Those Who Lie, page 9
She considers what Josh said about the pop-up. She wants to believe that he was right and that it was just an ordinary middle-aged man in the ad. But she can’t shake off her belief that it really had been Greg in the photo. She only saw the advert for a second or two on the screen, but she can still see it in her head now. Something else about the photo is troubling Emily. She is convinced she knows where it was taken. Greg was posing by a black Range Rover, just like the one in her driveway.
But it wasn’t her house on the Woodstock Road that she saw in the background of the photo. It was the Old Manor House in North Devon. The house she grew up in. Emily knows that doesn’t make any sense. She herself hasn’t seen the house since she was driven away from it in a police car in the small hours of Christmas Day in 1995. And Greg has never set eyes on her childhood home, much less set foot there.
Emily doesn’t know what to do about all this. Her sister, Josh, Matt and Pippa have been trying to explain everything rationally. The truth is: Emily would really like to believe their theories, but she also wants them to believe her. Without her friends and family on her side, she feels powerless to find out what lies behind all this. And deep down, she’s terrified of what she might find if she did get to the bottom of this.
Suddenly, Emily is overcome with a feeling of claustrophobia. She has to get out of the house. She used to jog three or four times a week with Greg before her accident, but she hasn’t put her trainers on since then, mainly because of her injuries. Amanda and Pippa have both encouraged her to take up an activity, and she has promised them she’ll get back into her running.
So, she rushes upstairs and changes into her sports clothes and races back downstairs. She ties up her laces, selects her running playlist on her smartphone and pushes the earphones into her ears. Seconds later, she is concentrating on the beat of her music, her breathing and her pace. It feels so good to be exercising again.
For their runs, Greg and Emily would drive as far as the car park at Godstow and then jog along the Isis Canal at Port Meadow. Emily knows that Charles Lutwidge Dodgson once famously rowed a boat along this part of the Thames with the Dean and his family, including Alice, his muse. It’s one of the reasons she likes running there. It’s a beautiful place to go to let off steam. It’s Emily’s wonderland.
She doesn’t want to take the car, so she runs southwards along the Woodstock Road in the direction of St Giles. The main road is busy and she soon leaves the cycle path alongside it in favour of smaller roads more or less parallel to the main route.
The sky is blue and it’s sunny, and appropriately the song blaring through Emily’s ears at the start of her jog is U2’s Beautiful Day. As she arrives at the entrance to Port Meadow, she notices that nearly everyone is bare-armed. Many people are even barelegged. She has already been running for a while by the time she reaches the large Nature Reserve, and so she decides to jog along the canal for just five minutes before heading back. She passes walkers, birdwatchers and families on bicycles, all making the most of the weather.
It isn’t until she turns round and starts back that she spots him. She’s so shocked she doesn’t think to call out to him. He’s several metres in front of her and he’s walking in the same direction as she is now running. She’s catching him up. He looks over his shoulder, and – as she gains on him – he breaks into a run. She tries to accelerate, but her legs protest after nearly two months of inactivity.
Still chasing him, but losing ground now, she wonders how she can be so sure it’s him. He’s the right height and build; he has the same gait and hair colour. But above all, it’s the red woollen jumper that has given him away. Everyone else is wearing short-sleeved T-shirts.
As she reaches the car park, Emily sees him leap into a black Range Rover. It’s parked at the far end of the car park, which means he has to drive past her to reach the exit. When the vehicle is just a few metres from her, he lifts his arm, and for a split second she thinks he’s going to wave, but instead he places his hand on the nape of his neck. The elbow of his raised arm conceals his face so that she can’t get a good look at it. Then the car speeds away and Emily is alone.
It takes her a few minutes to catch her breath. She’s thirsty. She usually carries a sports water bottle on her runs, but she forgot to strap it around her waist before setting out. She bends forwards with her hands on her knees. ‘Damn!’ she says out loud, realising that she didn’t think to look at the registration plate.
