I cant keep living a lie any longer, Blythe confessed over dinner.
Youve gone mad! How much does that cost? Harriet nearly dropped the menu when she saw the prices for the desserts.
Blythe waved a hand, tugged the scarf at her throat and flashed the kind of smile you give to unexpected guests when the house is a mess.
Come off it, Harriet. Once a year youre allowed to treat yourself, she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound breezy. Waiter! Two tiramisu and two coffees, please. Two americanos.
The young waiter, hair slicked back, nodded and slipped away as silently as a ghost. Harriet watched him go with a puzzled stare, then turned back to her friend.
Blythe, youre retired. Where on earth are you getting the money for this? We could have sat in a proper café for a fraction of that She gestured at the marble surroundings, the crystal, the pristine white tablecloths. Even the air smelled differentexpensive, tinged with foreign perfume and fresh flowers in tall vases.
Because I need to, Harriet. Right here, right now. Blythe clenched the napkin until her knuckles went white. She was always meticulous about her hands, slathering them with cream each night and wearing gloves in winter. Harriet remembered their teenage dreams of having perfectly manicured hands like stage performers. Blythes hands were indeed wellkept, painted a delicate pink, but now they trembled.
Whats wrong, Blythe? Harriet leaned over, lowering her voice. Are you ill?
Blythe imagined the worstcancer, diabetes, heart trouble. At their age, anything could happen; the neighbour Mrs. Greene had only just passed away last month, despite looking perfectly healthy.
No I mean, I dont know. Blythe pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with the edge of her scarf, wiped them, and slipped them back on. Her eyes were red, fresh from crying. Im just tired, Harriet. So tired
The tiramisu arrived, a little work of art dusted with cocoa and a sprig of mint. Harriet absentmindedly lifted her spoon but didnt taste it, twirling it instead.
What are you tired of? Life? Were all exhausted these dayspension barely covers anything, prices keep climbing, the kids call once a month, the grandkids only pop in for birthdays. Youre not alone.
No, Blythe shook her head, and Harriet noticed her hair looking dull, even though Blythe always visited a good salon. Im tired of lying. Every day, every minutelying to the kids, to you, to the neighbours, to myself.
Harriet set the spoon down, feeling a strange knot form under her ribs.
What do you mean? What lie?
Blythe leaned back, closed her eyes, her mascaralined lashes fluttering. Even at sixtyeight she still carried herself with poise; Harriet often envied that. Their figures were a study in contrastHarriets had softened over the years, while Blythe remained as slender as ever.
Theres no Gen now, Blythe whispered, opening her eyes. Hes been gone for a year and a half.
The tiramisu suddenly seemed cloying to Harriet, though she hadnt even tried it. Her throat went dry.
How can that be? You just told me last week he was going fishing with Mr. Peterson.
He died. Heart attack. Right in the garden shed while he was digging the beds. I found him that evening, face down in the soil, still clutching the spade. Blythes voice was calm, as if she were recounting a neighbours misfortune.
Harriet felt a shiver run up her spine. She opened her mouth, but words got stuck.
I called an ambulance, Blythe continued, hands shaking even more now. They arrived, confirmed it, then the funeral. I buried him at StJohns Cemetery, where his parents are.
Why didnt you tell anyone? We see each other every week! I could have helped, supported you
I didnt know what to say, Blythe finally scooped a bite of tiramisu, lifted it to her lips, and placed it back untouched. At first I thought Id wait until the funeral. Then my sisterinlaw, Sophie, called from Manchester, asking about Dad. I said he was fine, tinkering in the garage. Meanwhile Im standing at the window, looking at the cemetery right across the street, and I keep lying.
Dear God Harriet started.
It got easier, Blythe chuckled weakly, a crooked, unenthusiastic smile. Lying is simple, really. Just start. Sophie asks about DadI tell her hes out fishing, fixing the car, playing dominoes with his mates. Sergey from London asked about him too, and I said hes ill, cant get up. He didnt even push to visit, fearing infection.
Harriet listened, disbelief mixing with sorrow. GenGennady Ivanovich, Blythes schoolboy friend turned husbandhad been part of their lives for decades. Theyd celebrated birthdays together, visited each others homes. And now he was gone, and Blythe hadnt mentioned it.
Why didnt you tell Misha? Harriet asked, voice trembling. He was a friend too.
Because Misha would have called Sergey or Sophie straight away. Everything would have blown up.
Then why keep it all inside? Whats the point? Harriet grabbed Blythes hand; it was icecold. Are you losing your mind?
Probably, Blythe muttered, pulling her hand under the table. When I buried him, the flat felt empty. His slippers at the door, his coat on the rack. I sat on the sofa and realised I was scarednot of his death, but of what to do next.
She reminisced about their university days, about a tall, handsome boy shed dated before meeting Gen at a workers club dance. Hed broken her heart, and a month later shed met Genshort, bespectacled, kind, a bit awkward. Hed courted her with flowers and poetry. Shed never expected to fall for him.
We spent fortysix years together, Blythe said, tears finally spilling despite her efforts. I cant function without him. In the morning I set the kettle for two cups, pour one out, watch the TV and turn aroundno one there. At night I reach for his arm, the bed is empty.
Sweetheart Harriet began.
No need for pity, Blythe dabbed a tear with her sleeve. Its my fault. I should have told you straight away, but I was scared it would make it final. As long as I keep lying, hes still alive somewherein the garage, on a fishing trip, with his mates. The truth would mean the end.
