The Authenticity Project Read online

  “Growing old is not good in this country,” said Mrs. Wu. Julian had already discovered that this was her favorite conversational topic. “In China, elders are respected for their wisdom. They have lived long life, learned much. In England, old people are nuisance. Families send them away, put them in homes. Like prisons for elders. My family would not do that to me. Would not dare.”

  Julian could well believe it. However, he wasn’t at all sure that he was wise or had learned very much. He didn’t feel very different from the man he’d been in his twenties, which is why it was always such a terrible shock when he looked in the mirror.

  “You have a lovely family, Mrs. Wu,” he said, raising his right leg to the front, arms stretched to the side.

  “Betty!” she replied, looking fierce.

  “Baz, I mean Biming, is such a lovely boy. And super boyfriend, too, that Benji.”

  Mrs. Wu stopped, midpose. “Boyfriend?” she asked, looking puzzled.

  Julian realized that he must have just made a terrible mistake. He’d assumed she knew that her openly affectionate grandson was that way inclined. “Yes, you know, friend who is a boy. They get on very well. As friends. You know.”

  Mrs. Wu gave Julian a hard stare and said nothing, as she moved elegantly into the next pose.

  Julian exhaled with relief. Luckily, he had a higher emotional intelligence than the average person. It looked as if he’d salvaged the situation.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monica

  Monica had gone to town with the Christmas decorations in the café this year. Julian’s art classes must have unleashed some long-buried creative instinct. She’d put up a tree in The Library, decked with traditional glass decorations and plain white LED lights. Each of the tables had centerpieces of holly and ivy, and a large bunch of mistletoe hung above the bar. Benji was happily doling out kisses to men and women alike.

  “Tart!” yelled Baz from table six.

  “Bakewell or lemon?” retorted Benji, with a grin.

  A Christmas compilation had been playing on a loop all day. If Monica heard Bono ask whether they knew it was Christmas one more time she’d merrily chuck Benji’s iPad in the sink with the washing up.

  The rich, complex aroma of mulled wine filled the café. As it was Christmas Eve, Monica had told Benji that the wine was complimentary for all her regulars. Benji had deliberately misunderstood and handed over every glass with a compliment: Looking HOT this evening, Mrs. Corsellis! The children were all getting free chocolate coins, resulting in lots of smiles and chocolatey fingerprints. She was desperately fighting the urge to follow them all around with a damp cloth. This, she reminded herself, was very good practice for motherhood. She looked at her watch. It was nearly 5:00 P.M. Even though it was Monday, she and Riley had agreed to meet Julian for a Christmas Eve toast at the cemetery.

  “Benji, I’m just going to run a flask of this down to the cemetery, if that’s OK?” she said.

  “I’m not sure the folks in there will be needing your mulled wine, love,” quipped one of the women in the queue.

  Monica hopped on the bus, grinning at the driver who was wearing a Santa hat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so excited about Christmas. It was like the Christmases before that one, when they’d been a happy family of three.

  As Monica approached the Admiral from the Fulham Road end of the cemetery, she could see Riley walking toward her from the Earl’s Court side. He waved at her.

  “‘God rest ye merry, gentlemen,’” he sang as they sat simultaneously on the marble tombstone. Then he kissed her. The heat of the kiss, its depth and the way it made her feel dizzy, mirrored the effect of the mulled wine she’d been drinking. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed with them entwined, like the ivy covering the nearby gravestones, before they heard Julian’s voice.

  “Um, should I perhaps go somewhere else?” They jumped apart, Monica feeling like she’d been caught snogging outside the school disco by her dad.

  “No, no, no,” said Riley. “After all, you were here first. By at least forty years.”

  “We brought you mulled wine,” said Monica, waving the thermos at him.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised to see you two getting on so well. I had predicted as much, from the moment Riley walked into my art class. We artists see things other people don’t. It is both our blessing and our curse,” he said with the theatrical delivery of a Shakespearean actor. “Well, isn’t everything coming up roses? Just when I thought Christmas couldn’t get any better.”