She half-jogs, half-walks back home. The first thing she notices on arriving is that Greg’s Range Rover is in the drive in front of her house.
First in a banner ad, then in Port Meadow. Am I going to imagine seeing Greg and his car everywhere from now on?
In the shower, Emily cries hard. Tears that mingle with the hot water, then swirl down the drain. She steps out of the bathroom into the master bedroom, tightening the cord of her dressing gown. As she removes the towel from around her head and lets her hair fall down, she is reminded of the day she was discharged from hospital.
Coming out of the bathroom that day, she spotted Greg’s red jumper. She curled up with it on her bed, holding it to her, and breathing in his scent. Since then, she has deliberately left the pullover on the antique chair next to his side of the bed. She has looked at it a few times, but she has resisted the temptation to pick it up again.
She starts to walk over to the chair, but she can see – even from the other side of the room – that there’s no clothing on it. She checks to see if the pullover is under the cushion. No, it isn’t there. She looks on the floor. No, it’s definitely gone. She doubted herself earlier, but this time she is sure. Greg’s red woollen jumper, the one she saw him wearing at Port Meadow just an hour or so ago, has disappeared.
Chapter Ten
~
Oxford, November 2002
Greg bumped into Emily – literally – in Modern Art Oxford on Pembroke Street. The gallery had just been renamed and the exhibition showing for the reopening was Tracey Emin’s This is Another Place. Emily was looking at one of the artist’s neon creations consisting of blue text framed inside a red heart. Greg was examining a work, which was compellingly entitled Fuck Off and Die, You Slag, hanging on the opposite wall. As he took a few steps backwards to get a better perspective, he nearly sent Emily sprawling.
Greg whirled around and reached out to steady Emily in case she lost her balance. He apologised repeatedly for his clumsiness. He guided her to a bench in the middle of the room where they sat down.
Emily studied him as discreetly as she could. He had a nice voice and large hands, a pleasant face with an aquiline nose. He was older than her: at least ten years older. He was quite tall and inspired immediate confidence. In spite of the cold outside, he was wearing a thin raincoat. It was fawn with large buttons and it made Emily think of Columbo. Years later, she suggested that he should donate his coat to a flasher. He gave it to Oxfam and it was in the shop window at a bargain price for several months. It became a joke between them and Emily teased him every time they walked past the charity shop.
‘So what do you think of the exhibition?’ Greg asked Emily, after formally introducing himself and shaking her hand.
‘Eye-catching?’ she said, looking at the bright lights of Emin’s works. ‘Provocative? Controversial.’
‘I’d have to agree. Sometimes when I look at contemporary artwork, I wonder if my three-year-old niece could have produced something better, blindfolded and holding a paintbrush between her toes.’
Although it wasn’t the first time she’d heard this sort of remark, Emily chuckled politely.
‘I find all this –’ he waved his arm to encompass the room ‘– a bit vulgar for my taste, though. I’m not a fan of modern art at all, but I’m trying to understand it.’
‘I’m not sure art is about understanding,’ Emily said. ‘It’s your analysis of it that matters. One work of art might evoke different things for different people.’ Emily paused. She appreciated that Greg might well be wondering how Fuck Off and Die, You Slag could possibly have more than one interpretation. ‘I quite admire Emin’s candidness. Some of her stuff is very autobiographical. It might be shocking, but it’s also very intimate.’
Greg was silent for a while. ‘Are you an artist?’ he asked at last.
‘Not really. I took Art A-level and got an A, but I only got a C in English and I failed History altogether. So I didn’t get into the universities I’d applied to. At the moment, I’m working in Alice’s Shop and taking two evening classes a week at the Ruskin School of Art.’
‘Alice’s Shop? The gift shop opposite Christ Church?’
Emily nodded.
‘Do you like working there?’
‘I think I was lucky to get a job there. My sister, Amanda, thinks the grockles must drive me mad…’ She stopped when she saw Greg frown. ‘Oh, that’s Devonian slang. I mean the holidaymakers,’ Emily explained.
