The Authenticity Project Page 15

  Then a man walked into the café. He had dark, wavy hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen a pair of scissors for some time, the strong jawline of a comic book hero covered in a short beard, and a deep tan. He was carrying a large rucksack and looked like he’d literally just gotten off a plane from somewhere exotic. He looked vaguely familiar and had the air of someone who expected to be recognized. Was he some sort of B-list celebrity? If so, what on earth was he doing in her café on Christmas Day? He was, he’d announced, called Hazard.

  It took Monica a few minutes to remember where she’d heard that name. The postcard! She also remembered where she’d seen that face. He was the arrogant arsehole who’d barged into her on the pavement a few months ago. A thinner, browner, and hairier version. What had he called her? Stupid cow? Silly bitch? Something like that.

  Monica was so distracted that she missed what he’d said next, but he obviously knew Riley. Something felt not quite right. She’d shown Riley the postcard, and he hadn’t said he knew Hazard. A snake of anxiety coiled and uncoiled in her stomach as her mind grappled with all the facts, trying to fit them together.

  Monica refused to offer him a chair. She was damned if she was going to be hospitable. He could explain what on earth was going on while standing up. Stupid bitch, that was it.

  “Er,” Hazard said, looking rather nervously at Riley. “I found the notebook, The Authenticity Project, on a table in the bar, just over there.” He waved at the wine bar opposite. “I read Julian’s story”—he nodded at Julian—“and thought you could do with a bit of hand with your rather inadequate advertising campaign.” Monica gave him one of her steeliest glares. He cleared his throat and carried on.

  “So I copied your poster and stuck it in all the obvious places. And I took the book with me, to an island in Thailand. I thought I’d help you out a bit, Monica.” She didn’t like how he used her name in such a familiar fashion, as if he knew her. “Then, while I was there, I checked out every unattached bloke I met to see if he might make a good boyfriend. You know, for you . . .”

  He trailed off. He must have seen how utterly mortified she was. It had all become horribly clear.

  “And you turned up on this island, did you, Riley?” she said, hardly able to look at him. He said nothing, just nodded miserably. Coward. Traitor.

  Monica turned the new reality over in her head. Riley hadn’t appeared at the art class by happy accident. He’d been sent by Hazard to shag the sad old spinster back home. He hadn’t snogged her because she was gorgeous and he couldn’t help himself. Of course he hadn’t. Stupid, arrogant girl. He’d read her story and felt sorry for her. Or thought she was desperate. Or both. Had they been laughing about her behind her back? Was she some form of bet? I’ll give you fifty quid if you can get the uptight café owner into bed. Had Hazard deliberately targeted her after colliding into her that evening and, if so, why? What had she done to him? Was Julian in on the whole thing too?

  Suddenly she felt utterly exhausted. The wine and the food she’d eaten with such gusto churned around in her stomach. She thought she was going to be sick, to vomit all over her beautifully laid table. Gold-sprayed rose petals mixed with chunks of reconstituted carrot. All her new visions of the future, the ridiculously optimistic happy ending that had been gradually forming in her mind, had to be rewound, deleted, and overlaid with the bland, featureless plot she’d been used to.

  “I think you’d all better get out,” she said. “You’ve eaten my food. You’ve drunk my wine. Now FUCK OFF out of my café.”

  Monica never swore.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Riley

  How had everything gone so wrong? One minute he was contemplating Christmas pudding and sex, his only worry how much he could eat of the former without ruining the latter. Then, the next minute, Monica was throwing him out. And it was all Hazard’s fault.

  “I’m really sorry, Monica,” said Hazard, “I was only trying to help.”

  “You were playing a game, Hazard. With my life, like we’re on some sort of reality TV show. I’m not your charity case, or your social experiment,” Monica spat back at him.

  What on earth could Riley say to make her understand?

  “Monica, I might have met you because of Hazard, but that’s not why I’ve stayed with you. I really care about you. You have to believe me,” he said, suspecting that his words were falling on stony ground. Monica pivoted on a heel to glare at him. He wished he’d stayed silent.

