Tell Me No Lies. Lisa Hall

my mug and get to my feet. I don’t want to be rude but I have a deadline to meet, and my boy to collect in just under twenty minutes.

      ‘Of course! I’m sorry to keep you. We didn’t get off to the best start, did we?’ Lila also gets to her feet, still smiling. She makes me feel like I must have a permanently miserable look on my face, compared to all her shine and glitter. I see her to the door, holding out my hand once again for her to shake. She bats it away and steps forward, enveloping me in a huge hug. I stand there stiffly, feeling ever so slightly awkward. I’m not a hugger, and certainly not one of those people who will scoop up someone she’s just met for a giant squeeze. Lila hugs me tight, until I give her the tiniest of hugs back.

      ‘I’ll pop in during the week, shall I? Just to check on you, OK?’ Lila says, buttoning the front of her pea-green coat. ‘Someone needs to take care of you while Mark’s working away, don’t they? It’s going to be so lovely having someone my age living across the street! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they all seem to be a bit older than us around here.’ She laughs and gives a little wrinkle of her nose. ‘And I promise, no more coffee cake. We’re going to be great friends – I can just feel it.’ She gives me a wink and one last twinkly smile, before marching off down the path towards her own house, leaving me standing on the doorstep, feeling slightly bemused.

      I walk back into the kitchen, intent on finishing the last bit of the article I was writing, only to find that the Word document I had open on my laptop is completely blank. I must have clicked on the delete button in my haste to get to the front door. Sighing, I close the lid of the laptop, and as I’m shrugging on my coat to walk up to the school to collect Henry, I realise I don’t remember telling Lila that Mark worked away. Mark must have told her when he met her in the garden, I think, and I wonder why he never mentioned it to me.

CHAPTER THREE

      I make it to the school with seconds to spare, the walk taking me a little longer than I had anticipated. I should have driven, really, knowing that I was under pressure to get there on time, but the lure of fresh air and a brisk walk proved too much to be able to resist. This is my favourite time of the year, those few weeks between the start of a fresh new school year (odd how, even twenty years after leaving school, the first week of September still feels like a fresh start to me) and Christmas – all the giddy excitement of preparing for the festivities, made all the more fun since the arrival of Henry. The perfect time for us to re-evaluate things and make a go of our marriage after all that has happened, giving ourselves a clean slate and a chance to start over. It’s the best kind of day too – the kind that starts crispy and frosty, swirls of ice on the windowpanes and car windscreens, blades of grass turned white and crunchy with the frost. The kind of winter’s day where, even though there are bright-blue skies and sunshine overhead, the temperature doesn’t lift a degree or two above freezing, so all day long your breath puffs out in little dragon clouds as your boots slip and slide on the glittery, icy pavements. The best kind of day to pull me out of the thick, suffocating darkness that threatens to suck me under sometimes.

      By the time I arrive at the school, the bell has rung and children are beginning to stream out of their classrooms, looking for their mothers waiting patiently in the playground. Half of the parents there don’t seem to pay any attention to the children pouring out of the school, not looking eagerly for their offspring, preferring instead to catch up with the school gossip with the other yummy mummies congregating in the playground. I stand to one side, away from the gossiping masses, my nose red from the cold, my cheeks flushed from the race to get there on time, and unzip my thick winter jacket as pregnancy and the brisk walk make me warmer than I should be. As I push my hat further back on my head I see Henry come out of his classroom, holding tight to his teacher’s hand. I feel my heart squeeze at the sight of his little face, a serious frown crossing his brow as the teacher leans down to speak to him. As she stands, she catches my eye and beckons me over with one finger. My heart sinks a little; today has obviously not been a good day for Henry. I make my way across the playground, dodging small children on scooters, their mothers still yakking away about nothing to their playground counterparts. I reach Henry and Miss Bramley, and lean down to give Henry a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

      ‘Is everything OK, Miss Bramley?’ I ask, knowing full well that something will have happened today at school. Henry is only in Year One, and this is only his first week in his new school, but he doesn’t seem to be settling in as well as they would like him to.

      ‘We just had a slight incident today with Henry, Mrs Gordon, nothing too serious, but I thought we should let you know.’

      ‘What is it? What happened? Henry, are you OK?’ He gives a small nod and a sniff, not raising his eyes to meet mine.

      ‘It seems Henry was pushed over by another child in the playground today, Mrs Gordon. It may have just been a little rough play that got out of hand, but I did think I should make you aware of it. Henry wasn’t hurt, just a scraped knee, and this is not the kind of behaviour we at the school condone, I assure you.’ Miss Bramley almost looks embarrassed at having to tell me my child has been hurt at school, her eyes looking everywhere but at me.

      ‘Henry, is that what happened? Was it just playing?’ Henry nods, a small, slight nod, and I look down at him helplessly. ‘OK. OK, fine. Thank you, Miss Bramley.’ I take Henry’s hand and lead him away towards the black railings at the far end of the playground, to collect his scooter and get us out of the gate before I can speak to him properly. Henry is a sensitive boy, much more like me than Mark. I think when he was born, Mark thought he would be getting a rough-and-tumble boy, one he could play football with in the garden and take to the green to play cricket in the summer. A boy who would appreciate vigorous play, wrestling on the living-room carpet with his dad, instead of one who preferred to sit quietly, drawing or painting. Since he started school and discovered the joys of reading, he has become a voracious reader, devouring all the picture books I collected and read to him when he was tiny and clamouring for more every time we venture into a bookshop.

      As we begin the walk back down the hill towards home, he scoots a little ahead, using his school shoes as a brake – something that would normally infuriate me, but today I don’t mention it. We cross with the lollipop lady, a cheery soul who stands there morning and afternoon in sunshine and torrential rain, always with a smile on her face. She waves to Henry and hands him a lolly as he crosses, which brings the first smile to his face that I’ve seen today.

      ‘Henry, wait!’ I shout to him as he whizzes along the path, narrowly missing a lady walking a yappy Chihuahua that snaps at Henry’s legs as he passes. He slows and I catch up with him outside the small convenience store, panting slightly. ‘Leave the scooter there. We need milk. And some hot chocolate, if there are any good little boys about?’ I peer around and Henry giggles, his laughter tickling my skin like summer sunshine, pulling a smile onto my face. Henry chatters on as I fill my basket with milk and other little bits we’ve run out off. I am only half listening, concentrating on packing my shopping bag as the man behind the till scans the items.

      ‘Eight pounds forty, please.’

      I smile at the man behind the counter and give him a ten-pound note. He hands me my change before reaching under the counter and popping a small purple packet into my hand.

      ‘Your change. And a treat for the young man.’ He winks at Henry, and I give him a small smile, nudging Henry into a ‘Thank you’ before adding the bag of chocolate buttons to the rest of my shopping.

      A short while later, via a small diversion to the green, leafy park that we pass on the way home, we let ourselves in and Henry busies himself putting away his scooter and tugging off his school coat. I wait until he’s finished and then follow him through into the kitchen.

      ‘So then, hot chocolate?’ I ask, turning to the shopping bag and pulling out a large carton of milk.

      ‘Can we have marshmallows?’ he begs, his face lighting up. ‘And squirty cream?’

      ‘Well, of course,’ I reply. ‘Is there any other kind?’

      He