‘Ah, so you’re from the West Country. And do they?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Do the tourists drive you mad?’
‘Oh, no, not at all. Alice’s Shop wouldn’t exist without them. So, yes, I enjoy it, but I don’t see myself working there for ever.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Something connected to the art world. I don’t really know what.’
Greg’s brown eyes never left Emily as he asked his questions. He struck Emily as attentive, but not nosy. They continued their visit together and when they’d finished, Greg asked her, ‘Can I buy you a drink in the cafe to make up for nearly knocking you over earlier?’
Emily hesitated before replying, but only for a fraction of a second. She quite liked this man, and was surprised at how easy she found it to talk to him. She’d already told him a bit about herself, but she hadn’t learnt much about him.
‘That would be terrific,’ she said.
A song by Eiffel 65 – the only song she knew by this Italian group – was playing on the radio and Emily found herself humming along to the chorus while Greg went to the counter to order. I’m blue da ba dee da ba die. Emily didn’t feel at all blue. In fact, she felt happy for the first time in ages.
Over coffee, Greg asked about her paintings. Even though he wasn’t keen on contemporary art, he seemed genuinely interested in her work. He offered to exhibit some of her paintings in his antique shop.
‘You never know,’ he said. ‘You might get a good price for them.’
Emily was sceptical about this. She lifted the mug to her lips and blew on her scalding coffee, keeping her eyes on Greg.
‘I do dream of making a living from painting,’ she admitted, ‘but for most would-be artists like me, that’s just a pipe dream.’ Emily had never really believed that someone might pay for one of her paintings.
His mouth full of caramel slice, Greg insisted. ‘Here take my business card. Come and see me at my shop as soon as possible with some samples of your work. Let’s see what happens.’
Emily made price tags for her paintings. She thought if she could get twenty pounds for one of them, she’d be very pleased with herself. Rosie, the girl she sat next to at her art classes, helped her pick out some of her best paintings.
About two weeks after she’d taken three of her works round to Greg’s shop, he rang her at home and asked if she would come to the shop and bring some more canvasses. When she arrived the following day, he handed her £400 in cash and a flute of champagne.
‘I’m afraid I don’t drink,’ Emily said, handing back the glass.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to ask. Would you like a cup of tea instead?’
‘Yes, that would be great.’ She looked at the money he’d just given her. ‘What’s this?’ she asked. She vaguely registered that only one of her paintings was displayed on the wall and that it had been framed.
‘I’ve sold two of your paintings,’ Greg said, barely containing his satisfaction as he led the way to a box room at the back of his shop. He flicked the switch on the kettle and took a carton of milk out of the fridge.
‘But I was selling them for twenty pounds each.’
‘Well, I added a zero.’
A slow smile spread across Emily’s face. ‘And frames, apparently,’ she said.
‘Yes, and frames.’ He beamed back at her, and she noticed the grin stayed on his face as he made her tea.
‘Can I pay you for them?’
‘Oh, no, that’s all right. I had them kicking around. They didn’t cost me anything.’
Greg was clearly lying. Emily was touched.
‘I’ll drink to your success,’ Greg said, chinking his champagne glass against her mug.
Emily stayed in the antique shop for two hours, and in between customers, they talked animatedly to each other. Greg told her that he and his wife had lost their son, who was only six, to leukaemia. They’d already been trying for a couple of years to have another baby when little Luke was diagnosed with cancer, and two years after his death, they still hadn’t been able to conceive. The strain all of this had put on their marriage had taken its toll. They’d divorced and his wife, who had remarried a year later, was now pregnant.
Emily listened to all of this, her heart aching for Greg. She couldn’t help thinking about her own child, but said nothing.