  Monica poured them each a cup of mulled wine, thankful for the excuse not to share Julian’s Bailey’s. It may have been Mary’s favorite, but it was so sweet she could almost feel her teeth dissolving when she sipped it. “Merry Christmas, Mary,” she said, feeling guilty about her uncharitable thought.

  “Merry Christmas, Mary!” echoed the others.

  “Good news on the eBay front, Julian,” said Riley. “We’ve netted nearly a thousand pounds. Your understairs cupboard is a proper gold mine.”

  “Excellent work, young Riley,” replied Julian. “I can go shopping in the online sales. I’ve found this wonderful website—it’s called Mr. Porter. It has everything a fashion-conscious gentleman requires. You should check it out.”

  “I’ll stick with Primark, thanks, Julian. More in my budget.”

  “Julian, I have to get back to the café, to help Benji close up,” said Monica. “But I’ll see you at eleven a.m. tomorrow.”

  “I’ll walk you back, Monica,” said Riley, eliciting a knowing wink from Julian that would have looked incongruous on any other pensioner.

  They walked along the Fulham Road, Riley’s arm slung over Monica’s shoulder. London had emptied out for the holiday, and the roads were eerily quiet. Every passerby told a story—the man doing some emergency last-minute present buying, the mum ushering her children home so she could wrap their stocking presents, the group of lads returning from their office Christmas lunch that had stretched into the late afternoon.

  Monica couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this relaxed. She realized, much to her surprise, that she didn’t really care whether Riley would be leaving London soon. She didn’t mind what his intentions were. For the time being, she was able to mentally file all her worries about being a barren spinster, abandoned on a dusty shelf, under “pending.” All she cared about was the perfection of this moment, her head resting on his shoulder and the soft synchronized tread of their feet on the pavement, marking the beat of the Christmas carol playing from the pub. She congratulated herself on becoming a veritable guru of mindfulness.

  “Monica,” said Riley, an uncharacteristic note of hesitation in his voice, “I hope you know how much I like you.” Monica’s stomach lurched as if she were on a roller coaster—pleasure and fear so bound together that she didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

  “Riley, this sounds like the point in the novel where the hero says he has a wife and family back home,” she said, trying to sound jocular. He didn’t have, did he?

  “Ha ha! No, of course I don’t. I just wanted to make sure you knew, that’s all.”

  “Well, I like you a lot, too.” This felt like as good a moment as any to utter the words that had been on standby for a while. She’d spent some time crafting the perfect level of nonchalance. She’d even recorded her delivery on her iPhone and played it back. God, had she remembered to delete it? “Would you like to stay tonight, since you’re coming around tomorrow anyway? So long as you don’t mind me running around stuffing the turkey and peeling the sprouts.”

  Riley hesitated, just a beat too long. Long enough to telegraph what was coming. “I’d love to, but I promised my roommates I’d celebrate with them this evening, since I won’t be there tomorrow. I’m really sorry.”

  Monica heard the familiar voice in her head chanting he’s just no
t that into you and crushed it like a bothersome gnat. She refused to let anything spoil her mood. Tomorrow was going to be a perfect day.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Alice

  What Alice wanted most in the world for Christmas was a lie-in. Just until 7:00 A.M. But Bunty had other ideas. She’d woken up demanding food and attention at five. Alice had had to use formula, which Bunty hated, in case her milk was still boozy from the night before. She’d have to do a pump and dump. Again. She wasn’t even responsible enough to feed her own baby properly. The kitchen looked as if there’d been a riot in a toy shop. Alice had meant to tidy everything up and prepare all the vegetables for Christmas lunch before she’d gone to bed, but the terrible row she’d had with Max had rather put paid to that. She reached into the cupboard for the Nurofen, as if she could medicate away the memory, along with her hangover

  Max had come home rather late, and obviously a bit worse for wear, after taking his team out for a festive lunch, which had turned into a rowdy afternoon. By the time he got back, she was exhausted and was sure she had the beginnings of mastitis: horribly painful boobs, hard as rocks, and a slight fever. She’d googled the symptoms and read that chilled cabbage leaves placed inside your maternity bra would help. She’d not been able to get out to the shops without waking Bunty, who was, finally and thankfully, fast asleep. So, when Max eventually appeared, she asked him to go and buy a cabbage.

