The Authenticity Project Page 16

  Alice felt bereft without her mobile. She kept checking her pocket, then remembering that it was at home. She didn’t want to go back to the house, but she was antsy without anything to like, post, or comment on. She needed a distraction so she didn’t have to think about the row with Max. It was too depressing. What did she do with unfilled time before she got into social media? She couldn’t remember.

  Alice opened her bag, just in case she’d left a copy of Grazia in there. No such luck. But she did find the green exercise book that she’d picked up in the playground a few days ago and completely forgotten about. For want of anything else to do, she took it out and began to read.

  Everyone lies about their lives. Well, ain’t that the truth! @aliceinwonderland’s hundred thousand followers certainly didn’t see the miserable reality of Alice’s existence. She thought of all the posts showing her and Max gazing lovingly at each other and at their baby. What was this book? Had it been left deliberately for her?

  What would happen if you shared the truth instead? Does anyone want to know the truth? Really? The truth often isn’t pretty. It’s not aspirational. It doesn’t fit neatly into a little square on Instagram. Alice presented a version of the truth; the one that people wanted to see pop up on their feed. Anything too real and she’d lose followers in droves. No one wanted to know about her less-than-perfect marriage, her stretch marks, or Bunty’s conjunctivitis and cradle cap.

  Alice read Julian’s story. He sounded wonderful, but so sad. She wondered what he was doing today. Did he have anyone to share Christmas lunch with? Was he all on his own in Chelsea Studios? Did he still lay a table setting for his dead wife?

  She started to read Monica’s story. She knew the café well. She was pretty sure she’d tagged it in a number of posts recently. You know the kind of thing—look at my coffee, with a heart shape drawn into the frothy milk, and my healthy bowl of fruit, yogurt, and granola. Look at me, supporting independent local businesses. In fact, she could picture Monica bustling around the café being efficient: ten years older than her, but still pretty, in an intense, uptight sort of way.

  Then Alice realized, with a shock, that the woman she’d become obsessed with, the one dancing with such carefree abandon the other night, was Monica. She hadn’t put two and two together at the time, as the vision she’d been watching seemed so very different from the woman she was used to seeing in daylight hours.

  She read about Monica’s baby hunger. Be careful what you wish for, thought Alice, darkly, as Bunty started to stir, looking as if she might be working up to a screaming session. Had she herself been that desperate for a baby at some point? She couldn’t remember being so, but she supposed she must have been.

  How extraordinary that she had been envying Monica’s life, when all the time all Monica wanted was what Alice took most for granted. She felt an invisible, but unbreakable, thread of connection between her and this strong but sad woman she’d never properly met. She looked down at Bunty, at her gorgeous plump cheeks and bottomless blue eyes, and felt a tidal wave of love she vowed never to let herself forget.

  Hazard. Now, there was a name for a romantic hero. She really hoped he was gorgeous. It would be such a waste to be called Hazard and be all skinny with an overly pronounced Adam’s apple and acne. She pictured him riding, bareback and bare chested, along a Cornish cliff path. Oh God, it must be the hormones.

  Alice was vehemently antidrugs but, reading Hazard’s story, she had an uncomfortable feeling that her relationship with alcohol was not dissimilar to his with cocaine. She wasn’t just drinking to let her hair down at parties, she was drinking to get through the day. She pushed that irritating thought to one side. She deserved her glass of wine (or three) in the evening. And everyone else was doing it too. Her social media was filled with memes about “wine o’clock” and “Mummy’s little helper.” It made her feel adult, like she still had a life. It was her “me time,” and—frankly—she deserved some of that.

  Alice read to the end of Hazard’s story and realized what he’d done. OMG! It was like being right in the middle of a Danielle Steel novel! Hazard had found the man of Monica’s dreams, Riley, and sent him back to London to save her from miserable spinsterhood. How romantic! And it had worked! Surely Riley was the man he’d seen her with in Monica’s Café, gazing into her eyes with such adoration?

