The Authenticity Project Read online

  Riley took out his phone and pulled up Julian’s Instagram account. “Don’t worry. He’s more than OK. Look.”

  “Bloody hell, you know that’s Kate Moss he’s with? And a bunch of self-satisfied fashion types, drinking mojitos at Soho Farmhouse. He might have mentioned that he was going out of town,” said Monica, sounding a bit like a sulky child. Julian was a grown-up, after all. He didn’t have to get permission from them to go and hang out with celebrities for the weekend. “Hey, talking of Julian, I realized that we have an art class on the fourth of March, which is the fifteenth anniversary of Mary’s death. I figured that Julian might find it a bit hard, so I thought we could throw a sort of surprise memorial party for him. What do you think?”

  “I think you are one of the most thoughtful people I’ve ever met,” replied Riley, who’d never been one for holding back or playing games. “And clever. How do you remember dates like that? I can barely remember my own birthday.”

  Monica blushed, which made her look less scary, and really rather cute. And now there were no secrets between them, Riley felt lighter and more like his old self. So he leaned over and kissed her.

  She kissed him back. Tentatively, but it was a start.

  “I feel a bit awkward about kissing in a graveyard, don’t you?” she asked him. But she was smiling.

  “Something tells me the Admiral’s seen a lot worse over the years,” replied Riley, shuffling closer toward her and putting his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t you think Julian and Mary would have, you know”—he waggled his eyebrows suggestively—“at some point over the years. Back in the swinging sixties, perhaps?”

  “Ew, no!” said Monica. “Mary would never have done that! Not in a cemetery!”

  “You didn’t know her, Monica. She was a midwife, not a saint. Perhaps she had a naughty side. You’d have to, married to Julian, surely?”

  He leaned in toward Monica, muscle memory melding their bodies back into the familiar jigsaw. He tried to kiss her again, but she pushed him away, gently, but firmly.

  “Riley, I’m not angry anymore,” she said. “I’m really glad we’re friends. But, honestly, what would be the point? You’ll be leaving soon, so it really makes no sense to start this up again, does it?”

  “Monica, why does everything have to have a point? Why does it all have to be part of a plan? Sometimes it’s best to let things just grow naturally, like wildflowers.” He was quite pleased with that one. He was sounding positively poetic.

  By way of illustration, Riley gestured over to a group of perfect white snowdrops, pushing their way up through the frozen February soil.

  “Riley, that’s beautiful,” she said. “But I don’t want to get hurt again by becoming embroiled in a relationship that has a natural end point. Life isn’t as simple as gardening!”

  “Isn’t it though?” asked Riley, who was getting frustrated and was a little bit hurt by his profession being described as “simple.” It all seemed so obvious to him. He liked her. She liked him. What was the problem? “Why not just see where it goes? Fly by the seat of your pants. If you don’t want to say good-bye in June, then you could always come with me.” As soon as he said it, he realized what a brilliant idea it was. They’d make perfect travel buddies (with benefits, he hoped). He could be in charge of fun, and she could do culture.

  “I couldn’t go with you, Riley,” she said. “I have responsibilities here. I have my business. Employees, friends, family. What about Julian? Look what happened last time we left him alone for a few days—he nearly died of hypothermia.”

  “It’s easy, Monica,” said Riley, who really thought it was. After all, he’d left his whole life on the other side of the world with hardly a backward glance. “You find someone else to manage the café for you for a few months. Your friends and family will miss you, but will be thrilled that you’re having an adventure, and as for Julian—he seems to have picked up hundreds of thousands of new ‘friends’ recently. I don’t think we have to worry about him.”

  Monica tried to interject, but he cut her off. “When did you last see anything of the world beyond Fulham and Chelsea? When did you last get on a train without knowing where it was going? When have you ordered a weird-sounding dish off a menu, for the fun of eating something you weren’t expecting? Have you ever had sex just because you wanted to, and not as part of some sort of life plan?”

