The Liar's Chair (4 page)

Daddy’s left a copy of
Twinkle
magazine on my bed. I run down and hug him but he’s cross and sends me back upstairs, saying I should be asleep by now. In my
bedroom, I flick through the cartoons of animals and fairies. I’m nearly ten, and this magazine is for babies, but I read it through twice anyway. Mum and Dad’s friends arrive while
I’m in my room so I don’t see them, but I hear their voices in the lounge when I sneak on to the landing. The lady’s perfume floats up the stairs and I imagine her long earrings
tickling her bare shoulders, like Mummy’s earrings do. Mum’s dress tonight is pink. It’s my favourite one. The man who’s here has a deep voice. It’s deeper than
Daddy’s.

Leaning over the banister, I stretch to see how far I can go without falling and I wonder if it would hurt if I fell, or whether I would bounce. My Barbie didn’t break when I tried it with
her. The floor down there used to be wood, like a puzzle, but Mum and Dad covered it with a fluffy-sheep carpet. ‘You’re old enough now not to spoil our nice things,’ Mum said,
‘so maybe we can get back to living like normal people.’ Next to the front door is a desk which used to belong to my nanna. Daddy says it’s worth lots of money but Mummy wants to
get rid of that next. It’s old and dark and she says it makes her depressed. On top of the desk is a knobbly orange vase. It’s full of flowers from the garden, and some of their stems
have bent and snapped. Mum tried to put too many in – she always does because she likes lots of flowers. ‘They give the house good vibes,’ she says. Under the vase are lots of
circles on the wood where the varnish has come off. It’s not fair as I always have to be careful putting my cups on furniture, but Mum can do what she wants with Nanna’s desk.

Supper was quick tonight – cheese on toast with a tomato on the side. The knife wasn’t very sharp so I bit straight into the tomato even though I hate the way the skin pops and the
squishy seeds shoot into your mouth. Afterwards I was still hungry but there was no time for more. ‘You’ve had enough, greedy guts,’ Mum said. I tidied the kitchen and she
hoovered the lounge. ‘Don’t just leave your plate to drain, Rachel. I want it dried up and put away. The cutlery as well.’

I wiped over the surfaces but my hands weren’t strong enough to wring out the cloth and it left big watery streaks on the table. Mum came in from the sitting room and tutted. ‘Oh,
I’ll do it, Cinders.’ She grabbed the cloth from me and squeezed it over the sink. Lots of grey water came out. ‘If you want something done properly, you might as well do it
yourself.’ She held her tummy away from the edge of the counter to keep her evening dress dry. Her body curved and her bottom stuck out, so that in her high heels she looked like a beautiful
flamingo. She had a bun on her head which puffed the rest of her hair out in a cottage-loaf circle. Ringlets came down at the sides, and round her neck she wore a black choker.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘Nowhere, we’re staying in. And you’re not to come down and bother us tonight. Take some water up with you. Daddy has lots of important paperwork to go over with Brian.
He’ll be very, very cross if we’re disturbed. I mean it, young lady.’

On the counter was a bottle of medicine and a spoon. Mum gave me some.

‘I’m not ill,’ I said.

‘Well you might be if you don’t take this.’

It was disgusting, and when she went into the other room, I put a chair up to the cupboard to get a glass. I don’t need the chair for the sink any more. As I reached for the tap, my school
tights slid down my hips and the pant bit hung low between my legs.

‘I need new tights,’ I shouted through to Mum.

‘I’ll have to stop feeding you,’ she replied.

I hear the adults laughing so I leave the banister and go back to my bedroom, put on my nightie then brush my teeth at the sink in the corner of the room. I can still taste the medicine under
the toothpaste. Daddy made me take an extra spoonful. It’s eight o’clock now and even though I don’t normally go to sleep this early, I’m really, really tired. Lying on my
bed, the sounds from downstairs come through the floor. A moment ago there was talking. Now it’s quiet. The key to the lounge door clunks as it’s turned.

I wake up later when everything is dark, and I’m dying for the loo. There’s the sound of furniture being moved downstairs. I slip out of my room and creep along
the edges of the carpet to avoid the creaky floorboards, and use the bathroom without turning on the light or flushing. On the way back I peep through the banisters. The door to the lounge is
slightly open. Inside a light is on, but it’s dim, like the lamp has been knocked over. The hallway is dark apart from a wavy pattern on the front-door glass where the trees outside blow in
front of a street light.

