The Hidden Truth, page 2
But today Sara was nervous. She hadn’t mentioned, the last time she’d visited, that she’d joined a dating app, or that she was going on her first date because, she told herself, she wasn’t even sure she would. As her mother-in-law got older and weaker, she seemed to want to reminisce more and more about her only and beloved son. Will she think I’m betraying Pete? she wondered now, as Heather set some slices of Madeira cake on the coffee-table, alongside a pot of tea. Do I feel as if I am?
When they were both settled and Sara had admired the roses poking round the open French windows to the little patio garden, then commented on the warmth of the afternoon, she took a deep breath. ‘I thought I ought to tell you …’ she hesitated, not knowing the best way to put it ‘… I’ve started dating. I’ve even been on an actual date.’ Margaret looked confused for a second, so Sara blundered on. ‘The girls insisted I join an online site and the other night I met this man for a drink.’ She watched the old lady’s face, normally so inquisitive, and saw, with horror, tears in her eyes.
Margaret being Margaret, she quickly blinked them away, taking a strategic bite of her cake before replying softly, without looking at Sara, ‘Was he nice?’
‘No, he was grim … I’ve upset you, Margaret, I’m so sorry.’
Her mother-in-law shook her head. ‘I’m being silly. I knew you’d meet someone else one day, a lovely girl like you. But, well, it doesn’t seem so long since you and Pete and the girls were sitting round the table in the old house eating my roast chicken and apple crumble.’
Sara bit her lip. She didn’t want to remind her it was nearly six years, knowing that time was slipping in Margaret’s world, these days. ‘To be honest, I can’t even imagine being with someone else. But I suppose I’m also scared of staying on my own for the rest of my life.’
Margaret nodded. ‘I must have been about your age when dear Arthur shuffled off. And I’d say I’ve had a pretty good life since … all things considered.’ She didn’t have to mention the trauma of losing her only son. ‘I’m sure it would be nice for you to find someone.’ She paused. ‘Although I’ve discovered, over the years, that you don’t necessarily need a man to be content.’
Sara knew she was right. ‘I’m probably thinking of a companion sort of person. Someone I could do things with, like holidays and stuff … not love like I had with Pete.’
She noticed a twinkle forming in her mother-in-law’s eye. ‘Probably a few frogs out there, dear. Be careful who you kiss.’
Sara laughed. ‘If the other night was anything to go by, there certainly won’t be any of that sort of thing going on,’ she said primly.
Margaret seemed suddenly to be miles away. ‘It’s a strange thing, love. I knew the instant I set eyes on Arthur. He was showing off with his mates, down on the beach at Saltdean, racing around with a ball like a silly fool. He wasn’t looking where he was going and he crashed into me and my friend Moira, nearly knocked me over …’ She laughed almost girlishly. ‘He actually did knock me over, in the other sense, of course.’
‘I thought Pete was a bit of an idiot when I first saw him, too.’
Margaret smiled. ‘But you know, don’t you? Part of you always knows.’
Sara nodded, although the thought made her sad. Could she ever ‘know’ again?
‘I never thought to find someone else, after Arthur died. But then our generation didn’t so much, not like they do today.’ She gave a slight frown. ‘Just make sure you don’t fall for a wrong ’un, dear. Older women are very easily flattered, in my experience.’
Sara was pretty sure her radar wasn’t functioning properly, or even at all, when it came to romantic engagement. ‘If there ever is anyone, Margaret, I’ll bring him round so you can give him the once-over.’ They laughed, but Sara was finding it almost impossible to imagine the encounter.
Gareth-the-engineer gazed at her across the table, a flirtatious smile playing around his mouth. He was an attractive man in a robust, confident way – broad-shouldered and tall, with a pink monogrammed shirt, his short brown hair peppered with grey, amusement in his brown eyes. Right from the start he’d made it clear he found her attractive. It was more than two weeks since the challenging evening with Colin, during which time Sara had made no effort to meet up with anyone else on the dating site. It was only because Gareth had been persistent, saying he was off to Denmark for three weeks on a project and he’d love to get together before he left, that Sara had reluctantly agreed to the date.