  Alice was dying to read the next story, which she assumed was Riley’s. She could see it scrawled in an obviously masculine hand, over the next three pages of the book, but she needed to get back for Bunty’s bath time. Maybe she could spare an extra few minutes to do a tiny detour past Monica’s Café, and just have a quick peek in through the window. It would keep her mind off that terrible row with Max for a little longer. She was pretty sure it would be closed on Christmas Day, but it wouldn’t do any harm to trundle past. Bunty would enjoy the extra walk.

  Alice turned left out of the park onto the Fulham Road, right by the Chinese restaurant. It had been there for as long as she could remember, but she’d never been in. She was more avocado and crab maki roll than chicken chow mein. The pavements were pretty deserted as most of Fulham seemed to have evacuated to the country for the duration of the holiday, which is why the two men standing outside the restaurant caught her attention. They were an unlikely-looking pair. One of them looked Chinese. He was tiny, and very cross, emitting an energy totally out of kilter with his stature. The other man was a tall, well-honed redhead who she was sure she recognized from somewhere. He looked as if he were crying. What on earth was that all about? Perhaps she wasn’t the only one having a tricky day. She felt a little guilty about how much that thought cheered her.

  As Alice walked toward the café, she realized it was the first thing she’d done for ages with a sense of excitement rather than just out of duty. The last few months had been one mundane chore after the other—feeding, wiping, cleaning, changing, cooking, ironing, washing, and repeat, ad infinitum. It was a novelty, not knowing exactly what would happen next. Life with a small baby was so terribly predictable. Then Alice chastised herself for the thought, reminding herself how lucky she was.

  As she approached the café, it looked as if the lights were on. That didn’t necessarily mean it was open. Many of the local businesses seemed to keep their lights on twenty-four seven. It made her rather cross—@aliceinwonderland was all about being kind to the planet. She’d stopped using disposable coffee cups and plastic bags well before it became trendy. She’d even tried reusable nappies for a while, but that hadn’t ended well.

  Alice peered in through the window. There, sitting by herself at a table that had been laid for several people, was Monica. Crying. Properly crying. Big, snotty, blotchy-faced crying, not the photogenic sort. Monica was definitely the sort of woman who’d be wise not to cry in public. Perhaps, if they became friends, Alice could let her know. That would be a kindness.

  Alice felt her buoyant mood deflate. She’d so wanted to believe in the happily ever after. What on earth could be wrong? How could the perfectly romantic scene of just a few days ago have morphed into this one of solitary misery?

  Alice was a huge believer in female solidarity. Women had to look after each other. She also lived by the motto “in a world where you can be anything, be kind.” She had it printed on a T-shirt. She couldn’t just walk on past leaving a fellow female weeping like that. Apart from anything else, she didn’t feel like Monica was a stranger. She felt like she knew her, at least a little bit. Better than most of her “besties,” if truth be told.

  Alice took the book out of her bag, by way of introduction, stood up tall, put a friendly, but concerned, smile on her face and walked in, carefully stepping over a malevolent-looking brown mass on the floor. What on earth was that?

  Monica looked up, mascara running down her face.

  “Hi, I’m Alice,” said Alice. “I found The Authenticity Project. Are you OK? Can I help?”

  “I wish
I’d never set eyes on that damn book, and I certainly don’t want to see it ever again,” Monica replied, delivering each word like machine-gun fire, making Alice physically recoil. “I really don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sure you—like everybody else—think you know me, having read the story I should never have written, but you don’t. And I sure as hell don’t know you. Nor do I want to. So please, just bugger off and leave me alone.”

  Alice did.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Monica

  Monica didn’t come down from her apartment until the evening of Boxing Day. The café looked like a theater set, abandoned midplay. There was the table, still set for pudding, glasses half full. There was the Christmas tree, with presents sitting underneath, unopened. And there, on the floor, like a giant, fruity cow pat, a sprig of holly still sticking jauntily out of its center, was the figgy pudding.