A man walks from the kitchen towards the lounge door. He has his back to me and he’s holding the ice bucket. Apart from that, he’s got nothing on. The glow from the lounge ahead of
him lights up fuzzy hair on his shoulders and down his arms, like his body is a dark cloud in front of the sun, and I can see more curls of fur down his back. He reminds me of a bear standing on
two legs. I step back quickly and a board squeaks. The man turns his head with a flick and he stares at me. Even though it’s very dark, I can tell he’s smiling. I stand completely
still, holding my breath.

Mum’s voice comes from the lounge.

‘Brian, darling, what’s taking you so long? Come here, you gorgeous creature.’

The man turns his head back to the room and walks in, slowly. There are huge dimples on his bottom as he swaggers through the door. His bum looks as if someone’s dug their hands into lumps
of wet clay and I think of God making the first man out of the dust of the soil and breathing into his nostrils to make him alive.

From inside the room a woman giggles. It’s not Mummy. The door closes and is locked again. I don’t know where Daddy is but his shoes are still by the front door.

I go back to bed and pull the covers over my face.

The next day at breakfast, Mummy’s already up and dressed with all her make-up on.

‘Are you going out?’ I ask.

‘No, I just woke early and it was such a beautiful day that I couldn’t help myself.’

‘Help yourself to what?’

She hums and doesn’t answer.

Daddy’s plate is to one side with only half his food eaten. Mum says he’d had enough and has gone to work early.

I have bacon and eggs with fried bread and freshly squeezed orange juice, but I’m not used to this much. Like Daddy. Mum is smoking, and as she hums she blows smoke from her nose. She
stares out the kitchen window. I recognize the song, it’s called ‘Killing Me Softly’ and it’s her favourite. She has the record and she plays it all the time.

‘Mummy,’ I say, ‘there was a man in the house last night who didn’t have any clothes on.’

She spins round and looks at me. ‘Don’t be silly. You must have been dreaming.’

‘He looked like a bear.’

‘Now I know you were dreaming.’

‘But I wasn’t. I saw him. I heard you talking to him.’

Her mouth goes all tight and wrinkly. ‘Oh, Rachel, you’re such a little fibber. If you can’t lie properly, then don’t say anything at all.’

I stare at my food and go to eat some more, but before I can Mum lifts up the plate and starts scraping the bits into the bin. ‘Don’t want you getting fat now, do we?’ she
says. She picks up my bag and coat and hands them to me. The bag is full, so she must have made my packed lunch already, and it’s exciting to imagine what she’s put in as I normally do
it myself. ‘Probably time for school now anyway.’ She opens the back door.

‘But it’s only eight o’clock.’

‘Oh well.’

I smile. ‘Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?’

‘Sorry, Cinders, but I’m busy busy busy today. You can wait with your friends at the gates.’

I stand on the doorstep until Mum shuts the door and I have to jump off the edge. Her singing gets louder, and I can still hear her through the open windows as I walk round to the front. I
tiptoe inside the squares, not on the lines of the garden path, all the way to the gate, which is good, as it means a meteor won’t crash into our house while I’m at school.

In the week since the accident, the season turns abruptly to autumn, and now it’s hard to imagine the late heavy summer existed at all. Days of rain ended the heat,
turning the hard ground to mulch. The mid-October leaves are disappearing fast from the trees, and the few that hang on do so in bewildered stoicism. Even though the scratches on my arms have
faded, the weather gives me an excuse to cover myself up, the habit of layers a comfort, as if beneath them I will disappear. Tonight I wear a cardigan over my dress and use a shawl when I’m
at the table. I leave my hair down how David likes it – it’s my best feature and lets me get away with making little effort elsewhere.

We entertain at our house about twice a month; potential clients mostly, but also more random business associates, people with whom it’s good to keep up for no other reason than they are
rich and powerful and may at some point assist our expanding empire. David had planned to cancel this evening’s dinner as he thought I wasn’t ready for company, but the lure of
schmoozing was too much for him in the end, plus the packet of diazepam he presented me with a few days ago has kept me nicely sedated. ‘Where did you get these?’ I asked. ‘From
the doctor, of course,’ he replied. But David never gets ill and as far as I know doesn’t even have a GP.

