don’t always deal well with that. You have to learn when to fib.
“It’s snowing again. I told you.” Her grandmother paused, the crinkle of vertical blinds. “Now what do they want?”
“Who?”
“There’s reporters out in the front garden. Look. They’ve got a camera.”
Sometimes you had to lie. Because your mother needed you to, so that she could grieve for someone that never really existed. Because your brother needed you to, and wasn’t he still little more than a child? And so what if what you remembered was different from what everyone else said they remembered? Because all that mattered now was protecting these two people who have been through so much. And wasn’t that worth a little lie?
“I’m telling you. It’s disgusting. These people. Going round asking questions that they’ve got no right to ask. No right at all. I’ll close these blinds. Disgusting. Should leave well enough alone, if you ask me.”
Freya stood, pushing back the chair with a scrape.
Chapter 13
Cecilia – Friday, 16th March – 11.22am
Cecilia squeezed the concealer tube with her right hand. Biscuit cream pooling onto the index finger of her damaged left hand. It shook with the effort. Touching her fingers together, although it hurt. Only then did she look up. The eye was swollen, almost hidden by the dark blue bruise. She dabbed the concealer and tried to make herself believe that it was working.
Ben. She could get Ben. That was what she would do. This house, it was too quiet, too dead. The walls, each one more fucking beige than the next, and even though she’d wanted that, had insisted upon it at the time when Tom had wanted something warmer, something more homely, they closed in on her now. The heating had gone off, air frigid. Her skin prickled, perhaps from the cold, yet still she was suffocating.
Cecilia circled the eye, or where the eye used to be. Rubbing her finger back in the concealer, concealer onto the bruise. She had tried to put mascara on, but her eye had watered too much, had left her with dark streaks trailing down her cheeks.
She would go and get Ben. That’s what normal people did, wasn’t it? When they had almost died. They held their children. That’s what she would do. Patting the eye with pressed powder. Standing back from the mirror and squinting. Then looking away and wanting to cry. She would go get him. She could be that, just this once, a normal mother.
Like the other mother. Working her way onto the plane, bundled against the cold. Hi. Welcome aboard. Straight on to the back please. What had she said to her? The girl, three, maybe four, jet black hair in a page boy cut, fringe grazing hazelnut brown eyes. She had worn a pink coat, hadn’t wanted to let go of her mother’s hand, even though the aisle was too narrow, and they had to pirouette awkwardly. She had a tiny tears doll tucked under her arm. They had sat in the fifth row from the back. Against the window.
Cecilia remembered counting the few rows that remained, her head spinning, her arm throbbing, pulling the prostrate into what was left of the aisle, stumbling through jagged edges, tumbling into snow. Four rows from the back. Then nothing but snow.
She pulled cream blusher from the Lancome bag, smoothing it across death grey cheeks. Her arm was throbbing, swamping her with pulses of pain. Had swallowed a couple of pain killers, the ones they had given her from the hospital. They’re strong mind, they’d warned her. But her arm still throbbed, and now her head swam, tongue feeling thick and unwieldy.
They were reading a book, the mother and the child and the tiny tears doll, as she checked seatbelts and closed lockers and adjusted tray tables. They were reading the Gruffalo. The little girl had laughed as her mother did the voices, burying her face into the child’s cheek with a low growl and a giggle. Like they had done this a thousand times. Like they would do it a thousand times more.
She should go and get Ben.
“It’s snowing again. I told you.” Her grandmother paused, the crinkle of vertical blinds. “Now what do they want?”
“Who?”
“There’s reporters out in the front garden. Look. They’ve got a camera.”
Sometimes you had to lie. Because your mother needed you to, so that she could grieve for someone that never really existed. Because your brother needed you to, and wasn’t he still little more than a child? And so what if what you remembered was different from what everyone else said they remembered? Because all that mattered now was protecting these two people who have been through so much. And wasn’t that worth a little lie?
“I’m telling you. It’s disgusting. These people. Going round asking questions that they’ve got no right to ask. No right at all. I’ll close these blinds. Disgusting. Should leave well enough alone, if you ask me.”
Freya stood, pushing back the chair with a scrape.
Chapter 13
Cecilia – Friday, 16th March – 11.22am
Cecilia squeezed the concealer tube with her right hand. Biscuit cream pooling onto the index finger of her damaged left hand. It shook with the effort. Touching her fingers together, although it hurt. Only then did she look up. The eye was swollen, almost hidden by the dark blue bruise. She dabbed the concealer and tried to make herself believe that it was working.
Ben. She could get Ben. That was what she would do. This house, it was too quiet, too dead. The walls, each one more fucking beige than the next, and even though she’d wanted that, had insisted upon it at the time when Tom had wanted something warmer, something more homely, they closed in on her now. The heating had gone off, air frigid. Her skin prickled, perhaps from the cold, yet still she was suffocating.
Cecilia circled the eye, or where the eye used to be. Rubbing her finger back in the concealer, concealer onto the bruise. She had tried to put mascara on, but her eye had watered too much, had left her with dark streaks trailing down her cheeks.
She would go and get Ben. That’s what normal people did, wasn’t it? When they had almost died. They held their children. That’s what she would do. Patting the eye with pressed powder. Standing back from the mirror and squinting. Then looking away and wanting to cry. She would go get him. She could be that, just this once, a normal mother.
Like the other mother. Working her way onto the plane, bundled against the cold. Hi. Welcome aboard. Straight on to the back please. What had she said to her? The girl, three, maybe four, jet black hair in a page boy cut, fringe grazing hazelnut brown eyes. She had worn a pink coat, hadn’t wanted to let go of her mother’s hand, even though the aisle was too narrow, and they had to pirouette awkwardly. She had a tiny tears doll tucked under her arm. They had sat in the fifth row from the back. Against the window.
Cecilia remembered counting the few rows that remained, her head spinning, her arm throbbing, pulling the prostrate into what was left of the aisle, stumbling through jagged edges, tumbling into snow. Four rows from the back. Then nothing but snow.
She pulled cream blusher from the Lancome bag, smoothing it across death grey cheeks. Her arm was throbbing, swamping her with pulses of pain. Had swallowed a couple of pain killers, the ones they had given her from the hospital. They’re strong mind, they’d warned her. But her arm still throbbed, and now her head swam, tongue feeling thick and unwieldy.
They were reading a book, the mother and the child and the tiny tears doll, as she checked seatbelts and closed lockers and adjusted tray tables. They were reading the Gruffalo. The little girl had laughed as her mother did the voices, burying her face into the child’s cheek with a low growl and a giggle. Like they had done this a thousand times. Like they would do it a thousand times more.
She should go and get Ben.
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