  Monica was silent. Perhaps he’d gotten through to her.

  “Will you just think about it, Monica?” he asked her.

  “Yes. Yes, I will. I promise.”

  They walked together toward the cemetery exit. Monica paused next to a gravestone on her left, bowed her head, and muttered something under her breath. It must be the grave of a relative. He read the inscription.

  “Who’s Emmeline Pankhurst?” he asked her.

  She gave him one of her looks. The type he didn’t like. But said nothing.

  So often with Monica, he felt like he was failing an exam he hadn’t realized he was taking.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Monica

  Monica had been thinking about it. A lot. She’d rather liked the picture Riley had painted and wondered if she could be that girl. Was it too late for her to live her life with an entirely different set of rules? Or, indeed, no rules at all?

  She’d never taken a gap year traveling around Europe. She’d been too keen to get to Cambridge. There were so many cities she’d love to visit. And then there was Riley—the most gorgeous man she’d ever been out with, or met, even. And he was so thoughtful and cheerful. Going anywhere with Riley was like wearing rose-tinted glasses—everything looked so much better.

  Did it really matter that he’d never heard of Emmeline Pankhurst?

  She’d not wanted to continue the conversation, to explain that Emmeline was the most famous of all the suffragettes, in case it became clear that Riley had never heard of the suffragettes, either. That would be a bit of a deal-breaker.

  But he was Australian, she reminded herself. Perhaps feminist history was not a thing in Australia. They’d given the vote to women way back in 1902.

  She spotted Hazard, sitting at a large table in The Library, which was covered in papers.

  “Are you working here again, Hazard?” she asked him.

  “Oh, hi, Monica! Yup. Hope you don’t mind me taking up so much room. I find it a bit lonely working at home. I miss the buzz of an office. Anyhow, the coffee here is better.”

  “You’re welcome. Although I’m just closing. You can stay here for a bit longer, though, while I clean up and do the till.”

  Monica craned her neck to see what Hazard was up to.

  “Can I show you what I’ve been doing?” he asked her. “I’d love your opinion.” Monica pulled up a chair. She loved giving an opinion.

  “I designed these leaflets, look, for Aussie Gardeners. We posted them through pretty much every letterbox in Chelsea and Fulham. Took us days.”

  “They’re great, Hazard,” she said, genuinely impressed. “Did you get a good response?”

  “Yup. And Alice posted some pics of our work on Insta, which got loads of interest.”

  Monica wondered if it was the workers, rather than the work, that had caused the interest, then reprimanded herself, sternly. Sexual objectification worked both ways.

  “I’ve got enough work to keep me, Riley, and the five Aussie guys Riley’s helped me train up, busy for the next two months at least. And, if we do a good job, word of mouth should keep the projects coming in beyond that.”

  “And have you done your projected income and outgoings?” Monica asked. “Do you have a target profit margin in mind?”

  “Yes, of course. Would you like to see my business plan?” Hazard asked her. And she did, actually. There were few things Monica liked better than a good business plan. And Hazard’s was, even to Monica’s critical eye, a good one. She
did suggest a few tweaks and improvements, obviously.

  “Don’t forget that once your turnover is over eighty-five thousand pounds you’ll need to get a VAT number,” said Monica. “And have you registered with Companies House yet?”

  “Nope. Is it difficult to do that?” he asked.

  “Not at all. Don’t worry, I’ll show you.” Monica realized that she was actually starting to like Hazard. Could she have misjudged him? She didn’t usually.

  “Hey, Monica, I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation like this with an attractive woman. You know, about business, with no flirting,” said Hazard.

  An attractive woman? Monica felt like she should get on her feminist high horse, but she couldn’t be bothered. Did enjoying those words make her terribly shallow?