I’ve not been back to work, but if I had the energy to get into the office to deal with the pile of budgets that are waiting to be signed off, the familiar busy routine would be a salve
over my darker thoughts. At work it often seems as if I’m acting the part of being in charge but I’ve been doing it for so long I can’t tell any more, and I sense that David has
got used to and prefers the pretend me to the real version. In place of being at the office in person, I’ve been getting as much paperwork as possible emailed over to me, even petty things an
assistant could deal with, and for once I’ve been using my laptop more than pen and paper. At night when the sleeping tablets aren’t strong enough to stop the dream of the crash waking
me, my planner is on the bedside table where my reading book used to be, and I can switch heads by logging into work zone. David tuts at the bedroom light turning on and off, and he sweeps my
paperwork from the kitchen table when he sits down to his morning coffee and broadsheet, but as he’s watched his efficient business partner return he’s eased off on his monitoring of
me. Hence tonight he’s allowed what he believes is the only work that should infiltrate our home life: a social event that promises to bring financial rewards at a later date.

This evening we are hosts to Alex and his wife Jane. Alex is a partner in the law firm Hand, Fletcher & Richard. The company has its HQ in London and a satellite office in Brighton. Alex is
telling his favourite story, the one about his father being the second of the Richards to go into the family business, after which Mr Richard Senior passed the baton to his son. Hence, with a big
laugh that shakes his elongated frame, Alex plays his trump card and calls himself Richard the Third. David laughs too, even though he’s heard the story before. Alex’s constant gabble
meanders into his firm’s recent rebranding, their name now abbreviated to HFR. ‘More sparky and immediate,’ he says. But months ago before the change there was a high-profile
court case involving a female employee who’d been passed over for promotion, plus other allegations of sexual misconduct between a secretary and a senior partner. So with HFR the company has
swept away the cobwebs of old-school handshakes and inbred misogyny, and updated themselves. ‘It cost a fortune. Thieves, the lot of them,’ Alex says of the agency who came up with the
new branding. ‘I’d like to set fire to their Shoreditch offices, preferably with the little art-school cretins inside.’

I take this cue to leave our guests and David in the dining room, and walk to the adjacent kitchen, one of the only rooms downstairs with walls. Much of the internal space in the building is
open-plan and divided into zones by shelves and display cases, some of which house pieces from David’s toy collection, the valuable ones that aren’t in storage: vintage
Star Wars
figures, pristine and still in the box, a Matchbox car collection in height order and rows. David, the little boy who had so few toys, now has everything he wants, but he no longer wants to
play.

Walls of windows face a manicured garden of topiary shrubs in zinc planters, where an unused swimming pool simmers blue in the night-time air. The separate kitchen not only relieves me of the
pressure of performing to guests while I’m cooking, but it’s also one of the only spaces apart from the bathrooms where I’m private and no one can peer in from outside, especially
at night when the house is illuminated like a neon box.

I light a cigarette and stand at the worktop for a moment trying to remember what I’ve come in for. Scratching comes from the boot room where the dogs are kept when we have guests. The
animals are muzzled to stop them barking. On the worktop is the notebook we use for our household expenses along with a couple of the pens which live in the kitchen drawer with the book. In the
study there’s a stack of identical ledgers: new ones to fill in when this one is full, plus a shelf of already-finished books lined up in chronological order. David and I have been keeping a
record of our personal expenditure since we were at uni; it helped us streamline as much money as possible into the business while allowing ourselves the indulgences we thought we deserved. Even
though we don’t have to scrimp any more, we continue the practice out of routine. It’s a reassuring nod towards order. The book is open and only the first couple of pages have been
filled out in this relatively new book. I flick through the recent entries, the outgoings a diary of the past few days. The wine for this evening came from our cellar and was delivered two weeks
ago: £600. That same day I remember I’d been trying to contact Will but his phone was switched off. Another entry from later that week is the dog groomer who came a day before the
accident: £80. If only it were possible to rewind time and tamper with these seemingly innocuous events – arrive home late for the wine delivery, forget to walk the dogs so they were
too jumpy for the groomer, change the meeting with Will to a different night – then the man on the road could still be alive. His dead face slides across my vision. I shake my head and focus
on the book to try and rid myself of the image.