Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks
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chest.
‘What are you hiding?’ Daisy demanded.
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Simon insisted.
She started to try to prise the bag off him. Simon was taken aback that she was being so openly confrontational – what was wrong with her? – and so he momentarily slackened his grip. It was enough for her to get some purchase, she yanked the bag off him and opened it.
‘You brought gin here?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘No, I was taking it away.’
‘You were stealing her gin?’ She glanced at Millie who was trying not to look at her parents. Daisy’s shock was palpable. Simon felt it calcify, another layer of disappointment settling on their history.
‘Not stealing it. Taking it away for her own good. She shouldn’t be drinking. It messes with her meds. Alan brings her it every week.’
‘You steal from her every week?’ Daisy shook her head. Disgust oozed from her.
Simon didn’t answer. What was the point? She didn’t want to know. Not really. She’d prefer not to know that when he nipped into the other rooms, ostensibly to say hi to the other oldies, like a decent chap, he checked their bedside cabinets too. There was usually a quarter of whisky, a small bottle of sherry, at the very least. On a quiet week, he’d settle for a box of liqueurs. He told himself that he was doing them a favour. It was irresponsible to give la la old people alcohol. There could be accidents. He wasn’t stealing. They’d give it to him if he asked. They liked him. These old dears that smelt of pee. They all thought he was their son or husband. They didn’t know their arse from their elbow. Simon knew Daisy wouldn’t understand if he explained all of that, so instead he did the only thing he could think of, he lurched forward and grabbed the gin out of her hands. In an instant he’d unscrewed the top and started to down it. Glug, glug, glug. Temporarily, she was frozen. Then she reacted. She tried to knock the bottle out of his hand.
‘Stop it, Simon. For God’s sake, stop it.’
But if he stopped drinking she’d take it from him. He knew she would. She did succeed in spilling a fair amount down his shirt, which was a waste. He flopped back into the armchair and slung the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. It landed with a satisfying clunk. He yelled, ‘In the back of the net,’ and punched the air. Millie giggled, nervously.
Daisy looked like a fish, her mouth was gaping. She was swirling, sort of gauzy. She looked from him, to the wastepaper basket and back again. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
The air between them shuddered.
‘Him? Oh, he’s my husband. He’s always been rather too fond of the bottle, I’m afraid,’ said Elsie. She carefully patted the back of her hair with her frail, veiny hand. Then in a whisper, leaning towards Daisy, she added, ‘I find it’s best to ignore the matter. It doesn’t do to bring it up.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I only wish he had a hobby.’
Simon started to snigger. It was hilarious. It was just fucking hilarious.
Simon’s proposal to me was a fairy tale. Textbook. Perfect. It was at my sister Rose’s house just before Christmas, on the twins’ first birthday. Simon and I had been dating for not quite six months. I wasn’t expecting a proposal, I didn’t so much as dare dream about it. Honestly, that’s true. If I did dream about it, I’d wake myself up because I didn’t want to jinx anything. Even the idea of Simon liking me enough to want to date me was mind-blowing, the possibility that he might one day propose was out of this world. So I was not expecting a ring. He was an amazing boyfriend though, I already knew that. I thought I’d be getting maybe a necklace for Christmas or something especially meaningful, like an early edition of Little Women, my favourite book. We’d had the conversation about favourite books. We’d had so many conversations, late into the nights. He was easy to talk to.
The setting was very romantic. Rose’s house was dressed for Christmas, there were fresh, green garlands and white twinkling lights everywhere. Rose’s ‘mum friends’ naturally all had kids about the twins’ age and many of them had other siblings too so there were smallies everywhere. As usual, I spent a lot of time playing with the children that were old enough to understand games like hide and seek. Everyone I cared for most in the world was at that party: my parents, my sister, her husband and children and, as my sister had sort of adopted my gang, many of my closest friends were there too, including Connie and Luke. Whilst I was playing rowdy games with the kids, I was constantly watching the door because Simon was late. His absence was profound. I suddenly realised that almost everyone in the world I most cared for was at the party, but not everyone. He’d leap-frogged into that special position in my heart. He was the most important.
I was beginning to imagine all sorts of dreadful scenarios like he’d fallen under a bus or, worse still, he’d gone off me. No doubt he’d ditched the toddler party and the robust redhead and was sipping gin and tonics in a bar somewhere with a leggy brunette. Then suddenly, I spotted him. He was dressed as Santa with padding, a fake beard, a sack, the lot. I was pretty cross with Rose for roping him in for such a job; I couldn’t believe he’d really be comfortable with the role. On the other hand, I was totally delighted because he’d agreed to do it. I mean, no matter how shaky my self-esteem may have been, even I understood that a boyfriend dressing as Santa to entertain your baby nephews and their sticky, noisy, tiny friends, was an act of devotion. I intercepted him under the mistletoe. Giggly, blushing, breathless.
The kids that were old enough to have a clue about what was going on were rustled into a line and Simon did the whole ‘ho ho ho’ thing. He followed the traditional script and asked each child what they wanted for Christmas and whether they’d been good that year. They nodded their little heads, wide eyed and expectant. On cue he delved into his huge sack and produced a present; I can’t remember what the gifts were, something tacky and plastic. I remember being surprised because I’d thought Rose would opt for chocolate coins and wooden puzzles. I do remember the children’s happy, excited faces. Their pink rosebud mouths lisping thank yous, following the prompts of their watchful mothers.
When all the children had received their treats and were beginning to get restless about what would come next in the constant stream of entertainment and goodies, Simon yelled above their noise, ‘There is one girl who hasn’t told Santa what she wants for Christmas, yet.’ He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto his knee. I was this exquisite mix of mortification and total utter joy. I’d never been happier than in that moment. I’m not normally a fan of being in the limelight and I’ve never been a fan of sitting on men’s knees, I feel too hefty and it’s uncomfortable. I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks, but still, I was delirious with happiness.
‘Now, Daisy, have you been good this year?’
I heard one of my friends make a joke referencing something lewd I’d told her, and I promised myself to stop over-sharing. I tried not to be distracted as I replied, ‘Quite good.’
‘Well, as much as I hate to disagree with you, I think you’ve been more than quite good. You’re wonderful and so I have a special present for you. If you’ll accept it.’
I didn’t guess. I heard my friends whisper that it was probably flights to somewhere exotic, but I couldn’t think clearly enough to hazard a guess, I was so in the moment. Overwhelmed. The room was tight with anticipation and excitement, everyone loves a bit of romantic theatre. At least we did then, now I wonder whether we’d all feel a bit embarrassed if one of us put on a similar show. You get too old for such blatant romance. Too weary, I suppose.
He continued, ‘In fact, you are unbelievably good. I never thought that I’d meet anyone quite so good, special and amazing.’ His voice