The Truth Club (51 page)

‘The nicest house I ever lived in had faded carpets,’ I write.
‘The curtains were old and the lining was worn, and the
floorboards were a bit loose in places and squeaked. The lawn
needed mowing and the bathroom tiles needed re-grouting. There
was a sign above the toilet that said, “Flush sharply,” the shelves
were stuffed with shells and stones we’d found on beaches, and there was no particular colour scheme. But that house had love and hope and faith in it, and forgiveness. It was a shelter and a sanctuary. We were larger in it. There was a heartbeat in its silences. I never felt alone there.

‘When we lived in that house, we weren’t trying to impress
anyone. It was a home. It didn’t have to look like the magazines;
we knew what we needed, and we didn’t compare the house to other places. I’ve begun to remember something I’d forgotten:
you can have a house, or you can have a home. And a home will
sometimes be a bit inconvenient. There will be things you can’t
throw away, and it will sometimes be a bit messy – like life, and
like love. But, because you aren’t seeing it through other people’s
eyes, you will know what fits there and what is cherished. And
you won’t fuss around trying to make everything perfect, because
that’s an endless, pointless task.

‘So buy the sofa you want, even if it’s bright red and clashes with the wallpaper. Change things at your own rhythm or leave
them as they are. Most of all, don’t worry about what other
people think. What’s the point? Everyone has their own tastes and
preferences. And maybe you’ll be alone in that house, or maybe you’ll share it; but, whatever your circumstances, you will know
more about the largeness of life and love and how to belong somewhere. How to listen to your heart.’

Chapter
Thirty-Four

Fiona is beaming. Her
smile hardly fits on her face. ‘It’s a kind
of miracle, isn’t it?’ she says, cradling the mug of tea I have
made her. We are sitting in my kitchen in the company of
numerous ants.

I am smiling too – smiling with relief and happiness, and trying
to hide any slight trace of suspicion. I’m finding it hard to believe
what she’s telling me. The main thing that makes it plausible is that it happened to Fiona. These sorts of things happen to Fiona quite a lot.

It looks like Zak’s sperm may not have been quite so slow after all. In fact, according to Fiona, it seems highly likely that Milly is
Zak’s daughter. He himself is in no doubt about it. Milly is,
apparently, the spitting image of his great-grandmother Mabel –
who, it turns out, was one-quarter Chinese.

Zak hardly knew anything about Mabel and her exotic
provenance until the day before yesterday. He was up in the attic,
hunting for the antique lace tablecloth that Fiona wanted to use at the christening party. He plonked a photograph album on a
wonky table; it promptly slid off, hit his shin, landed on the floor
with a wallop and burst open at a two-page spread entitled
‘Bella’s Christening’. Fiona is quite convinced that the angels
guided Zak to the album. I think this angel thing is catching. Ever
since I told Fiona and Erika about Aggie’s angels, they’ve been keeping a beady lookout for their own.

Zak knew that his grandmother had been called Bella; and,
since he was soon to be deeply involved in a christening himself, he glanced at the photos with mild interest. His eyes fixed on the
woman who was holding Bella. Someone had written ‘Mabel and
baby Bella’ underneath the photo in tidy blue ink. Zak had seen
photos of his grandmother, but Mabel was only a thin and distant
name, more of a story than a fact. Though the image was
brownish and faded, he could make out Mabel’s features quite
clearly. He gazed at her almond-shaped eyes; her pert, charming
nose; her high, exotic cheekbones. She was virtually an adult
replica of Milly. You could see that she was more European than
Eastern, but there was a distinct suggestion of improbable exoticism.

Zak took out his mobile phone and called his mother, who said
that Mabel was a strange woman. She had met Zak’s great-grandfather when he was working on a building site in London.
He had brought her home to County Westmeath, and no one had
really known what to make of her. She was basically English and
had a Cockney accent. There was some talk of her having a
Chinese grandfather, but even Mabel was vague about the details;
the main thing she knew about him was that he had wanted to go to America but had somehow got off the boat in Liverpool. For a
long time, many people thought that Mabel herself had ended
up in the wrong country – but then the differences slowly
softened, and she was just Mabel, who had somehow landed in
the middle of them all like an exotic bird. She was quiet and shy,
and even her genes seemed to share her reticence: her children all
looked like their father, and her grandchildren didn’t seem to
resemble anyone in particular. ‘It’s almost like she went back to
where she came from and didn’t leave a trace,’ Zak’s mother said.

‘Yes, she did,’ Zak said. ‘Milly looks like her.’

His mother debated this point. She said that, at three days old,
Milly had been the spitting image of her Aunt Sasha – ‘Though
your father says she looks more like me,’ she added. ‘She has my
eyebrows.’ Zak began to realise that, at the christening, Milly would be likened to half of his relatives. They would see what
they wanted to see, and he would not correct them. He smiled to
himself and put the phone back in his pocket. He himself knew that Milly had his hands and his chin and his ears, but he had
been very disappointed that she didn’t look more like Fiona. And
he had sensed that, in some way, Fiona was worried about Milly’s
appearance. Now he could explain it to her.

