Her Perfect Lies. Lana Newton

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.