  Monica filled a bucket with hot, soapy water, pulled on a pair of Marigolds, and got to work. She had always found cleaning therapeutic, too much so, if she was honest. Her five-star hygiene rating, prominently displayed in the café window, was one of her proudest achievements. Even the language around it helped. A clean sweep. A clean sheet of paper. Wash that man right out of my hair.

  Now that she’d had some time to calm down, Monica realized that it was unlikely that Hazard and Riley had deliberately set her up. She believed Riley when he said that he’d genuinely liked her (she didn’t think those kisses could have been fake), but she still felt humiliated. She hated the fact that all this time Riley had been lying to her. She hated the idea of Hazard and Riley pitying her. She loathed the thought of them talking about her, planning how to rectify her sad old life. And she felt stupid. She wasn’t used to feeling stupid. She’d won the Keynes prize for A level Economics, for goodness’ sake.

  She’d just started to believe that good things could happen, totally out of the blue, and that she was worthy of being loved by someone as amazing as Riley. Now it turned out it was all engineered. Her mother had always told her that if something looked too good to be true, it probably was. And Riley had definitely looked too good to be true.

  Over the last few weeks, she’d felt herself unwinding. She’d started “going with the flow” and stopped the worst of her obsessive planning. She’d felt happier and more carefree. But look what a mess it got her into.

  Monica had no idea what to think anymore.

  What she did know is that she didn’t want to see any of them, at least not for a while. She wanted everything to go back to how it was before she found that stupid book in her café, before she’d written her story, and before she’d become unwittingly entangled in someone else’s master plan. That world was bland and featureless, but at least it was safe and predictable.

  She realized, with a start, that she hadn’t canceled that week’s art class. She picked up her phone and went on to the class WhatsApp group she’d set up. No art classes until further notice, she typed. She didn’t feel the need to apologize or explain. Why should she?

  Monica walked over to The Library. The beautiful portrait Julian had painted of her was lying, faceup, on the coffee table. A different Monica stared up at her—one who didn’t know her life was based on a lie.

  She reached under the tree and took out the present labeled To Monica, With love from Riley xxx. She considered throwing it away without looking inside—that would be the proud thing to do—but her curiosity got the better of her.

  Carefully, she peeled back the wrapping paper. Inside was a beautiful turquoise-blue notebook, which she immediately recognized as Smythson. Had she told Riley it was her all-time favorite brand? It must have cost him a fortune. On the front, in gold lettering, the words HOPES AND DREAMS were embossed. She brought it up to her nose and inhaled the smell of leather. Then she opened it and read the writing on the inside cover: Merry Christmas, Monica! I know how much you love good stationery, I know how much you love lists, and I know how much you deserve all your hopes and dreams to come true. Love, Riley xxx

  It was the perfect gift. It was only when she saw the words Riley had written start to blur that she realized she was crying, marring the perfection of the book cover with salty blotches. And that made her cry even more.

  She cried for what might have been, for the version of a perfect future that had, for a while, shimmered in front of her, that she had just started to believe might become a reality. She cried for her lost belief in herself; she’d thought herself so strong and clever but she’d turned out to be gullible and stupid. But most of all, she cried for the girl she’d thought she was becoming; one who was impulsive, spontaneous, and fun-loving, who did things on a whim, without worrying about the consequences. The girl who wrote secrets in notebooks and scattered them to the wind. The girl who fell carelessly in love with handsome strangers.

  She was gone.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Alice

  It was 11:00 P.M., and Alice was sitting in the nursery rocking chair, in the dim glow of the Beatrix Potter nightlight, feeding Bunty. She was still feeling battered after her argument with Max yesterday, which hadn’t been mentioned since. And being yelled at by Monica hadn’t helped. So much for the sisterhood. She reached into her bag and pulled out the book, turning the light up one notch so it was bright enough to read, but not so bright that Bunty would wake up and not be able to settle again. She turned to the page where the handwriting changed from Hazard’s to Riley’s, feeling a tingle of anticipation. What secrets could a gorgeous man like that be hiding?