‘I really want to find out more about Mabel,’ Fiona says as she
stoically munches one of my rice cakes (my house is now a biscuit-
free zone). ‘It’s like you and DeeDee. Families are so strange, aren’t
they? There are so many hidden, secret things. It’s fascinating.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I agree, deciding not to tell her that I’ve put DeeDee in the ‘too difficult’ file for the moment.

‘Apparently, some family characteristic can skip generations,’
she continues enthusiastically, ‘until you get a son or a daughter
like Milly. Zak says there are families who don’t know they have a black relative until a lovely dusky little baby suddenly appears.
I know it sounds funny, but I almost feel like Mabel’s genes
suddenly decided to reassert themselves through Milly. And, once
they decided to do it, they really got down to business. I mean,
how else can you explain it? I was told over and over, by people
who are supposed to know these things, that Zak would never be
a father – a biological father. I felt so guilty about hiding the truth
from him, but now I’m glad I did.’

‘Why?’

‘Many people have done amazing things because no one told
them that they couldn’t. The only person who said Zak could be
a father was that acupuncturist. He gave him herbs he had to boil
up and drink. They tasted really awful, but I think they must have helped.’ Fiona’s eyes shine with joy. ‘He found that album at just
the right time. It sort of jumped out at him. It wouldn’t let him ignore it.’

I try to eat a rice cake myself. I desperately want to lose weight f
or Marie’s party. Ditched, divorced and fat would just be too demoralising.

‘I was going to tell him about the fertility clinic that very night,’
she says. ‘I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I’d even phoned my mother to say I might need to come and stay for a while.’

‘Oh, poor Fiona.’ I touch her arm sympathetically.

‘If Zak ever finds out what I did, he’ll be furious.’ She frowns.
‘I don’t think he’d leave now, but it just wouldn’t be the same between us.’

‘Don’t think about that,’ I say gently. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’

‘I so wish you could meet someone you love as much as I love
Zak.’ Her eyes are sorrowful. ‘I’m so sorry about Diarmuid. And
I’ve been no support to you. I’ve just been going on and on about
myself.’

‘Well, I think we all kind of knew it wasn’t a marriage made in
heaven,’ I mumble. ‘I’m beginning to think you marry the same way you live. I haven’t listened to my heart enough, Fiona. I haven’t believed it. It… it seemed to want some things that frightened me. Things that seemed like too much of a risk.’

‘Like your beautiful stranger at that party,’ she says softly. ‘Like Nathaniel.’

‘Yes.’ The word is a whisper. ‘I don’t know who I’m becoming,
Fiona, but I’m different. I can’t lie to myself like I used to. I miss
that, in a way. It seemed easier, even though it wasn’t.’

‘So you lied to yourself when you married Diarmuid?’

‘Yes, I did, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t listen to that little voice
that kept whispering, “This isn’t right. You don’t love him. Don’t
be so frightened of being alone.” I was so scared, Fiona – so terrified that I mightn’t find anyone who wanted me. I didn’t want people saying, “Poor Sally, she never married…”’

‘Well, at least they won’t say that now.’ Fiona smiles.

‘Yes, but they’ll say all kinds of other things instead. They’re g
oing to judge and comment, and some of them will blame me.
And these feelings I have aren’t going to stop until I decide other
things are more important.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like honesty and compassion and courage. Like love – real love.’

She reaches out and hugs me. She is so warm and sweet and
kind – and she works so hard at being Fiona. She puts her beliefs into practice. She is brave and true, and she doesn’t expect every
thing to be easy.

‘So how are preparations going for the christening?’ I ask, as she rises to leave.

‘They’re a mess,’ she sighs. ‘Zak found the album, but he didn’t
find the antique tablecloth; I must have thrown it out by mistake.
And the house is a tip – there’s stuff all over the place. We’re just
too tired to put things away, and we never seem to get around to
cleaning. Milly has thrown up on almost all my good clothes. I go
around smelling of stale milk. I’ve forgotten who I’ve invited, and
I keep phoning people to check if I’ve told them. I’ve never been
this disorganised.’ She smiles happily. ‘Sometimes we have muesli
for dinner.’

‘Sounds a bit like my life,’ I laugh. ‘At least you don’t have ants.’

As Fiona drives away, the phone rings. I wonder if it’s
Diarmuid phoning to discuss the house sale. He has made an inventory of all the furniture, and he wants to know what to sell with the house and what we should keep. I don’t know if I want any of that furniture. It seems alien to me now, like remnants
from another life. And I wouldn’t be able to fit any more furniture
into this cottage anyway. Maybe I’ll say I just want the nice bright
mugs I bought. They wouldn’t take up too much space.