  He was gone for what seemed an age, while Alice simmered slowly with resentment that he’d been having fun all day, while she’d been up to her armpits in nappies and wet wipes. Eventually he came back with a bag of Brussels sprouts! He’d explained that, as it was Christmas Eve, most of the shops were closed, or their shelves bare.

  “What am I supposed to do with Brussels sprouts with their stupid little ineffectual leaves?!” she’d yelled at him.

  “I thought you wanted to eat them. Doesn’t everyone eat Brussels sprouts at Christmas? It’s practically the law,” he’d replied, not unreasonably, she now realized, ducking as she threw the offending vegetables at his head. They missed, but hit the wall, like shrapnel, knocking a framed collage of Bunty’s baby pictures, taken from her Instagram page, off-center.

  Alice had pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge along with a box of After Eight mints (both earmarked for Christmas Day) and had finished them both in record time, while scrolling through all her social media and thinking, darkly, That’ll show him.

  Now she realized that it hadn’t shown him at all, or at least not what she’d intended to show him. All it had done was make her wake up at 3:00 A.M., dehydrated and sweating sauvignon blanc. Then she’d tossed and turned, yelling silently at herself for two hours, at which point Bunty had joined in, yelling at her very loudly indeed.

  Max walked into the kitchen, kissed the top of her head (which was still in her hands), and said, “Merry Christmas, darling.”

  “Merry Christmas, Max,” she replied, as merrily as she could muster. “I don’t suppose you could take over with Bunty for a while, while I grab some more sleep?”

  Max looked at her, goggle-eyed, as if she’d suggested inviting the elderly neighbors round for a swinging session. “You know I would usually, darling”—she knew no such thing—“but my parents are going to be here in a few hours and we have a lot to do.” That statement came loaded with blame and accompanied by significant looks at the piles of toys, overflowing sink, and rubbish bins and unpeeled potatoes.

  “When you say we, Max, does that mean you’re going to help?” Alice asked, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible. She didn’t want another argument on Christmas Day.

  “Of course I am, sweetie-pie! I just need to finish up a couple of annoying admin things first, and I’ll be right with you. By the way, you are going to change into something more appropriate before my parents arrive, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Of course I am,” said Alice, who hadn’t been planning to. As Max disappeared back into his office, she wished she could change her life as easily as she could her clothes.

  Alice put Bunty into a papoose so that she’d be happy and safe while she rushed around tidying the house and getting lunch ready for the in-laws. Alice didn’t dislike Max’s mother (at least she tried not to), but Valerie had standards. She was rarely overtly critical, but inside Alice knew she was a seething mass of judgments, all the more virulent for being contained. She’d never quite gotten over the fact that Alice had been brought up on a council estate on the outskirts of Birmingham by a single mother who worked in a school cafeteria.

  Alice’s father had left them all when her youngest brother was a tiny baby. Valerie had sat ramrod straight in her lavender skirt suit and matching hat throughout their wedding, casting sidelong looks across the aisle at Alice’s family, with a face like a disappointed prune. She’d expected better for her only son. She set the bar so high that Alice, despite all her immaculate grooming, careful manners, and practiced pronunciation, could never hope to reach it.

  Max, of course, was blind to all this. In his eyes, Mother could do no wrong.