  “I don’t have to believe anything you say, Riley. You’ve been lying to me all this time. I trusted you. I thought you were real.”

  “I never lied to you. I didn’t tell you the whole truth, I admit, but I never lied.”

  “Bloody semantics, and you know it!” Semantics? What were they? “You were only with me because of the book. And I thought it was fate. Serendipity. How could I have been so stupid?” She looked as if she might be about to cry, which Riley found way more alarming than her anger.

  “Well, that’s kind of true,” he said, trying to convey his sincerity with his tone, “in that you seem so incredibly strong, but I knew from the book that, inside, you’re really”—he grasped for the right word, finding it in the nick of time—“vulnerable. I think that’s what’s made me love you.” He realized that he’d never used the word love with Monica before, and now it was too late.

  For just a second, Riley thought that his words might have cut through. Then Monica picked up the Christmas pudding, which was mercifully no longer alight, but did still have a very prickly piece of holly sticking out of it, and threw it, overarm, like a shotput. He wasn’t sure if she intended to hit him or Hazard, or both of them. He stepped sideways, and it landed in a sticky heap on the floor.

  “Get out!” she yelled.

  “Riley,” said Hazard under his breath, “I think it’s best if we do what the lady says, and wait for things to calm down a bit, don’t you?”

  “Ah, so I’m the lady now, not stupid bitch? Patronizing arsehole!” said Monica. Riley wondered what on earth she was talking about. Had she completely lost it?

  They backed out of the door, lest Monica throw anything else in their direction. Riley saw Julian a couple of blocks ahead of them. He called after him, but Julian didn’t hear. From the back, he looked like a much older man than the one Riley knew. He was hunched over and shuffling, as if he were trying to have as little impact on his surroundings as possible. A taxi drove past, splashing water from a puddle over Julian’s bare legs. Julian didn’t seem to notice.

  “This is all your fault, Hazard,” said Riley, realizing, but not caring, that he sounded like a petulant child.

  “Hey! That’s not fair. I didn’t know you weren’t going to tell her about The Authenticity Project. That was totally your decision, and a rather stupid one, if you don’t mind me saying. You should know that withholding a key piece of information never ends well,” Hazard protested. Riley did mind him saying, actually. Monica was right, Hazard was a patronizing arsehole.

  “Look, the bar’s open. Let’s get a drink,” said Hazard, tugging Riley across the road by the arm.

  Riley was torn. He wasn’t sure that he really wanted to spend any time with Hazard right now, if ever, but he did want to talk to somebody about Monica, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the drunken revelries of his roommates. In the end, his need to talk won out and he followed Hazard into the bar.

  * * *

  • • •

  “THIS IS WHERE I found Julian’s book,” Hazard told him, “on that table, right there. It feels like an awfully long time ago. What are you having to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Coke, please,” said Riley, who’d had more than enough booze for one day.

  “One Coke and a double whiskey,” said Hazard to the barman, who was wearing a pair of flashing antlers with rather bad grace. Riley stepped in front of him.

  “Ac
tually, mate, can you make that two Cokes, please?” He turned to Hazard. “You forget, I’ve read your story. You do not want to do that.”

  “I really do, you know. Anyhow, what do you care if I choose to hit the self-destruct button? I’m not exactly your favorite person right now, am I?”

  “You’re right there, but even so, I’m not letting you screw up your life on my watch. You’ve done so brilliantly. I had you down as a total health nut when I met you on Koh Panam.”

  “How about I just have one? That can’t do any harm, can it? And it is Christmas Day, after all.” Hazard looked at Riley like a child who knows he’s pushing his luck, but is giving it a go in any case.

  “Yeah, right. And in ten minutes time you’ll be telling me that one more won’t really matter, and by midnight I’ll be wondering how on earth I’m going to get you home. You’ve caused me enough trouble already, frankly.” Riley’s words caused Hazard to deflate.

