmas, yet.’ He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto his knee. I was this exquisite mix of mortification and total utter joy. I’d never been happier than in that moment. I’m not normally a fan of being in the limelight and I’ve never been a fan of sitting on men’s knees, I feel too hefty and it’s uncomfortable. I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks, but still, I was delirious with happiness.

      ‘Now, Daisy, have you been good this year?’

      I heard one of my friends make a joke referencing something lewd I’d told her, and I promised myself to stop over-sharing. I tried not to be distracted as I replied, ‘Quite good.’

      ‘Well, as much as I hate to disagree with you, I think you’ve been more than quite good. You’re wonderful and so I have a special present for you. If you’ll accept it.’

      I didn’t guess. I heard my friends whisper that it was probably flights to somewhere exotic, but I couldn’t think clearly enough to hazard a guess, I was so in the moment. Overwhelmed. The room was tight with anticipation and excitement, everyone loves a bit of romantic theatre. At least we did then, now I wonder whether we’d all feel a bit embarrassed if one of us put on a similar show. You get too old for such blatant romance. Too weary, I suppose.

      He continued, ‘In fact, you are unbelievably good. I never thought that I’d meet anyone quite so good, special and amazing.’ His voice was thick and heavy with sincerity and intent. ‘So, I would be honoured, ecstatic, if you’d accept my gift.’ Then he reached into his sack one more time and pulled out a small ring box. Suddenly everyone else disappeared. I mean, I know they were there, the collective intake of breath nearly starved the room of oxygen, but suddenly they didn’t matter to me, not my sister, my parents, my nephews, my friends, no one mattered, except him. His shiny eyes, his dark curly hair, his hopeful nervous smile. ‘Will you make me a very happy man, in fact, the happiest man alive, and agree to be my wife?’

      Apparently, I screamed then repeatedly yelled ‘Yes’. I can’t remember that, but it seems reasonable. I can imagine it would be something I’d do. The happiness was almost painful, it was so complete and beautiful that, even whilst I was slipping the diamond on my finger, I was thinking This can’t last. This is too good. So, in that moment I was never happier or more afraid.

      Everyone in the room cheered and applauded. People started singing, ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. That seems quaint now. It’s a lifetime ago. There was hugging and congratulating, lots of kissing and some crying and champagne corks popping; it was a luminous, glistening moment. Later, Simon confirmed that he’d come up with the entire plan on his own, not just the bit about giving me my ring in that way, but dressing as Santa, giving all the gifts to the children, everything. I worked out as much that evening, when we were snuggled up in his bed, post-coital, emotionally and physically elated and exhausted. The gifts were the tell. If Rose had been in charge she would have chosen different presents for the children, something less fun.

      It was such a thoughtful, individual, perfect proposal. For a long time, I believed that moment would stay gleaming in my mind for ever, but it’s tarnished now. I’m embarrassed for them. That hopeful young woman, that ambitious young man, because we let them down. I have no idea where that man went.

      Or that woman, come to think of it.

12

       Chapter 12, Simon

       Wednesday, 13th July 2016

      The TV woke him up. He tried to focus, but it was tricky. There were a lot of voices talking across one another. What was he watching? Four middle-aged women, sitting on stools around a breakfast bar. They were wearing bright tops, but the gaiety was cancelled out by their angry faces. They were arguing although not with each other. Simon listened for a moment or two, long enough to gather they were angry with some man, or some male thing, yet there were no men there to shout at so they were shouting at each other and in general. It was almost funny.

      He knew what it was, he knew it. Daisy loved this show. It was Loose Women. He didn’t know how he knew that, he was hardly the target audience, but he did. He felt remembering the name of the show was something. A small victory. Daisy sometimes watched it in the school holidays. A guilty pleasure when she was ironing or doing something with Millie, crafting or whatever. It must be mid-morning. Why was he asleep in an armchair mid-morning? His head was fucking killing him. It was pulsing, pounding. He must be ill. That was it. He was off work because he was ill. He searched about for the remote control and noticed an empty bottle of red wine and an empty bottle of whisky at his feet. He ignored them. They didn’t make sense. Finding the remote was all that mattered. He had to mute the angry women. If only life was as easy. Unfortunately, even when he managed to shut them up, the screaming and yelling continued in his head. He didn’t know if it was real, or something he remembered, or just something he was imagining. It was sometimes hard to tell.

      Simon looked out of the window, it was pitch black, dead of night, not mid-morning. He turned back to the TV confused. Definitely Loose Women. It took longer than it should but then he took a stab at sorting it out in his mind – it had to be a late night repeat. He checked his watch; it was tricky to focus, he couldn’t quite see the illuminated numbers. He was really ill. Maybe hallucinating, a fever? He’d heard something was going around, something serious. It was 3.15 a.m. Or maybe 5.15 a.m. He didn’t know or care. Not really. What was that smell? It СКАЧАТЬ