  * * *

  • • •

  AFTER TWO HOURS of frenetic activity, the kitchen was looking presentable and lunch was in hand. It might not be ready at lunchtime, but they should be able to eat by 3:00 P.M. Alice, however, was still far from ready or presentable. Her hair was unwashed and piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her face was ravaged after all the wine, chocolate, and lack of sleep, and her postbaby belly, augmented by her Jaffa Cake addiction, was pouring over the top of her yoga pants.

  She walked into Max’s study without knocking. She noticed him quickly close the lid of his laptop. What hadn’t he wanted her to see? She dumped Bunty unceremoniously on his lap and went to have a shower.

  Alice had presumed that having a baby would bring Max and her closer. They’d have a new purpose and shared adventure. Yet in reality, Bunty’s arrival seemed to be driving them further apart.

  She thought back to the closed laptop, the late-night meetings, and the ever-growing silences between them. Was he having an affair? Would it really be so awful if he were having an affair? At least then she wouldn’t need to feel guilty about how often she feigned sleep, or a migraine, to avoid having sex. But the mere idea of such a betrayal made her feel breathless with anxiety. She already felt inadequate, unsexy, and unlovable. Max’s confirmation of those suspicions might just finish her off. And what if he wanted a divorce? She couldn’t bear to give up her perfect life, the one she’d worked so hard for, that had thousands of less lucky women double-tapping on her Instagram shots.

  Stop it, Alice. It’s just the hormones. It’s all going to be OK, she told herself as the power shower pelted water at her tired skin.

  It was only later that Alice realized, in all her worry about Max leaving her, she hadn’t once thought that she might miss him. Which, of course, she would.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Julian

  Julian was taking extra care dressing, since it was a special day. He’d selected an outfit by his old friend Vivienne Westwood (perhaps he should look her up again; she probably thought he was dead)—a fine kilt and jacket in contrasting tartans with asymmetric hems. If you couldn’t wear Westwood on Christmas Day, then when could you? He had his radio tuned to a music station that was playing “Fairytale of New York,” and he was singing along about how he could have been someone.

  Julian had been someone, and then no one. Today, he felt like someone again. Someone with an invitation to Christmas lunch, at least. With friends. They were friends, weren’t they, proper ones? Monica hadn’t just asked him out of pity, or a sense of duty, he was sure she hadn’t.

  He remembered the first Christmas after Mary, when he hadn’t even realized the significance of the day until he’d turned the TV on in the midafternoon. All the festive televisual jollity had driven him back to bed with a cold tin of baked beans, a fork, and a
bowlful of regrets.

  He tried out one of his tai chi moves in his full-length dressing-room mirror. He realized he looked like a crazed highlander. He walked into his sitting room where his presents for Monica, Riley, Benji, Baz, and Mrs. Wu were sitting on the coffee table waiting to be wrapped. It took him a little longer than he’d anticipated as his clumsy fingers got in rather a mess with the Sellotape. He tried to untangle them by grabbing the tape with his teeth, and got his mouth stuck to his hands.

  As Julian walked out onto the Fulham Road, he spotted Riley walking toward him. He must have cut through the cemetery from Earl’s Court. He hadn’t stayed at Monica’s, then. How old-fashioned. Julian had never been that old-fashioned, even in the days when one was supposed to be. Riley looked a little stunned by his outfit. He was obviously impressed.

  Monica opened the door of the café looking adorable. She was wearing a red dress, covered by a plain white chef’s apron. She looked like she’d been working at a hot stove, because her cheeks were flushed, and the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her customary ponytail were damp. She was also holding a wooden spoon, which she waved in a sweeping motion as she said, “Come in!”

  A table, big enough for eight, had been laid for four in the center of the café. It was covered in a white linen tablecloth scattered with rose petals that had been spray-painted gold. Each place setting was marked by a gold pinecone that held a small card with a name on it. There were red crackers, red and gold candles, and a centerpiece of holly and ivy. Even to Julian’s critical eye, it looked stunning.