  “Ah, bollocks. I know you’re right. I would have hated myself in the morning. It’s been eighty-four days since I had a drink or a drug, you know. Not that I’m counting or anything,” said Hazard, taking a Coca-Cola, rather unenthusiastically, from the barman. He walked over to the table he’d pointed out to Riley earlier and sat on the banquette.

  “Isn’t it strange thinking that last time we had a drink together, we were on the other side of the world on the world’s most perfect beach?” he said to Riley.

  “Yup. It was a hell of a lot easier there,” Riley replied, sighing.

  “I know, but, believe me, after two months of that you start to realize it’s all totally shallow. All those temporary friendships get really boring. I was desperate to get back to some real friends. The problem is, I’m not sure I’ve got any left. I replaced them years ago with anyone I could find who liked a party as much as I did. And even if I wanted to see those party friends, they’d be pushing booze and drugs on me before I’d taken off my coat. There’s nothing an addict likes less than a sober person. I should know.” Hazard stared into his glass of Coke so mournfully that Riley was finding it difficult to stay angry with him.

  “There’s nothing wrong with shallow, mate,” said Riley. “It’s all this depth that causes the problems. What on earth do I say to Monica? She thinks the two of us were playing some kind of game. I know she didn’t look it just now, but she’s actually quite insecure underneath it all. She’ll be gutted.”

  “Look, I’m not the world’s expert on what goes on inside the heads of women, as you may have guessed, but I’m pretty sure that as soon as Monica calms down she’ll see that she’s totally overreacted. By the way, impressive reaction speed. I thought she’d got you with that figgy pudding,” said Hazard with a grin.

  “She was aiming at you, not me! She must be really angry. One thing Monica hates is food on the floor, even tiny little crumbs, invisible to the naked eye,” said Riley, wryly.

  “So how much do you like her?” asked Hazard. “Was I right, or was I right?”

  “It hardly matters now, does it?” Riley said. Then, worried that he was sounding a bit harsh, he added, “It was all a bit confusing, to be honest, because of that bloody book. It made me feel like I really understood her. But it scared me a bit too. I mean, I’m only here for a while, and she’s looking for all that commitment. Perhaps this is all for the best.” As he said it, Riley realized he didn’t think that at all.

  “Look, give her a day or two, then talk to her. Tell you what, try being authentic, ha ha,” said Hazard. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

  But what did Hazard know? He and Monica were not exactly on the same wavelength. In fact, the only comfort that Riley could find in the situation was that if Monica didn’t like him right now, she really, really didn’t like Hazard.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Alice

  Lunch had been a disaster. Max had opened the champagne when his parents had arrived at 11:00 A.M. Alice had drunk two glasses on an empty stomach. Then she’d downed a glass of the red wine she’d set aside for the gravy while she was doing the cooking. The combination of no sleep, nerves, and too much booze meant that she got completely muddled with all her timings. The turkey was dry, the sprouts were mush, and the roast potatoes as hard as bullets. And she’d forgotten the gravy altogether.

  Max’s mother had made all the right complimentary noises about the meal, but—in her usual way—dressed up criticism as praise. “How clever of you to use shop-bought stuffing. I always make my own. So silly, as it takes me absolutely ages to get it just right.” Alice knew exactly what she was doing, but Max hadn’t a clue.

  Alice wished she was at her mother’s house, with her siblings and their families, squashed happily into the cramped front room. Over the years, carpets, curtains, and furnishings, chosen by her mother for their availability and price rather than beauty, had combined to create a contrasting, clashing, riot of pattern and color. They’d all be wearing gaudy festive sweaters, paper hats, bickering, and taking the mickey out of each other.

  Alice’s Fulham house was painted just the right shade of Farrow & Ball; the furniture was coordinated and unobtrusive, with the occasional pop of the latest color. Everything was open plan, and a lighting consultant had spent hours, and a large proportion of Max’s bonus, making sure that the right mood could be created for any occasion. Utterly tasteful. Completely soulless. Nothing to dislike, nor anything to love.