They were at Bill’s this time, another short walk from her house, but indoors, as it was raining hard. The restaurant was crowded and lively. Gareth had ordered a bottle of Italian white, some olives and a bowl of spicy tortillas with avocado and red pepper dips. When the wooden table wobbled alarmingly, he was quickly on his knees with a folded napkin, sorting it out.
Could I kiss him? Sara wondered, as the bottle emptied and she experienced a pleasant loosening of the usually tight grip she kept on herself. He was good company, an easy conversationalist on a wide range of subjects. She was surprised to find the answer was ‘maybe’ – and that she was enjoying herself.
‘What’s an attractive woman like you doing on your own?’ Gareth was asking.
She winced theatrically. ‘Seriously?’
He threw his head back and laughed loudly. ‘I’ve got lots more where that came from … But I make no apologies. The sentiment is real.’
The look he gave her made Sara blush and bend her head to her glass.
‘I’ve been on this lark a while now,’ he went on. ‘You can take it really seriously, or you can have a bit of fun. I know there’s a lot of bullshit about the horrors of online dating but meeting a pretty woman for a drink is never a chore, not in my book.’
‘Depends on the woman, no?’
He grinned and tapped his nose. ‘Ah, but I’m a careful picker.’ He waved the empty bottle in the air, his eyes searching around for the waitress. ‘Another one?’
Sara was about to shake her head: she’d had way too much already. But she didn’t want the evening to end quite yet.
‘And an order of the triple chocolate brownie for pud, I think.’ He pulled a face. ‘Not something you approve of, as a nutritionist, I imagine.’
‘Actually, I love them,’ she said – and it was Peggy’s favourite dessert.
By the time they stepped out into the wet night it was past eleven and Sara’s head was swimming. Gareth took her arm. ‘You live nearby, you say? I’ll see you to your door.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ she insisted, pointing to the opposite side of the road and down the hill. ‘It’s right there, the one with the red front door.’
He steered her across the road, nevertheless, and along the pavement to her house. Sara fumbled with her keys, managing, somehow, to insert the right one in the lock and open the door. She turned to Gareth. ‘That was lovely. Thank you.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
She stared at him, surprised. ‘Umm, better not. It’s a work day tomorrow … and you’ve got a plane to catch.’
But before she knew what was happening, Gareth had his arms around her. His bulk crushed her as he pushed her towards the open doorway, his mouth pressing first to her neck, then, swiftly up to her cheek, her lips – which his thick tongue attempted to prise open. Struggling to free herself, twisting her face away and pushing hard on his chest with her hands, she heard him groan. ‘Stop, Gareth, please … Let me go.’
She felt his arms drop and he stepped away. In the glow from the street-lamp she could see he looked befuddled and knew he was way more drunk than she’d realized.
‘I thought …’ he said, frowning at her. ‘Get the wrong message, did I?’
She wasn’t sure if he was angry, but she didn’t wait to find out. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and stepped quickly into her house, shutting the door firmly behind her. A shudder shot through her as she stood in the dark hallway. The combination of more wine than she’d consumed in months, the heavy, sugary brownie and Gareth’s sudden assault produced a wave of nausea that made her almost retch. She ran to the downstairs loo and turned on the cold tap, splashing her mouth, gulping water from her cupped palm until she’d got rid of the taste of him. The mirror showed her face pale with shock.
Did I ask for that? she wondered, as she leant tiredly against the sink. Did I lead him on? She knew she’d flirted mildly in response to his more vigorous attempts, but no more than that. Certainly, she felt she’d neither said nor done anything that would give him the idea she might ask him into her home. That’s it, she told herself, as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. I’m never going on another date, ever again.
‘I don’t think he meant any harm,’ Sara told Precious, over an early cup of green tea in Sara’s consulting room the following morning. ‘He was pretty drunk … I suppose he thought I was up for it.’
