Sometimes I Lie. Alice Feeney

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      ‘Yes,’ Paul answers.

      ‘Do you know where she was going?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you saw her leave?’

      ‘Yes.’

      I hear a long, drawn-out intake of breath. ‘Shortly after your wife was brought to hospital by ambulance, two of our colleagues went to your home. You weren’t there.’

      ‘I was out looking for her.’

      ‘On foot?’

      ‘That’s right. I was at home the next morning when they came back.’

      ‘So you knew that police officers had been to your property the night before?’

      ‘Well, not at the time, no, but you just said they . . .’

      ‘The officers who came to your house yesterday morning were sent to inform you that your wife was at the hospital. The first set of police officers were sent the night before because someone had reported you and your wife arguing loudly in the street.’ Paul doesn’t say anything. ‘If you didn’t know where your wife was going, then where did you go to look for her?’

      ‘I was drunk, it was Christmas after all. I wasn’t thinking logically, I just wandered around for a while . . .’

      ‘I see that your hand is bandaged up. How did that happen?’

      ‘I don’t remember.’

       He’s lying, I can tell, but I don’t know why.

      ‘We’ve spoken to some of the staff who were here when your wife was first brought in. They say that some of her injuries are older than those she sustained in the crash, do you have any idea how she might have got them?’

       What injuries?

      ‘No,’ says Paul.

      ‘You didn’t notice the marks on her neck or the bruising on her face?’ asks the female police officer.

      ‘No,’ he says again.

      ‘I do think it’s best we speak to you somewhere more private, Mr Reynolds,’ says the detective. ‘We’d like to invite you to come to the station with us.’

      The room is silent.

Then

       Tuesday, 20th December 2016 – Morning

      ‘Managed to get you a table at the Langham, pulled some strings,’ I say.

      ‘Marvellous. What for?’ says Matthew, without looking up from his computer screen. We’re on air in just under ten minutes and almost everyone, including Madeline, has already gone through to the studio.

      ‘Brunch,’ I say.

      ‘With who?’ He looks up at me, giving me his half-full attention. Then I see his expression change as he notices my new dress, my make-up, my hair, bullied into shape by brushes and hot air. He sits up a little straighter and his left eyebrow exerts itself into an appreciative arch. I find myself wondering whether he is actually gay or whether I had just presumed that he was.

      ‘Today’s panel. The women in their fifties guests. We talked about it last week,’ I say.

      ‘Did we?’

      ‘Yes. You said you’d take them out after the show, talk through some future ideas.’

      ‘What future ideas?’

      ‘You said we needed to be more innovative, shake things up a bit.’

      ‘That does sound like me.’

      It doesn’t. When he hesitates, I bombard him with more well-rehearsed words. ‘They’re expecting to meet you straight after the show, but I can cancel it if you want me to, make up some excuse?’

      ‘No, no. I think I do remember now. Is Madeline joining us?’

      ‘No, it’s just you and the guests.’ He frowns. ‘So they can talk freely about what they think works and what doesn’t.’ I didn’t rehearse that part, but the words form themselves and do the trick.

      ‘OK, I suppose that makes sense. I’ve got a physio appointment at three, so I’ll need to head home straight after.’

      ‘Sure thing, boss.’

      ‘And joining us now on Coffee Morning are Jane Williams, the editor of Savoir-Faire, the UK’s biggest-selling women’s monthly magazine, and the writer and broadcaster Louise Ford, to talk about women working in the media in their fifties,’ says Madeline, before taking a sip of water. For once, she looks as uncomfortable as I feel in the studio. I dig my fingernails into my knees beneath the desk as hard as I can; the pain calms me enough to stop me from running out of the tiny, dark room.

      I set up a fake Twitter account last night, took me five minutes when Paul was having a shower before we went to bed. I posted a few pictures of cats I found on the Internet and had over a hundred followers by the time I woke up. I hate cats. I can’t pretend to understand social media, either. I mean, I get it, I just don’t understand why so many people spend so much time engaging with it. It’s not real. It’s just noise. Still, I’m glad that they do. Is Madeline Frost leaving Coffee Morning? has been retweeted eighty-seven times since I posted it twenty minutes ago and the #FrostBitesTheDust hashtag is proving very popular. That bit was Jo’s idea.

      The make-up I don’t normally wear feels heavy on my skin. My red lipstick matches my new dress and the carefully selected armour makes me feel safe. The protective mask hides my scars and soothes my conscience; I’m only doing what I must to survive. I catch myself slipping out of character and stare down at my red fingers. At first I think I’m bleeding, but then realise I’ve been picking the skin off my red-stained lips.

      I sit on my hands for a moment, to hide them from myself. I have to stay calm or I’ll never get through this. I realise I’m chewing on my lower lip now, my teeth picking up where my fingers left off. I stop and focus all of my attention on Madeline’s half-empty glass. The hiss and fizz of the sparkling water it holds seems to get louder as my eyes translate the sound to my ears. I retune them to the noise of her voice instead and try to steer myself back to centre.

      I smile at each of the studio guests sitting around the table with us. So good of them to come in at such short notice. I study their faces as they continue to talk over one another, all of them present and incorrect for the same reason: self-promotion. Each one of us is sitting here with a motive today. If you were to strip us all down to our purest intentions, the lowest common denominator would always be wanting to be listened to, needing to be heard above the noise of modern life. For once, I don’t want to be the one asking the questions; I wish someone would listen to my answers and tell me whether my version of the truth is still correct. Sometimes the right thing to do is wrong, but that’s just life.

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