  My name is Riley Stevenson. I’m thirty years old and I’m a gardener from Perth—the one in Australia. Apparently there’s one in Scotland too. To answer Julian’s questions, I know the names of all my neighbors back home, and they know me. They have done since I was tiny. It can be a bit stifling after a while, to be honest. That’s part of the reason I left.

  Blimey, how on earth is he coping with London? Talk about from one extreme to another. Alice shifted Bunty over slightly, so she could turn the page.

  I guess my truth is that I’m pissed off with everyone assuming that, just because I’m not as messed up as so many of these Brits, I’m some kind of smiley idiot. I’m not being paranoid, you know. They really do.

  Surely being happy and straightforward should be a good thing, not some kind of character defect? Uncomplicated doesn’t mean simple, does it?

  Oh bless, thought Alice, what a sweet boy.

  Sometimes I see Monica or Julian looking at me as if I’m a kid, and they’re thinking, “Oh bless, isn’t he sweet?”

  Yikes. Was this book reading her mind?

  You know, I don’t actually like this book at all. It’s made me some great friends, but since I found it my life has become less authentic, not more. My relationship with Monica is based on a lie. I haven’t told her yet that this book is how we met, and I can’t even remember why not.

  Living in this city, with no sun, no plants, no soil, is changing me. I feel like I have to get back to my roots. Even what I’ve written here doesn’t feel like me. I don’t do all this self-analysis stuff. I’m a “what you see is what you get” type of bloke. At least I used to be.

  And you know what? The book doesn’t tell the truth about anyone else either.

  Reading Julian’s story, you’d imagine a sad, invisible old man. But the Julian I know is the most amazing human being ever. He makes life feel more colorful. He makes you want to see new places and experience new things.

  As for Hazard, if I’d not met him, I’d think he was an arrogant, self-obsessed arsehole. But the man I talked to in Thailand was quiet and gentle and a bit sad.

  Then there’s Monica, who thinks she’s unlovable. Yet she’s warm and generous and kind. She brings people together and nurtures them. In that way she’s a natural gardener, like me, and she’ll make a great mum. If she’d just chill out a bit, I know she’d find everything she wants.

  I’
m going to tell Monica the truth. After that, I’m not sure what will happen. But at least our roots will be planted in proper soil, not in sand, so we’ll stand a chance.

  What will you do now? I hope this book brings you more luck than it has me.

  Alice felt incredibly melancholy. Judging by her encounter with Monica earlier, things had not gone as well as Riley had hoped. Monica hadn’t appeared warm or generous or kind at all, nor had she made Alice feel nurtured. She’d been a bit mean, frankly.

  Lovely Riley. A gardener without a garden.

  And that’s when she came up with a plan.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Julian

  Julian was comfortable wrapped in his cocoon. He was vaguely aware of a buzzer sounding somewhere in the distance, but he couldn’t do anything about it, even if he wanted to. He felt a very long way away from anything.

  “Julian! It’s time to get up. You can’t stay in bed all day,” said Mary.

  “Leave me be,” he protested. “I was up most of the night painting. Check out the studio—you’ll see. I’ve nearly finished.”

  “I’ve seen it, it’s brilliant, as always. You’re brilliant. But it’s nearly lunchtime.” Then, because she knew it was his weakness, “I’ll make you eggs Benedict.”

  Julian stretched out one leg to see if he could feel Keith lying at the end of his bed. He wasn’t there.

  He opened one eye. Mary wasn’t there either. She hadn’t been there for a very long time. He closed the eye again.

  There was only one thing stopping him from drifting off entirely, keeping him tethered precariously to the ground. He knew there was something he had to do. He had a feeling that people were depending on him. He had a responsibility.

  He heard a pinging noise. This time it was right by his ear. He reached over and picked up the mobile phone he’d forgotten he owned. There was a message on the screen: Class canceled until further notice. That was it, the thing he’d been grasping for. Now he could let it go. Perhaps he could just stay here, under his covers, until he was eventually cleared away by the bulldozers and replaced with a corporate entertaining complex.