  “Talking of social events,” said Hazard, which was odd, because they hadn’t been. They’d been talking about Excel spreadsheets. Monica had been explaining the many merits of color-coding. “I got an invitation to a wedding last week. It’s a great love story—Rita and Daphne, who I met in Thailand. Both in their sixties and both, as far as I know, totally new to the whole lesbian thing.”

  “Ah, that’s lovely. A new start in life. Is Riley going too?” Monica wondered if Riley might invite her.

  “No. He was only on Panam for two or three days, so didn’t really get to know them. Er, I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me, would you?” he said, taking her completely by surprise, so much so that she was at a total loss for words. Why her?

  “You see,” he continued, as if he’d read her mind, “I feel like I owe you. Not just for the business advice, but for keeping me distracted back on Koh Panam.”

  Monica felt the familiar irritation building. She’d started to forget about how she’d been a little game for Hazard when he’d got bored between massages and guided meditation sessions at his health spa. Now she remembered. Much as she loved a good wedding, Monica couldn’t help thinking that spending too much time with Hazard might put an awful lot of pressure on their rather fragile new friendship.

  “Tell you what,” said Hazard, before she could politely decline, “do you play backgammon? We could play for it. If I win, you come as my guest to the wedding; if you win, you don’t have to. Unless you want to, obviously.”

  “OK,” said Monica. “You’re on.” Nobody ever beat her at backgammon, and it would save her having to make a decision, either way, for the time being.

  Monica’s Café had a games shelf for customers, with a choice of chess, drafts, Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, and, of course, backgammon, as well as some classic favorites for the kids.

  “I’ve been trying to teach Riley to play,” said Monica, as they set up the board, “but he prefers Monopoly.” She thought for a moment that Hazard was sniggering, but it turned out to be a cough.

  Monica threw the starting roll. A six and a one. This was one of her favorite openers. There was only one reasonable way to play it—blocking your bar point. Which she did.

  “I’m so glad you did that,” said Hazard, almost under his breath.

  “Why?” she asked. “It’s a good move. The only move for that throw, in my opinion.”

  “I know,” he replied. “It just reminded me of the last time I played. With a Swede in Thailand. He was not a good opponent.”

  They played on, in silent concentration, evenly matched, equally determined. They were in the final straight, when Monica rolled a combination that she saw immediately would allow her to send one of Hazard’s pieces to the bar. It was the deciding throw. He’d not recover from that.

  Before she’d really analyzed what she was doing, Monica moved a different piece.

  “Ha!” said Hazard. “You missed an opportunity to take me there, Monica!”

  “Oh no, how could I have been so stupid?” Monica replied, hitting her forehead with her palm. Hazard threw a double six.

  Looked like she’d have to go to the wedding after all . . .

  FIFTY-TWO

  Alice

  Alice had just gotten Bunty changed into a gorgeous, hand-smocked pink-and-white dress by @vintagestylebaby, ready for the day’s photo shoot, when she did a poo so explosive that it escaped the confines of her nappy and covered her back, almost up to her neck.

  Alice nearly cried. She considered taking the shots anyway. She could angle Bunty so the mustard-colored poo stains weren’t on show. No one would know. But Bunty was starting to object to sitting in a dirty nappy, and was howling like a banshee. Again.

  Alice was exhausted. She’d been up every three hours in the night. Every time she’d managed to nod off again, Bunty would give her just enough time to claw her way into deep sleep and then—as if she knew—she’d yell for more service, like an overly entitled, disgruntled customer at the Savoy.

  She changed Bunty, picked her up, and started carrying her down to the kitchen. Maybe caffeine would help?

  Every time Alice walked down the stairs carrying her baby she had the same vision. She imagined herself tripping, and tumbling down the seagrass-clad steps. In version one, she kept Bunty hugged into her chest, then landed at the bottom, accidentally crushing the life out of her. In version two, she released Bunty as she fell, then watched as Bunty’s head hit the wall and she collapsed to the floor in a lifeless heap.

