Tell Me No Lies. Lisa Hall

him, watching his face carefully for any clues. He is just like me, so insular. Neither of us likes to open up unless we have to, both of us preferring to keep things bottled up and deal with them in our own way, something I’ve started to realise is not always healthy. I want to encourage him to start to be more open, to let him know that I’m his mum, that he can always tell me anything and I would never judge him. Something I didn’t have growing up, which I think has contributed to the way I deal with things. I have to encourage him, even though I know it means I’ll have to force myself to do the exact same thing.

      ‘Yeah. Mostly.’ He carries on scribbling away, colouring in a drawing of a tiger. I turn to the milk pan, catching it just before it boils over and splashes all over the hob. I wait a moment, leaving him a chance to expand, but he carries on colouring, taking painstaking care to make sure he doesn’t go over any of the lines. I pour the milk, whisking in the cocoa powder, topping them both off with squirty cream and marshmallows. It turns out that baby number two is far more partial to horrifically calorie-laden hot chocolate with all the trimmings than he or she is to coffee. Placing the mug in front of him, I try again.

      ‘Just mostly?’ I ask, nudging him gently. ‘Why just mostly? Is it something to do with what happened in the playground today?’

      ‘No.’ He grasps the hot chocolate in his hand and blows gently on the top, like I showed him. ‘That was just silly. Bradley doesn’t know how to behave himself. He always GOES TOO FAR, that’s what Miss Bramley says. He’s not my friend, anyway. I don’t care if he doesn’t want to play with me any more.’ Henry takes a sip of his hot chocolate, managing to slurp up several of the mini marshmallows dotted on the top at the same time. I give him a small smile and pat his hand, turning back towards the kitchen sink to blink away the tears that rush to my eyes.

      Later that evening, once Henry is safely tucked up in bed, I tell Mark about Lila coming to visit.

      ‘She seems nice,’ I say, neglecting to tell him how my first instinct was to close the door in her face. ‘She said she had met you already.’

      ‘Hmmm?’ He looks up from his laptop, pushing his glasses back on top of his head. ‘Come here.’ He pats the sofa next to him and I slide along until our thighs are pressed together. ‘That’s good – you know, that you had tea with her and everything. It’ll be good for you to have a girlfriend; you don’t seem to have anyone close, not since Tessa left for New York.’ He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me towards him.

      ‘So, you never said you’d met Lila already.’ Although I know we said it’s a fresh start, I can’t help the spark of … what? Jealousy? Mistrust? I don’t even know what it is that flickers inside of me. Mark rubs his hand across his forehead, tiredly.

      ‘I didn’t really think about it, to be honest. She introduced herself and I told her about us, that we had a little boy and a baby on the way. Nothing exciting. Now come on, up to bed with you, you look exhausted. I’ll be up in a minute. I just need to send a couple of emails.’ He kisses my head and I shuffle off the couch to head upstairs.

      While Mark is downstairs finishing off emails or whatever else it is he has to do on the rare occasions he gets home from work before midnight, I sit in bed and slide my hand between the bed frame and the mattress to pull out my diary. I used to keep a diary, years ago, when all the bad stuff happened, but once I sorted myself out and met Mark I let it lapse. Now, though, following on from everything that has happened between Mark and myself, including after Henry was born, and on the instruction of the counsellor Mark found, I’ve started to write in it again. The counsellor, Dr Bradshaw, recommended I document how I feel about certain things that happen, in an attempt to keep at bay the dark feelings that threaten to overwhelm me sometimes, so now I sit in my pyjamas and write about today. I write about how sad I feel for Henry, as he struggles to fit in at school with the other kids; I write about how I wonder what Mark is doing downstairs – he says he’s checking emails but how do I know that’s really what he’s doing? I write about Lila – about how she brought a little bit of sunshine into my day today with her bouncy demeanour and her vomit-inducing coffee cake, and about how, maybe, after so long avoiding making new connections and new friends, I should learn to trust other people again. Maybe I should make an effort to make a new friend. Maybe if I pretend for long enough that everything is going to be OK, it will be OK. In fact, I write, I think Lila might be good for me.

CHAPTER FOUR

      I push my way through the crowded restaurant towards the table at the back, the one Belinda always favours and somehow manages to bag, no matter how busy it is in there. She has arrived already, which is no surprise seeing as how I’m fifteen minutes late. I seem to be running at a pretty constant fifteen minutes late since I fell pregnant again, the morning sickness that lasts all day always appearing just as I am about to leave the house. Belinda sits at the table, eyes constantly scanning the room for people who might not want to be seen, permanently on the lookout for her next story. She puffs rapidly on her Vape, her nicotine addiction still as strong as ever. The day the smoking ban came into effect was a dark, dark day for Belinda. She tosses her icy blonde hair over her shoulder, squinting towards me in the dim light of the restaurant. Then, as she realises that it is actually me approaching her, she gets to her feet and waves at me enthusiastically, cigarette and all.

      ‘Darling. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’ Belinda’s voice is husky from far too many cigarettes, late nights and bottles of fine whisky.

      ‘Sorry. I felt a bit … yeuch. You know how it is.’ I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, inhaling the familiar waft of Chanel No. 5 and cigarette smoke, the signature scent that is Belinda.

      ‘You know damn well I don’t, and I never want to either. No offence, darling, but babies are not for me.’ She takes another deep drag on her fake cigarette, squinting at me again in the half-light.

      ‘None taken. I do think it’s time for you to dig out the specs again, though, Bel. You’re squinting at me like mad, and I don’t know why you choose this restaurant every time – the lighting in here is awful.’

      ‘That’s precisely why I choose it, darling.’ Belinda lets out a cackle, drawing the attention of two older gentlemen dining at the table next to us. ‘Soft lighting makes me look twenty years younger, plus no one can see the bags you’re carrying under your eyes. Speaking of which, is everything OK, Steph?’ Speaking her mind as ever, she eyes me with concern. Belinda may be a tough old bag, but she has been a huge support to me since I first met her. She was, and still is, the editor of a very successful magazine – not as posh as Tatler, but a few steps above the trashy weekly gossip mags. I did work experience with her, way back when I was doing my journalism degree, and never expected to even cross her radar, but it seemed I was the only one in the office who could make her coffee exactly as she liked it, and she took a shine to me. She took me under her wing, showed me the ropes, and eventually, once I got my degree, gave me a job as a features writer. Fifteen years older and infinitely wiser than me, Belinda taught me everything I know, and now, since having Henry and not wanting to work full-time, she still passes me interviews and features to write in a freelance capacity.

      ‘Yes, Bel. Honestly, everything is fine. Just a bit exhausting at the moment, what with sorting the house out and being pregnant. I’ll be fine.’ I take a sip of the sparkling water on the table as Belinda takes a hearty gulp of cold, crisp Chardonnay. Lunchtime is drinking time to Belinda, and no doubt she’ll carry on until late in the evening. Apparently, she writes all of her best features half cut.

      ‘And Mark? What about him?’ Belinda’s nose turns up a little as she mentions Mark’s name. She doesn’t know what happened between us earlier in the year, and I want to keep it that way, but she doesn’t like him and never has, and she’s never told me why. I don’t like to ask.

      ‘He’s fine. He’s back to work and starting on a new project. Some wildlife, adventuring programme thing. Think Bear Grylls crossed with David Attenborough. Apparently he and the crew are travelling to some far-flung place next week to start shooting some