Her Perfect Lies. Lana Newton

Right now I’m playing chess with myself.’

      ‘You are? And how is it going?’

      ‘Very well. I think I might be winning.’

      ‘That’s good to hear. Have you eaten?’

      ‘They gave me porridge. Gruel for breakfast.’

      ‘I hope they’re looking after you.’

      ‘Today they took me to the common room. It was like having a picnic on Brighton Beach. Wish you could remember those. We would go every August, just the three of us. We would dress up in our summer best. Your mother would prepare baskets of delicious food. We’d spread our blanket on the pebbles and race each other to the water. Then we would play badminton and cards.’ His voice sounded far away, lost in a dream.

      Claire felt relief flooding her body. The darkness retreated. Tentatively she smiled. ‘Let me guess. You always won?’

      ‘Of course. Unless we played charades, in which case your mother won. She was quite the actress. I often tell her she missed her calling. She should be on TV.’

      ‘Hope you made friends in the common room. Someone to play chess and share your porridge with.’

      ‘I won’t share my gruel with anyone but you. When are you coming over?’

      ‘First thing tomorrow.’

      ‘Can’t wait!’

      She thought of her dad as she played the piano, hoping her brain would catch up with her fingers and remember this melody, or that one, or the next. And she thought of her husband, who told her they were in love, when he hadn’t once smiled at her or showed her any affection or even seemed concerned. She tried not to think of the divorce papers signed by both of them that were now hiding under her bed. Soon, Nina returned from the market. Claire concentrated on the noises in the kitchen, on oven door slamming, pots clanking and water running. Anything not to think. Finally, Nina’s dishevelled head appeared in the studio. ‘Food ready. Your favourite chicken fajitas. You need anything?’

      ‘No, no,’ said Claire. ‘I’m okay, Nina. Go home and relax.’

      In the afternoon, she swam in the pool and sat in front of the TV, finally falling asleep to the reruns of Bless This House. When she woke up, Paul was home. Absentmindedly he inquired about her day but didn’t seem interested in her response. His back was turned as he took his coat and boots off. All she wanted was to ask him about the documents under her bed. Would he tell her the truth? He had already lied to her once. ‘I found …’ she began.

      But Paul wasn’t listening. ‘Have you taken your medication today?’

      Suddenly he was leaning over her, making her feel small and vulnerable. Drowsy and disorientated, she tried to get up so she wouldn’t have to look up into his face when she spoke to him. ‘Of course.’ Did the doctor tell him she didn’t want to take her medicine anymore? She shuddered.

      ‘Next time, wait for me to get home.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I want to see you take it.’

      She thought she had misheard. ‘You want to see me take my medication?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘You don’t trust me to do it? I’m a grown-up, Paul. I can take care of myself.’

      ‘You’ve been through a lot. I need to make sure you’re okay.’ He didn’t look at her when he said that. Picking up a plate, he loaded it with food and locked himself in his study. Claire turned the lights off and sat in the dark, waiting for him to come out so she could ask him about their impending divorce and how it fit into his story of a perfectly happy marriage. At ten o’clock, when there was still no sign of him, she went to bed. She hadn’t touched the fajitas.

       Chapter 4

      The common room at the hospital was filled with flowers and balloons, wall to wall, as if it was decorated for someone’s birthday. As if at any time, a cake would arrive, followed by a clown. But there was not a smile in sight, and not a happy face. Just the opposite: the patients sitting on either side of Claire as she waited for her father to appear looked conquered by life and done with the struggle of it all. They looked just like she felt – tired and hopeless and deflated.

      Matt from neurology shook and stared. He couldn’t talk and couldn’t walk unassisted. He introduced himself to Claire, kissing her hand like she was the queen.

      Steve was missing a leg. He spent ten minutes lamenting the fact it was his right leg and not his left. How will I go back to work? How will I earn a living? Steve drove a taxi in the West End, something he’d done for forty odd years, he told Claire. He could imagine a life without a leg but not without his taxi.

      A man from the psychiatric ward, who didn’t introduce himself and didn’t even glance at Claire, talked loudly to no one in particular. He was convinced he was a Russian prince, kidnapped after the Revolution. He couldn’t recall his name or speak Russian but Claire thought he looked old enough to remember the Russian Revolution. Claire tried to focus on his voice, which was loud enough to drown all the other noises in the room but not loud enough to drown the thoughts in her head. She was thinking about her husband looming over her last night, his voice loud and threatening. When he was in the room with her, she felt tense, like he posed a danger to her that she couldn’t remember but was aware of on some subconscious level. When she was with him, she didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing in case he disapproved of her. But was it really his approval she wanted? Or was it more than that? Was it possible that she was afraid of him?

      Finally, after she’d waited for ten minutes, a nurse wheeled Tony in. Matt, Steve and the old Russian prince had long returned to their rooms. Claire and her father had the common area to themselves.

      She hugged him hello, wanting to give him comfort, but it was she who felt comforted when he held her close. ‘You won’t believe the treats I have for you,’ she said, placing her large backpack on the table and undoing the straps. Her face lit up in anticipation, as if the treats were for her and not for him, and she showed him boxes of food prepared by Nina and half a dozen books.

      ‘You need Vitamin C, so I brought a kilo of oranges.’

      ‘Will Vitamin C help me walk again?’

      ‘A pomelo. I found it in the kitchen at home. It’s supposed to be good for you.’

      ‘What in the world is a pomelo?’

      ‘I had to ask Nina. Apparently, it’s a citrus fruit from Southeast Asia. Tastes a bit like a grapefruit.’

      ‘Nasty and sour? No, thank you. Next time bring me some good old apples instead. Granny Smiths, my favourite.’

      ‘I’m glad you asked,’ she said, pulling out a bag of apples. He nodded with approval. She reached inside her bag one more time. ‘And here I have something truly wonderful.’

      ‘As wonderful as the pomelo? Impossible.’

      ‘Mock all you want. But this is Nina’s special Napoleon cake. It’s like heaven on a plate. You’ve never tried anything like it.’

      ‘It must be heaven if it’s named after the short French Emperor.’

      ‘Apparently it takes two days to make one Napoleon cake. And Nina baked one just for you.’

      ‘If she baked it for me, why do I only get one slice? Where is the rest of the cake?’ He smiled, winking. After Claire placed the stickers with his name on every box and placed the food in the fridge at the end of the corridor, she got comfortable in a plastic chair next to him. There was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if a little bit of his vitality had returned.

      ‘Tell me something I don’t