  Did other mothers spend their whole time imagining the various ways in which they might accidentally kill their own babies? Falling asleep while feeding them and smothering them to death? Driving while exhausted and crashing into a lamppost, crumpling the back of the car containing the baby seat like a concertina? Not noticing that they’d swallowed a two-penny piece, carelessly dropped on the floor, and were blue in the face?

  She wasn’t grown-up or responsible enough to keep another human being alive. How could they have just let her walk out of the hospital carrying a real-life baby without even giving her an instruction manual? How stupidly irresponsible was that? Of course, there were millions of instructions all over the internet, but they all contradicted each other.

  Alice had, until recently, been rather successful. She’d been an account director for a large PR company, before leaving when she was six months pregnant to be a full-time mum and social media influencer. She had run meetings, given presentations to hundreds of people, and planned global campaigns. Yet she was struggling to cope with one small baby.

  And she was, whisper it, bored. The endless repetition of feeding baby, changing baby, loading dishwasher, hanging up washing, cleaning surfaces, reading stories, and pushing swings was doing her head in. But she couldn’t tell anyone. How could @aliceinwonderland, with her perfect, enviable, aspirational life, confess that, even though she loved her more than life itself, she often didn’t like @babybunty very much? Actually, she didn’t like life itself that much. She was pretty sure that Bunty didn’t like her a great deal either. And who could blame her?

  Alice pushed a stack of magazines off the armchair in the corner of her kitchen, making space for Bunty to sit while she put the kettle on and went to retrieve the milk from the fridge.

  She heard a terrible scream. Bunty had managed to pitch herself, headfirst, off the armchair and had landed on the hard, tiled kitchen floor. Alice rushed over to pick her up, checking her for any obvious damage. Luckily, her head had landed on a copy of Mommy & Me, which had cushioned the fall. At least parenting magazines were good for something.

  Bunty glared at her, communicating even more clearly by using no words: What kind of a useless mother are you? Can I please swap you for another one? I didn’t ask to be cared for by such an imbecile.

  The doorbell rang. Alice walked over to the front door like an automaton, an avatar of the woman formerly known as Alice, leaving Bunty still yelling on the kitchen floor. She stared, silently, at her visitor. She couldn’t work out what she was doing here. Had she forgotten some arrangement? It was Lizzie, one
of the volunteers from Mummy’s Little Helper.

  “Come here, you poor duck. Give me a hug,” she said. “I know exactly how you’re feeling, so I’ve come to help you with Bunty.” Before she even had a chance to wonder how Lizzie knew exactly how she was feeling, she was smothered in a giant, pillowlike bosom.

  Alice, for the first time since she’d brought Bunty home, wept and wept, until Lizzie’s floral blouse was drenched in tears.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Lizzie

  Lizzie loved her part-time job at Mummy’s Little Helper, even if it only paid her expenses. She was sixty-five last year, and officially retired, but sitting at home was just making her fat and slow, and Jack, her husband, was driving her crazy, so her two days here were her favorite of the week.

  Lizzie had looked after children all her life—first as the oldest of six siblings, then as a nanny, a mother to her own brood of five, and, most recently, as a maternity nurse where she was passed, by word of mouth, from one posh, overprivileged Chelsea or Kensington new mother to another. “Lizzie is an absolute darling! Total godsend!” they would say. “Salt of the earth!” as if that actually meant anything other than she’s not like us you know, but you can probably trust her not to nick the silver.

  She’d just handed all the children back to their various carers, including little Elsa, with the constantly dripping nose and dirty fingernails, whose mother was, as usual, more than half an hour late. Rather confusingly, there were three Elsas currently registered. That film, Frozen, had a lot to answer for.

  Lizzie went to take her coat off the peg in the hall and noticed, on the floor, directly beneath it, a pale-green exercise book, like the ones her kids had done their sums in. It must have dropped out of someone’s coat or bag. She picked it up. On the front was written The Arithmetic Project. She popped it in her handbag. Someone was bound to ask after it tomorrow.