Over the next few months, Greg sold more and more of Emily’s paintings, much to her delight. At the age of twenty-two, Emily was still sharing accommodation with her sister and she began to wonder if she could afford to get a flat of her own. Greg enjoyed keeping fit, and Emily started running with him in the evenings when she didn’t have art classes.
One day, Greg told Emily that he was head over heels in love with her.
‘I’m fifteen years older than you, but there it is. I think about you all the time. You probably already have a boyfriend, don’t you?’
Emily shook her head. She’d never had a steady boyfriend. She didn’t even have that many friends.
‘I don’t want children,’ Emily blurted out.
‘That’s fine with me,’ Greg said. ‘I tried to have children after Luke and it didn’t happen for me. I’ve taken that as a sign that it wasn’t meant to be.’
Emily wanted to tell Greg that she was in love with him too, even though she knew it wasn’t true. She liked him a lot, and he made her laugh. She felt safe and protected with him. And all that, more than love, was what she needed. The words ‘father figure’ wormed their evil way into Emily’s mind, but she ignored them.
Greg was looking at her with round puppy eyes, waiting for her reaction as though his life hung in the balance. So she opened her mouth to tell him what he wanted to hear, but in the end, instead of lying, she told him the truth about her baby.
Nearly the whole truth.
Chapter Eleven
~
Oxford, October 2014
Emily feels remorseful. Her husband died only two months ago, and here she is removing all trace of him. She looks out of the bedroom window while behind her Amanda and Pippa continue to sort through Greg’s clothes. Hugging herself, she tries to swallow down the lump in her throat. It all seems so final, so definitive. What if he isn’t dead? Emily thinks. He’ll come back and I’ll have thrown out all his clothes.
She wonders why she thinks Greg might still be alive. Is this hope against hope? Gut feeling? Is she in denial so that she doesn’t have to fully mourn him yet? So that she doesn’t have to accept her role in his death? It would have given her closure if she’d seen his body. But no one did – it was a closed-casket funeral service as his face was badly damaged in the crash. But if he is dead, then who sent me the messages? And who did I see at Port Meadow?
A tear rolls down her cheek and she brushes it away with her fingertips. She really doesn’t want to get rid of his stuff, but Pippa and Amanda have persuaded her it’s the right thing to do.
A magpie hopping across the lawn catches her attention. One for sorrow. She automatically scans the garden for another one. She remembers learning a list of collective nouns at school. The term for a group of these birds is a tiding. A tiding of magpies. Is that because they can be the bearers of glad tidings? Or bad tidings? You can also say ‘murder’. A murder of magpies. Emily shudders. She spots two more magpies, just a few metres away from the first. One for sorrow. Two for joy. Three for a girl.
Pippa’s posh voice snaps Emily out of her daydream and back to reality. ‘Is this the one you thought that fucker was wearing at Port Meadow?’
She turns around to see her friend kneeling by a cardboard box, her rounded tummy resting on her knees. She’s holding up Greg’s red jumper.
‘Yes!’ Emily doesn’t point out that the ‘fucker’ in question might have been Greg. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘It was under the bed,’ Pippa says, handing the woollen sweater to Emily as she approaches.
‘That’s strange!’ Emily could have sworn she checked under the bed just the other day. When she came home after the incident at Port Meadow, the jumper wasn’t on the chair where she’d left it. She wondered if the pullover had fallen off the chair onto the floor. She did look there, surely?
Pippa goes back to boxing up Greg’s clothes. Emily walks towards the window again and surreptitiously holds the jumper to her nose. Her back to her friend, she inhales through her nostrils. This time, though, it seems to smell only faintly of Greg. She can no longer make out the odour of the polish and varnish he used to restore his antique furniture. But the floral scent she detected before seems more pungent somehow. No, that’s impossible. Maybe a hint of Pippa’s perfume is wafting a few metres across the bedroom towards her, or perhaps it’s her own face cream she can smell.
Then a thought strikes her. Could Greg have been wearing this jumper when he met up with his mistress for the last time? Is this the smell of her perfume?
