10October
Ive been trying to keep my composure while the clatter of cutlery and the soft murmur of other diners fades into the background of that little upscale restaurant on CoventGarden. The marble tables, crystal chandeliers and immaculate white tablecloths make the air feel heavier, scented with faint hints of expensive perfume and fresh flowers in towering vases.
Evelyn, my longtime mate, was sitting across from me, her scarlet scarf tucked neatly around her neck. She looked as if shed just stepped out of a genteel household, ready to welcome unexpected guests even when the house was in a mess.
Honestly, I cant keep living a lie any longer, she whispered, voice trembling despite her attempt at nonchalance.
I laughed, halfheartedly, and tried to brush it off. Come on, Evelyn. Once a year we can treat ourselves, cant we? Its not like were broke. My voice wavered as I ordered, Two tiramisu, two coffeestwo Americano, please.
The young waiter, slickedback hair and all, nodded and slipped away like a ghost. I watched him go, then turned my stare back to Evelyn.
Youre retired, Val. Wheres the money for all this? We could have sat in a proper café for a fraction of the price, I said, glancing around the polished surroundings.
She clenched a napkin until the skin on her fingers went white. I remembered her endless ritualscream on her hands each night, gloves in winter, the way shed always dreamed of having perfectly manicured, rosecoloured nails like a stage actress. Now they trembled.
Valerie Whitmore, whats wrong? I asked, lowering my voice. Are you ill?
The thought of a terrible diagnosis flashed through my mindcancer, diabetes, heart disease. At our age, anything could happen. My neighbour, Mrs. Clarke, had only just passed away last month, and shed seemed perfectly healthy.
No I dont know, she replied, wiping her eyes with the edge of her scarf. Im just exhausted, Evelyn. So tired.
Our coffees arrived, along with a tiramisu that looked like a tiny masterpiece, dusted with cocoa and a sprig of mint. I picked up a spoon automatically, but didnt taste it, twirling it between my fingers instead.
What are you tired of? Life? I asked. Were all weary. Pensions are pennypinching, prices are soaring, the kids call once a month, grandchildren only turn up for birthdays. Youre not alone.
She shook her head, her hair looking dull for the first time in years despite her usual trips to the salon. Im tired of lying. Every day, every minute. Lying to my children, to you, to the neighbours, to myself.
My heart gave an odd, uneasy thump. What lies, Val? What are you talking about?
She leaned back, closed her eyes, and her mascarastreaked lashes fluttered. Even at sixtyeight, she still carried herself with a grace I enviedher figure slender, her posture elegant. I often felt a pang of jealousy; my own shape had long since given way to softness, while she remained as delicate as ever.
Theres no George, she said quietly, opening her eyes. Hes been gone a year and a half.
The tiramisu suddenly seemed cloying, though I hadnt even tried it. My throat went dry.
How can that be? Just last week you joked about him going fishing with Mr. Parker.
He died. Heart attack. Right in the garden shed while he was digging beds. I found him that evening, face down in the dirt, still gripping the spade.
A chill ran down my spine, and words caught in my throat.
I called an ambulance, she continued, her hands shaking more now. They arrived, confirmed it, then the funeral. I buried him at StJohns Cemetery, the one his parents chose.
Why didnt you tell anyone? We see each other every week! I asked, my voice shaking. I could have helped.
I thought I could keep it to myself, then tell them at the funeral, she said, finally scooping a bite of tiramisu but putting it back untouched. Then Emily called from Manchester, asking about Dad. I said he was tinkering in the garage. I stood by the window, looking at the cemeteryjust across the streetand I started lying.
Good heavens, Val
She forced a crooked smile. Lying is easy, once you start. Emily asked about Dad, I told her he was out fishing, fixing the car, playing dominoes. Simon from London asked the same thing for his birthday in March, and I said he was ill, couldnt get up. He didnt push to see him, worried about catching something, you know.
I listened, stunned. GeorgeGeorge Whitmore, my schoolboy friend, the one wed known since we were teenagers, whod visited every Christmas, shared jokes, helped us move housewas gone, and Id never known.
Why didnt you tell Mick? I asked, my voice cracking. He was his best mate.
Because Mick would have called Simon straight away, or Emily. It would have all unraveled.
Why do all this? I whispered, gripping Vals hand, feeling the icy chill of her skin. Are you mad?
Probably, she admitted, pulling her hand under the table. When I buried him, the flat felt dead. I walked in and it was empty. His slippers at the door, his coat on the hook. I sat on the sofa and felt terrifiednot because he was dead, but because I didnt know what to do next.
She told me how wed met as university students, how shed once been with a tall, handsome bloke who left her in tears, then a month later met George at a dance in the workers club. He was short, bespectacled, not a looker, but kind. She hadnt thought about marriage, yet he courted her with flowers, poems, and slowly she fell in love.
We lived together for fortysix years, she said, tears finally spilling despite her resolve. I cant function without him. In the morning I make two cups of tea automatically, pour one away, turn on the telly hoping to hear his voice, and wake up at night reaching for a hand that isnt there.