  After lunch, Alice helped Bunty unwrap more of her presents. Alice realized that she’d gone totally over the top and was sure a shrink would say it was a reaction to her own childhood Christmases, where the majority of the gifts had been handmade and hand-me-downs. She still remembered the scorn with which she’d greeted the lovingly crafted sewing box her mother had made for her when she was ten, stocked with needles and a rainbow of threads, buttons, and fabrics. She’d wanted a CD player. How could she have been so ungrateful?

  Alice dragged herself back to the moment and uploaded a cute picture of Bunty chewing the wrapping of one of her presents to Instagram, with all the usual hashtags. Completely out of the blue, Max snatched her phone from her.

  “Why can’t you actually live your bloody life, rather than photographing it all the time?” he hissed, throwing her mobile into the corner of the room, where it landed in a box of building bricks, tipping them over like a wrecking ball.

  There was a stunned silence.

  Alice waited for someone to stand up for her, to tell Max that he was out of order and couldn’t speak to his wife like that.

  “Alice, dear. When is Bunty due to have her nap?” Max’s mother asked instead, as if the previous few minutes hadn’t happened.

  “She, she doesn’t have a set nap time,” replied Alice, trying not to cry. Her mother-in-law pursed her lips in disapproval. Alice braced herself for the familiar lecture on the importance of routine and how Max had been the perfect baby, sleeping through the night from the minute he came back from the hospital.

  “Well, why don’t you and Max take the sweet thing out for a little walk, Alice, and I’ll tidy the place up for you? It’ll do you good to get some fresh air.”

  Alice saw this for what it was: a veiled criticism of her housework masquerading as kindness, but she wasn’t going to argue. She couldn’t wait to get away from it all for a while, despite knowing that the minute she walked out of the door her in-laws would be talking about her many inadequacies. Without humiliating herself further by scrabbling in the toy box for her mobile, she picked up Bunty and her shoulder bag and left the room, followed by Max, who looked as if he didn’t want to spend time with her any more than she did with him.

  As soon as the front door closed, she turned to him.

  “How dare you humiliate me like that in front of your parents, Max? We’re supposed to be a team,” she said, and waited for the apology.

  “Well, it doesn’t feel much like a team to me, Alice. Every moment
you’re not with Bunty, you’re playing around on bloody social media. I have needs, too, you know!”

  “Bloody hell, Max! Are you jealous of a baby? Your baby? I’m sorry if I’m not spending as much time pandering to you”—she wasn’t, actually—“but Bunty needs me rather more than you do. You could perhaps try helping a bit more.”

  “It’s not just that, Alice,” Max said, suddenly looking sad rather than angry. “You’ve changed. We’ve changed. I’m just trying to get to grips with it all.”

  “Of course we’ve changed! We’re parents now! I’ve just had to push a melon through a keyhole, I’ve turned into a mobile milk bar overnight, and I haven’t slept for more than three hours at a stretch for weeks. I’m obviously going to be a bit different from the carefree PR girl you married. What were you expecting?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “You know, I remember on our wedding day, looking at you walking down the aisle and thinking that I was the luckiest man in the world. I thought our lives were blessed.”

  “I felt the same, Max. And we are blessed. It’s bound to be hard right now. Everyone finds the first few months with a new baby difficult, don’t they?” She waited for Max to respond, but he didn’t.

  “Look, you go back and talk to your parents,” said Alice. “I don’t want to row anymore. I’m too exhausted. I’ll be back in time for Bunty’s bath.”

  She had the feeling that another brick had been removed from the faulty foundation of her marriage.

  * * *

  • • •

  ALICE SAT ON the bench in the deserted playground. She was pushing Bunty’s Bugaboo backward and forward with her foot to encourage her to go to sleep. She could see her daughter’s eyelids getting heavier and heavier as she chewed her fist with her gums, drooling all over her reindeer print romper suit (@minimes).