I could no longer live a lie, my friend confessed over dinner.
Are you out of your mind? How much does that cost? Emily almost dropped the menu when she saw the prices on the desserts.
Margaret waved a hand, adjusted the scarf around her neck and gave that smile she always wore for unexpected guests when the house was a mess.
Come on, Emily. Once a year you can treat yourself, her voice quivered, though she tried to sound carefree. Waiter! Two tiramisu and coffee. Two Americano, please.
The waiter, a young man with his hair slicked back, nodded and slipped away as quietly as a ghost. Emily watched him with a puzzled stare, then turned back to Margaret.
Margaret, youre retired. Where did you get the money for this? We could have sat in a regular café, why she glanced around the restaurant, the marble, the crystal, the pristine tablecloths.
Even the air smelled different here, expensive, with hints of foreign perfume and fresh flowers in tall vases.
Because I need to. You understand? Right here, right now, Margaret clenched the napkin until the skin on her fingers turned white.
She always took care of her hands, applying cream every night and wearing gloves in winter. Emily remembered how, as girls, they’d dreamed of having elegant hands like performers. Margarets hands were wellkept, nails painted a soft pink, but now they trembled.
Margaret Peters, whats wrong? Emily leaned over the table, lowering her voice. Are you ill?
The worst possibilities flashed through Emilys mind: cancer, diabetes, a heart condition. At their age, anything could happen. Their neighbour Nora had died just last month, seemingly healthy.
No. I mean I dont know, Margaret slipped off her glasses, wiped them on the edge of her scarf, and put them back on. Her eyes were red, fresh from crying. Im just tired, Emily. So tired
The coffee and pastries arrived. The tiramisu looked like a work of art, dusted with cocoa and topped with a sprig of mint. Emily automatically lifted a spoon but didnt taste it, just twirled it between her fingers.
Tired of what? Life? Were all tired, love. Pensions are thin, prices keep climbing, the kids call once a month, the grandchildren only show up for birthdays. Youre not alone.
No, Margaret shook her head, and Emily noticed her hair had lost its usual shine, despite always visiting the salon. Im tired of lying. You see? Every day, every minute. Lying to the kids, to you, to the neighbours, to myself.
Emily set the spoon down. Her heart gave an odd, uneasy thump beneath her ribs.
What lie, Margaret? What are you talking about?
Margaret leaned back, closed her eyes. Her lashes, heavy with mascara, trembled. Even at sixtyeight, she still held herself with a graceful poise that made Emily a little envious. Emilys figure had softened over the years, while Margaret remained slender and delicate.
George is gone, Margaret whispered, opening her eyes. Hes been gone for a year and a half.
The tiramisu suddenly seemed cloyingly sweet, though Emily hadnt even tried it. Her throat went dry.
How can that be? Last week you said he was going fishing with Mr. Thompson.
He died. Heart attack. Right at the cottage while he was digging out a vegetable patch. I found him that evening, face down in the earth, still gripping the spade, Margarets tone was flat, as if recounting someone elses story. He was still holding the shovel.
A shiver ran down Emilys spine. She opened her mouth, but the words got stuck.
I called an ambulance, Margaret continued, her hands shaking even more, they arrived, confirmed it. Then the morgue, the funeral. I buried him at St.Johns, where his parents lie.
Why didnt you tell anyone? We see each other every week! I could have helped, supported you
I dont know, Margaret finally lifted the spoon, scooped a bite of tiramisu, brought it to her mouth, then set it back down. At first I thought Id tell you later, after the funeral. Then Sarah called from Manchester, asking how Dad was doing, wanted me to pass on her regards. I told her he was fine, tinkering in the garage. And Im sitting by the window, looking at the cemetery across the street, and I start to lie.
Dear God, Margaret
It got easier after that, she managed a crooked smile. Lying is simple, once you start. Sarah asked about my father, I said he was out fishing, fixing a car, playing dominoes with friends. Simon from London visited for my birthday in March and asked where he was. I said he was ill, bedridden. Simon didnt even push to see him, said he was afraid of catching anything.
Emily could barely believe it. George George Ivanovich, her schoolboy friend, the one theyd known since they were teens, visited each others homes, celebrated holidays together. And now he was gone, and shed kept it from Emily.
Why didnt you tell Mike? Emilys voice cracked. He was a friend too.
Because Mike would have called Simon straight away, or Sarah. Theyve known each other forever. Everything would have fallen apart.
But why? Why all this? Emily grabbed Margarets hand, which was icecold. Have you lost your mind?
Probably, Margaret pulled her hand under the table. You know, Emily, when I buried him, the flatness settled over the house. My shoes were still by the door, his coat on the hanger. I went into the living room, sat on the sofa, and the silence was terrifying. Not because he was dead, but because I didnt know what to do next.
She spoke, and Emily remembered how theyd met at university. Margaret had once dated a handsome, tall fellow but broke up in tears. A month later she met George at a dance hall, a short, bespectacled, kind man who kept bringing flowers and reading poetry. She hadnt realised shed fallen in love.
We spent fortysix years together, Margarets voice cracked with tears she fought back. Fortysix, Emily! I cant live without him. In the morning I automatically set the kettle for two cups, then pour one out. I watch TV, turn around, and no ones there. At night I wake, reach for his hand, and the bed is empty.
My dear
No need, Margaret brushed a tear away, smearing mascara on her cheek. Dont pity me. Its my fault. I shouldve told you straight away, but I was scared. I thought if I kept lying, hed still be alive somewhere, in the garage, fishing, with friends. And when I finally speak the truth, it feels like the end, like I have to accept it.