My dear
No, dont pity me, she brushed a tear away, smearing mascara on her cheek. Its my fault. I should have spoken up sooner, but I was scared. As long as I lied, he was still somewherefishing, in the garage, with friends. When I finally tell the truth, it feels like the end, like I have to accept it.
I rose, walked around the table, and hugged her tightly. She was stiff, only her shoulders trembling. The waiter shifted nearby, uncertain whether to intervene.
Thats why I asked you to come here, she said, pulling a handkerchief from her bag and dabbing her eyes. I wanted to say it in a decent place, so you wouldnt scream at me. George loved beauty, remember? He always said life is hard enough, we should still make it look nice.
I remember, I replied, wiping my own tears with the sleeve of my cardigan. He used to bring you flowers every Friday.
Every Friday, she nodded. Now I buy myself chrysanthemums from the florist near the tube, put them in a vase, thank him aloud. The neighbour downstairs probably thinks Ive gone off my rocker.
Silence fell. The coffee cooled, the tiramisu softened, losing its shape. Outside, dusk deepened, streetlights flickered on, people hurried past, laughing or chatting on their phones. Life went on, while in our little corner a fragile, selfmade world was crumbling.
What will you do now? I asked.
I dont know. I wanted advice. Calling the kids is terrifying. Imagine their reaction. Emily will be furious for a lifetimeshe adored my father, and Ive been feeding her lies for a year and a half.
Theyll forgive eventually, I said softly. Children are forgiving.
And you? Will you forgive me?
I paused. Of course it hurt. Wed shared everything since school, confided in each other. Yet, hadnt I also hidden things? Id never told Mick about my own struggles, the bruises from a bad night, the lies about where they came from. We all live in lies; some are small, some are huge.
Ive already forgiven you, I said. Im just sorry you had to bear this alone. I should have called, I would have come.
I know, she whispered. But every time I picked up the phone, the words fled. It was easier to weave another story about George than to speak the truth.
She finally took a sip of her coffee, grimacing. Its cold.
Lets order more?
No, thats enough. I need to get home, take my tablets for the blood pressure.
She fumbled for her purse; I tried to stop her, offering to pay, but she waved it off.
I invited you, Ill pay. George left a small life insurancejust enough for this and the Friday flowers.
We stepped out into the October wind, a sharp bite that tangled in our coats. She shivered, sniffed the cold air.
Thank you for listening, she said. Now at least one person knows the truth. Maybe it will lift some weight.
It will, I promised, though I wasnt sure. What about the kids?
Soon. Simons coming this weekend; thatll be the time I tell them. Ill call Emily too, ask her to come over. Itll be easier together.
Do you want me to be there for support?
She shook her head. No. I have to face this myself. Just be there afterwards, when theyve gone and Im alone. Come over for tea, or sit in silence. I just dont want to be alone.
I embraced her tightly, genuinely, and we stood on the street like two old women clinging to each other as we once did in our youth, when the world seemed generous and troubles were trivial.
Ill be back, I vowed. Ill even bring Mick so he can say goodbye at the grave too.
She smiled, wiping away the last tears. Alright, Im off. Im feeling faint.
She walked toward the bus stop, a slight, fragile figure in a grey coat. I watched her go, thinking how fragile human life is, how easily it shatters into pieces, and how hard it is to glue those shards back together.
A few days later, Val called, her voice hoarse and weary.
Did you tell them? I asked.
Emily sobbed for three hours. Simon was silent, only drumming his fists on the table. He asked why I did it, why I lied. I tried to explain. I dont know if he understood.
Theyll get through it. Time heals.
I hope so. They went to the cemetery today. I couldnt join; I cant stand looking from the balcony every day. Evelyn, will you come?
Im on my way.
I arrived half an hour later. Val opened the door, pale, eyes red but somehow lighter, as if a burden had lifted.
Come in, Ive put the kettle on.
We sat in her kitchen, tea and scones between us. She recounted how Simon had shouted she was mad, how Emily promised to move in next month, how they all eventually embraced, each crying in their own way.
Honestly, it feels lighter now, Val said, biting a scone. No more need to invent where George is or what hes doing. Hes dead, its horrible, I miss him so much my heart aches. But its the truth. My truth.
Living a lie is exhausting, I agreed. I havent told you everything either. About Mick, for instance.
I know, she whispered. I saw the bruises, heard the excuses.
Why keep it hidden?
Because everyone chooses their own silences, their own stories. You kept George, I kept Mick. Now weve both spoken.
Mick hasnt had a drink in six months, I admitted. Hes turned over a new leaf, even brought me a random bouquet the other day.
People do change.
We finished our tea, and I walked her to the door, giving her a warm hug.
Thank you for not judging, for being there.
Dont mention it. Were friends.
She smiled, a genuine one, for the first time in ages.
As I walked down the street, I thought about how each of us carries a lie, a truth, a pain. How vital it is to have someone who will listen without judgment, simply be present. Life is hard enough; we need not add loneliness to it.
Later that night, Val stood by her window, looking out at the distant cemetery, and whispered:
Forgive me, George. I tried my best, and it turned out as always. But now its over. Ill live truly from now on. No more lies. I promise.
That promise, made to herself and to the man she loved, warmed her heart more than any fire could.
