The Lies We Told Camilla Way (latest books to read .TXT) 📖

piercing it seemed to pin her to the spot, rendered her incapable of moving a muscle. He looked as though he was about to say something, but the moment stretched until the sudden sound of a motorbike revving outside broke the silence and his hand released hers, before he turned, and was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.

TWELVE

CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1988

Funny how it creeps up on you, how the occasional pick-me-up can morph so seamlessly into such a necessary, vital thing. The odd glass of wine used to be nothing more than a treat—a pleasant way to unwind after a long or tiring day, but slowly things began to change. I was never quite able to move on from that moment, you see, the second I turned to find Hannah standing in the kitchen, knowing that she had heard everything, that she knew everything. At night I would go to bed and wait in vain for sleep, only to relive over and over the shock of seeing her by the pantry door, the awful realization dawning in her eyes.

During the weeks that followed, I barely let her out of my sight, terrified of what she might do. But to my confusion, she almost seemed happier than she had ever been. The concerned phone calls from school all but ceased; the lying and stealing petered out; life ran more smoothly than it had ever done before. I would torture myself for hours trying to work out what this meant. I was terrified of her telling Doug what she knew, aware that there was no way he’d forgive me for going behind his back and secretly contacting the very person he’d wanted out of our lives forever.

Strangest of all, her relationship with her father began to change too. Now I would come across the two of them, heads bent close together, she sitting on his knee, a wide smile on her face as they chatted about her day. It made me feel sick to see Doug’s surprise and happiness at the change in his little girl. Occasionally she’d look up and our eyes would meet, and I would feel again that cold lurch of fear. It was as if she was deliberately torturing me.

When the secretary of the child psychologist whose waiting list we had been on finally rang to schedule our appointment, I almost cried as I fobbed her off with excuses. Because of course there was no question of that now. How could I possibly risk a doctor delving into Hannah’s mind? How could I risk Hannah telling what she knew? I seemed to live in a perpetual state of cold terror: I had no idea what to do.

So bit by bit, that end-of-day glass or two turned into three, then four. A bottle, sometimes more. I came to expect, then ceased to care about Doug’s disapproving glances. “Haven’t you had enough?” he’d say, when I’d reach for the wine yet again at dinner. Sometimes I’d see a closed, tight expression in his eyes when he noticed the empties piling up in the bin. But I never drank during the day, while looking after Toby, for example. I’d always, always wait until he was safely tucked up in bed for the night—at least at first. I couldn’t tell Doug, you see; I couldn’t tell him what I’d done.

“She seems to have turned a corner, don’t you think?” he said with satisfaction one evening, after Hannah had obediently gone off to get changed for bed.

I looked into my wineglass. “Hmmm,” I said.

“Maybe she doesn’t need to see that shrink after all,” he added. “What do you reckon?”

“Yes,” I said faintly. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll cancel it.” I made myself return his smile. When he went whistling out of the room, I poured myself another, extra-large glass, and drank it in three gulps.

My only joy during this time was Toby. He was the one thing that made life bearable. Hannah knew that. She knew he was all I had.

—

It was an evening in October a year later and it had been a long and tiring day: I’d slept badly the night before and Toby had been difficult for most of the afternoon—he was two years old by then. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t have a drink until both of the children were in bed, so I was doing my best to chivy Hannah along. Toby should have been asleep ages ago, but he was refusing to settle, so I’d brought him into the bathroom with me while I kept an eye on his sister.

“Come on now, Hannah,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time, while Toby played on the floor, making a relentless brrrrmmm brrrrmmm brrrrmmm noise while he pushed a toy car around my feet. “Get out of the bath now—it’s getting late.”

She glanced at me dismissively. “No, I’m not ready to yet.”

My anger seemed to come from nowhere. I was usually so careful to keep her onside, but I was tired, a little hungover from the night before, and there was something in the look she shot me, the disdain in her eyes, that just made me snap. “Get out of the bath right this minute,” I shouted so loudly that Toby jumped and started to cry. “I’m sick of you disobeying me!”

With infinite slowness, a maddening smirk on her face, she did what she was told. It seemed to take her forever, and I was suddenly desperate for a drink. I passed her a towel. “Go and put your night things on,” I muttered. “I’ll be two minutes.” I left the room and headed for the stairs, thinking only of the cold bottle of wine I had waiting for me in the fridge.

After I’d poured myself a glass, I stood at the sink savoring that first gulp. I could hear Hannah talking to Toby, their voices getting louder, which meant they must have left the bathroom. I closed my eyes,