Emily rose, walked around the table, and put her arms around Margarets shoulders. Margaret sat stiff, her shoulders twitching slightly. The waiter lingered nearby, unsure whether to intervene.
Thats why I brought you here, Margaret pulled a handkerchief from her bag, dabbing at her eyes. I wanted to say it in a proper place, so you wouldnt shout at me, so it would be decent. George loved beauty, remember? He always said life was hard enough, but we should still make it pretty.
I remember, Emily sat back down, wiping her own tears with the sleeve of her cardigan. He brought you flowers every Friday.
Every Friday, Margaret nodded. Now I buy them for myself. I go to the florist near the tube station, pick up chrysanthemums, put them in a vase, thank him out loud. The neighbour downstairs probably thinks Ive gone off the rails.
Silence fell. Their coffee cooled, the tiramisu softened and lost its shape. Outside, dusk thickened, streetlights flickered on. People rushed about, laughing, talking on phones. Life went on, while in that little corner by the window a tiny, imagined world was crumbling.
What will you do now? Emily asked.
I dont know. I wanted advice. Calling the children feels frightening. Imagine their reaction. Sarah will be angry for life. She adored my dad, and Ive been feeding her lies for a year and a half.
Shell be angry, Emily agreed. But shell forgive. Children forgive. Sooner or later.
And you? Will you forgive?
Emily thought. Of course it hurt. Theyd been friends since school, sharing everything. Yet, had she always been honest? Had she not hidden from Margaret that Mike sometimes got drunk and pounded on her door? That the bruise on her arm came from a door, not a fist? Everyone lives in a lie; some small, some huge.
I will, Emily said. Ive already done so. Im just sorry you had to bear it alone. I should have called, I would have come.
I know. But I couldnt. The moment I lifted the receiver, words fled. It was easier to spin another story about George than to speak the truth.
Margaret finally took a sip of her coffee.
Its cold.
Shall we order another?
No, thats enough. I need to go home, take my bloodpressure tablets.
She rummaged in her bag, pulled out her wallet. Emily tried to stop her, offering to pay, but Margaret waved it off.
I invited you, Ill pay. George left a small insurance policy; it covers this, she gestured at the untouched pastries, and the Friday flowers.
They stepped out into the October wind, which tore at their coats and rattled the streets. Margaret shivered, inhaled the cold air.
Thank you for listening, she said. At least one person now knows the truth. Maybe it will ease the weight.
It will, Emily promised, though she wasnt certain. When will you tell the kids?
Soon. In a few days. Simon is coming over for the weekend; thatll be the time. Ill call Sarah too, have her come over. Itll be easier together.
Do you want me to stay? For support?
Margaret shook her head.
No. I have to sort this out myself. I made the mess, I have to clean it up. Just be there afterwards, when they leave and Im alone again. Come over for tea, or sit in silence with me. Anything, as long as Im not by myself.
Emily hugged her tightly, truly. Margaret pressed back, and they stood in the street, two elderly women, arms around each other like in their youth when the world seemed kind and troubles small.
Ill come, Emily vowed. Ill even bring Mike, let him say goodbye at the grave too.
Alright, Margaret brushed away the last tear. Im off, or Ill melt away.
She walked toward the bus stop, a frail figure in a grey coat. Emily watched her go, thinking how fragile life is, how easily it shatters, and how hard it is to piece the fragments back together.
A few days later Margaret called. Her voice was hoarse, weary.
Said it, she said shortly.
How are they?
Sarah sobbed for three hours straight. Simon was silent, pounding the table with his fists. He asked why I did it, why I lied. I tried to explain. I dont know if he understood.
Theyll understand. Time heals.
I hope. Theyre at the cemetery now. I cant go there anymore; I see it from my balcony every day. Emily, will you come?
Im on my way.
Emily arrived half an hour later. Margaret opened the door, pale, eyes still red, but somehow lighter, as if a weight had lifted.
Come in, Ive put the kettle on.
They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating scones. Margaret recounted how Simon shouted that she was mad, how Sarah promised to move in next month, how they all eventually embraced and wept for their own reasons.
You know, Margaret said, biting a scone, it really helped. It feels like I can finally breathe. No more inventing where George is, what hes doing. Hes dead, and thats terrible. I miss him so much my heart aches, but its the truth. My truth.
Living a lie is always heavy, Emily agreed. I havent told you everything either. About Mike, for instance.
I know, Margaret replied softly. I saw the bruises, heard your excuses.
Why did you keep quiet?
Because I understood. Everyone chooses what to hide and what to speak. You kept George secret, I kept Mike secret. Now weve both spoken.
Mikes been sober for six months, Emily admitted. Hes turned around, even brought a bouquet out of the blue.
See? People change.
They finished their tea. Margaret walked Emily to the door, giving a genuine smile for the first time in ages.
Thank you, she said. For not judging, for being there.
No thanks needed. Were friends.
Friends, Margaret echoed, smiling truly now.
Emily stepped onto the street, reflecting that everyone carries their own lies, their own truths, their own pain, and it matters to have someone nearby who will listen without judgment. Life is already hard enough; theres no need to make it harder by being alone.
Margaret stood at her window, looking at the distant cemetery, and whispered:
Forgive me, George. I tried my best, and it turned out as always. But its over now. Ill live truly, without lies. I promise.