Her friend frowned. ‘You say he lunged, Sas. Didn’t ask. Not good enough to use booze as an excuse.’
Sara shrugged. ‘Maybe not. I’m just such a bloody novice, I don’t have a clue about the etiquette these days. I reckoned at our age … but perhaps he thought I led him on …’
Precious held up her hand. ‘Stop right there. Having a drink with a man you’ve just met does not give him the right to expect anything but a polite thank-you, unless you give your explicit consent.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Precious was reassuringly militant about women’s rights. ‘But it’s never as black and white in the moment, is it?’ She cringed at the memory. ‘Anyway, that’s it. I’m not getting back on the horse. If it means I spend the rest of my life alone, then so be it.’
Her friend laughed at her melodramatic pique. ‘Come on, girl, you can’t give up yet. You’ve only just started.’
‘All very well for you to say, with gorgeous Sammi waiting at home.’ Precious, who was younger than Sara by ten years – now in her late forties – had been living with her Spanish partner for almost fifteen years. He was a successful businessman who imported foodstuffs such as olive oil and sardines from Spain. They had no children, by mutual agreement.
‘I know I’m lucky. And I sympathize, I really do …’ She started to say something else, stopped and took a sip of tea.
‘What?’
‘Look, I know you’re fine, Sas,’ she said gently. ‘You jog along with your life, you’ve got your lovely girls, your work, but … perhaps you’re missing out on something more?’
Sara felt tears welling. Precious was right, of course, but, stubbornly, she knew what agreeing with her friend would mean: more dates. Much easier to just ‘jog along’, as Precious put it. Stay in her narrow comfort zone where she and Pete were still a couple.
‘Give it another try,’ Precious was saying, ‘and if the next one’s a creep, we’ll have a rethink.’ She raised her eyebrows at Sara, waiting for her to reply.
Reluctantly, Sara said, ‘But this one will be a single cup of tea in the middle of a sunny afternoon in a crowded café for precisely forty-five minutes. And Sammi can station himself at the next table with a Stetson and a shotgun.’ This made them laugh. Precious’s partner was slight, mild-mannered and charming. Hardly threatening, even rigged out as an armed vigilante.
Julian Cameron, her first client of the day, was a pale, neatly dressed music teacher in his early sixties, whom Sara had immediately identified as anxious. He was too thin and blinked rapidly with red-rimmed eyes whenever she spoke to him. The vast majority of her clients were women, and she was ashamed to say she preferred it that way. Brought up without a father or any close male relatives, educated in all-girls schools, she was aware of a certain diffidence around men. She never felt quite the same confidence with them that she did around women.
Julian looked twitchy today, crossing and uncrossing his legs and shifting in the padded wooden armchair Sara provided for her clients, fiddling with a hangnail on his right thumb and chewing the inside of his cheek as he waited for her to read through the food diary she’d asked him to keep for the previous three weeks. This was his second appointment.
‘I’ve done what you said,’ he began, his tone defensive and slightly arrogant, as if he expected to be challenged. ‘I’ve written down everything that’s passed my lips religiously. And I know what it is. I told you last time.’
Sara nodded patiently.
‘My stomach swells like a balloon every time I touch anything with wheat. I’ve always got indigestion and I’m always tired. I’m allergic to wheat. It’s coeliac.’
Julian’s diet, as seen from his food diary, consisted mainly of scary quantities of black coffee and raw food. Sara was certain his symptoms mainly stemmed from caffeine overload, lack of protein and all the indigestible raw vegetables he was consuming at his age. ‘It doesn’t look as if you’ve eaten any wheat at all since I saw you last.’
‘Well, no. Why would I?’
‘And have you noticed your symptoms improving at all?’
Julian shook his head impatiently. ‘Not yet, obviously. I imagine my body has to expel all those wheat toxins before I can feel better.’
‘I think, after three weeks, you’d begin to see a slight change, if you did have gluten intolerance.’
‘But you’ll get me tested, won’t you?’