Harriet rose, walked around the table, and hugged Blythes shoulders. Blythes wooden chair creaked, shoulders trembling. The waiter shifted nearby, unsure whether to intervene.
Thats why I brought you here, Blythe said, pulling a handkerchief from her bag and wiping her eyes. I wanted to say it in a proper place, so you wouldnt shout at me. Gen loved beauty, remember? He always said lifes hard enough, youve got to dress it up a bit.
I remember, Harriet replied, wiping her own tears with the sleeve of her cardigan. He used to bring you flowers every Friday.
Every Friday, Blythe nodded. Now I buy my own. I pop into the florist by the tube, pick up chrysanthemums, put them in a vase, thank the universe out loud. The neighbour downstairs probably thinks Ive lost my mind.
Silence fell. The coffee cooled, the tiramisu softened, losing its shape. Outside dusk thickened, street lamps flickered on, people bustled, laughed, talked on phones. Life went on, while in that window seat a tiny, selfmade world was crumbling.
What now? Harriet asked.
I dont know. I wanted advice. Calling the kids scares me. Imagine their reaction. Sophie will be furious for a lifetime. She adored my dad, and Ive been feeding her a lie for a year and a half.
Shell forgive, Harriet said. Kids forgive. Sooner or later.
And you? Will you forgive?
Harriet thought. Of course it hurt; theyd been friends since school, sharing everything. Yet she hadnt been entirely honest herselfshed hidden Mishas occasional drunken rants, the bruise from a door, not a punch. Everyone lives a lie; some are small, some are huge.
Ive already forgiven, Harriet said. I just wish you hadnt had to shoulder it alone. I would have called, I would have come.
I know. I just couldnt. The moment I picked up the phone, words vanished. It was easier to spin another story about Gen than to face the truth.
Blythe finally sipped her coffee, grimacing.
Its cold now.
Shall we order more? Harriet offered.
No, thatll be fine. Ive got to get home, take my blood pressure tablets.
She rummaged in her bag, pulled out her wallet. Harriet tried to pay, but Blythe waved her off.
I invited you, so Ill pay. Gen left a modest insurance policy, enough for this and the Friday flowers. She nodded toward the untouched pastries.
They stepped outside. October wind slapped at their coats, seeping under the collars. Blythe shivered, sniffed the chilly air.
Thanks for listening, she said. Now at least one person knows the truth. Maybe itll feel lighter.
It will, Harriet promised, though she wasnt entirely sure. What about the kids?
Soon. This weekend Sergeys coming, thatll be the day I tell them. Ill call Sophie too, ask her to come; well face it together.
Do you want me to come for support?
Blythe shook her head. No, I have to do this myself. I tangled the knot, now I have to untie it. Just be there later, when theyre gone and Im alone again. Come over for tea, or we can sit in silence. I dont mind, as long as Im not alone.
Harriet squeezed Blythes hand, truly this time. Blythe leaned into her, and they stood in the street, two elderly women embraced like they once did when the world seemed kind and problems tiny.
Ill come, Harriet vowed. Ill even bring Misha, let him say goodbye to Gen at the grave.
Alright then, Blythe said, wiping her eyes. Im off, or Ill just melt away.
She walked toward the bus stop, a frail figure in a grey coat. Harriet watched her go, reflecting on how fragile human life is, how easily it shatters, and how hard it is to glue the pieces back together.
A few days later Blythe called, her voice hoarse and weary.
Its done, she said shortly.
How are they? Harriet asked.
Sophie sobbed for three hours straight. Sergey 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 eventually. Time heals.
I hope so. Theyre at the cemetery now. I cant go there any more; I see it from the balcony every day. Harriet, will you come?
Im on my way.
Harriet arrived half an hour later. Blythe opened the door, pale but somehow lighter, as if a weight had lifted.
Come in, Ive put the kettle on.
They sat in the kitchen, sipping tea with scones. Blythe recounted Sergeys angry shouts, Sophies promise to move in next month, and the eventual group hug and tears.
You know, Blythe said, nibbling a scone, it really does feel easier now. No more inventing where Gen is, what hes doing. Hes dead, and it hurts like a punch to the gut. But its the truth, my truth.
Living a lie is exhausting, Harriet agreed. I havent told you everything either. About Misha, for instance.
I know, Blythe replied softly. Ive seen the bruises, heard your excuses.
Why did you keep quiet?
Because we each choose what to hide and what to reveal. You kept Misha secret, I kept Gen secret. Now weve both spoken.
Mishas been sober for six months, Harriet admitted. Hes even bought a bouquet for no reason lately.
People do change, Blythe said.
They finished their tea, Blythe walked Harriet to the door, gave her a proper goodbye hug.
Thank you for not judging, for being there.
Dont mention it. Were friends.
Friends, Blythe echoed, finally smiling genuinely.
Harriet walked down the street, pondering how everyone carries their own lies, truths, and pains, and how vital it is to have someone who simply listens without judgment. Life is hard enough; theres no need to make it harder by being alone.
Blythe stood at her kitchen window, looking out at the distant cemetery, whispering:
Sorry, Gen. I tried my best, and it turned out as usual. But thats it. From now on Ill live for real, no more lies. I promise.
And that promise, made to herself and to the man shed loved, warmed her heart more than any fire could.