‘I will arrange a test – which you can get via your GP – if it’ll reassure you. But, since you’ve been gluten-free for a while, you’ll need to eat gluten in more than one meal, every day for six weeks before testing. Otherwise, you risk a false negative.’
‘Six weeks? That’s ridiculous.’ Julian’s mouth twitched in outrage. ‘So I have to make myself more ill to get a test to make myself less ill?’ He blinked angrily. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Sara took a slow breath. ‘If you want to go ahead with the test, we can try some modifications to your diet in other areas while you wait. I really believe you’ll see a marked difference.’
‘I won’t if I have a wheat allergy,’ he retorted stubbornly.
Sara, undeterred, began to outline a regime. This client was tricky, but she loved the challenge. Like a detective solving a case, the thrill of finding the culprit – or culprits – in someone’s diet and restoring them to good health never palled.
Julian settled down a bit as she talked, but she could sense frustration simmering beneath the surface. As she well knew, clients often came to her as someone they could talk to, with whom they could share their general anxieties as well as their food worries. She tried to make the sessions a dialogue about their lives, not just their eating habits. Food was not just fuel: a whole psychology was attached to how people ate. But Julian didn’t want to talk about his life. He seemed fixated on having an actual, definable disease. As she saw her client out, she had a hunch that, despite his polite smiles, he was not happy with her advice. He had agreed reluctantly – as well as reintroducing gluten – to cut down on the caffeine, steam some of the vegetables, eat small amounts of chicken or fish, but she wasn’t very confident he would follow her advice.
The session over, her next appointment due to arrive in less than ten minutes, Sara found herself staring into space, her thoughts returning to the previous night. She felt stupid for letting one lunge – which had lasted barely a minute – get to her like this. She’d liked Gareth, enjoyed the evening, after all – even considered she might be willing to kiss him at some future stage. But it was the lack of control that had frightened her. Pinned in his drunken embrace, she’d felt physically helpless and afraid for what she realized was the first time in her life. If I’d asked him in … If he’d forced his way through the door …
She mentally shook herself and, after a few brief jottings in Julian’s file, clicked on the details of her nine o’clock. Stop being such a drama queen, she told herself. But by opening the door to the possibility of another relationship, she knew she was making herself vulnerable on a number of fronts. Not just to a tiresome evening or to frightening, inappropriate behaviour, but also, potentially, to the effort involved in forming another attachment … even to heartbreak. Maybe she was too old for this caper. Maybe it was just too difficult, unlocking her heart to someone new. There’s nothing wrong with my life, she insisted silently, as she updated herself on her next client – a woman who’d had her gall bladder removed the previous year and was having ongoing digestive problems. Precious and the girls might want more for me, but I’m fine as I am.
3
Sara got out of the car in the little tearoom car park at exactly a minute to four-fifteen, two weeks since her date with Gareth. She was wearing jeans and a navy cotton top as she didn’t hold out much hope for this encounter. Randall-the-dentist had made one too many jokes in their email exchanges, which Sara, generously, had put down to nervousness, but might be because he was just a bit silly. The tearoom was in a village a few miles east of Lewes. Her choice: she’d reckoned that the white and green spotted oilcloths on the tables, the cosy cloth bunting hanging from the beams and large quantities of Victoria sponge would scupper any unnerving ambush Randall might have in mind.
She was only here because Precious wouldn’t let her off the hook. They’d almost fallen out over it. Sara, seldom one to lose her temper, let alone sound off, felt as if she were struggling against her own stubbornness as much as her friend’s wish to see her find some nebulous happiness in a man’s arms. But it was easier to get annoyed with Precious than with herself.
‘Don’t take it so seriously,’ Precious had urged, when Sara showed no sign of responding to any more potential dates. ‘Think of it as a chance to meet interesting people, rather than the love of your life. It takes the pressure off.’
‘That’s sort of what Gareth said, minutes before he pounced.’
Precious’s expression became deliberately patient. ‘You can’t let one idiot hold you back forever, Sas. That’s dumb.’
