The Authenticity Project Read online

  Hazard’s business was growing nicely and he was, for the first time in as long as he could remember, feeling happy and peaceful. There was only one area of his life that he was concerned about. Apart from his new art-class friends, Hazard had no social life. Since he’d gotten sober he’d become a bit of a recluse, and that state of affairs could not continue forever. Hazard was also still a bit shaken about the fact that he’d very nearly kissed Monica. Not only was she absolutely not his type, but she was Riley’s girlfriend, and Hazard didn’t mess around with other blokes’ girls. At least, not any longer.

  The problem was, Hazard couldn’t remember what his type actually was.

  Hazard was trying to get a comb through the tangle of his hair, when he spotted, half hidden on his chest of drawers, like a message in a bottle, thrown into the sea of his ancient history and cast up on today’s shore, a note. It read HER NAME IS BLANCHE, in his rather drunken handwriting. Then, underneath, in another girlish hand, it said AND HER NUMBER IS 07746 385412. CALL HER.

  Hazard smiled. Most women would have been furious if they’d found that note. Maybe there was more to Blanche than he’d remembered. He had been off his face, after all. And she was undoubtedly his type—stunning, blond, confident, and up for anything. He should call her. There was a new restaurant, supertrendy, exactly the sort of place he loved, just down the road. They could go tonight, if she was free.

  * * *

  • • •

  HAZARD WAS RIGHT about the restaurant. It was exactly his kind of place—minimalist, industrial style, and filled with the beautiful people and the hubbub of gossip and one-upmanship. It was ghastly. He couldn’t help thinking of his table at Monica’s Café, and his old leather armchair under a standard lamp, surrounded by books. He looked over at his date, trying to see behind the wide blue eyes, but all he could see was his own face reflected back at him.

  Blanche was pushing the endive and beetroot salad she’d ordered around her plate in a desultory fashion. She couldn’t have eaten more than a few mouthfuls. Hazard, meanwhile, was starving and had polished off the tiny portions of food he’d been given with gusto. This was a new sensation for him. Hazard hadn’t actually eaten in a fancy restaurant for years. He’d spent most of his time going backward and forward to the toilets to snort coke, then having to feign enthusiasm for food that tasted like cardboard.

  “Don’t you just love this place?” said Blanche, for the third time, shouting to be heard above the noise.

  “Yup,” lied Hazard. Then, trying to make a bit more effort with the conversation, “I wonder what my friend Julian would make of the artwork. He’s an artist.” He gestured to the pointless, ugly installations hanging from the ceiling like children’s mobiles designed by someone on acid.

  “Ooh, an artist! Do I know him?” yelled Blanche.

  “I doubt it. He’s seventy-nine,” said Hazard. Blanche looked a lot less interested.

  “Hazard, you’re just too sweet, looking after a geriatric!” she tittered. “You know, when I was at school we had to go and have tea with old people once a week as part of our community service. We called it ‘granny bashing.’” She wiggled two sets of two fingers in the air. “Not that we did bash anyone, obviously. We just sat, in rooms smelling of wee, listening to endless boring drivel about the olden days and counting the minutes before we could escape for a ciggie with our mates before going back to school.” She giggled, then looked thoughtful. “Hey, do you think he’ll leave you a massive bequest in his will?”

  Hazard stared at her. He kept thinking about Monica, and how much more fun he’d be having if she were here. Which was weird, because fun and Monica were not words that you’d usually put together. Anyhow, they wouldn’t be here. No way Monica would book a table at this place. He forced his concentration back to the mindless chitchat about mutual acquaintances, soulless places, and pointless status symbols.

  It was quite clear to Hazard that he couldn’t just slot into his old life again. He was a different shape now, and he didn’t fit. And he just couldn’t shake the thought, however hard he tried, that maybe where he did fit was with Monica. Monica, the strongest, and most vulnerable, woman he knew.

  As soon as he could, Hazard paid the bill, wincing at the exorbitant price of the salad that Blanche hadn’t eaten, and left her with some friends she’d spotted at the bar. Over the other side of the restaurant he could see Alice and her husband having dinner. How wonderful that, even after marriage and children, you could still share a romantic dinner like that, and be so comfortable in each other’s company that you didn’t even have to talk.

  Hazard walked out onto the Fulham Road and past Monica’s Café. A light was on in her apartment above. She was probably up there with Riley having wild, Australian sex.

  He walked on toward his empty, quiet, safe home.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Alice

  Alice was still feeling a bit meh after her “date night” with Max. In a burst of determination to bring back the romance in her relationship, after the conversation she’d had with Monica on the train, she’d booked a table for two at the new restaurant down the road. She’d made the mistake of telling Max, as they’d arrived, that they were both banned from talking about anything to do with Bunty. The problem was, neither of them seemed to be able to remember what they’d talked about before Bunty had blessed their lives. They’d had several awkward periods of prolonged silence, and Alice realized, to her horror, that they’d morphed into one of those couples they’d derided when they first got together, who sat in a restaurant with absolutely nothing to say to each other.

  Alice now took a photo and loaded it to her Instagram page. It was the first she’d posted for three days. She was trying to rein it all in. This photo she couldn’t resist, though, because Monica’s Café looked beautiful. They’d lit loads of tea light candles, and the tables were filled with daffodils. On the center table were several gorgeous pictures of Julian and Mary, a lemon drizzle cake (Julian’s favorite), and some bottles of Bailey’s.

  “I’m starting to fret now,” said Monica. “Do you think it’s all a bit morbid, having a party for someone who’s dead? Should we clear it all away quickly before Julian gets here?”

  “No, it’s lovely,” said Hazard. “It’s really important to celebrate the lives of people we’ve loved. And, anyway, isn’t that what Julian’s been doing every Friday at five p.m. for the last fifteen years? Only now he has friends to celebrate with him.”

  Alice was surprised at Hazard. She hadn’t thought him such a softie. That man was a mass of contradictions. If it weren’t for Max, she’d be the teeniest bit in love with him by now. As she looked at him, she saw him frown. She followed his gaze over to where Riley was giving Monica a hug. Interesting. The things you noticed when you weren’t looking at an iPhone screen. Who knew?

  Everything was ready, and it was past seven o’clock. The whole class was assembled, waiting expectantly. The only thing missing was Julian.

  “Julian’s never late for the art class,” said Monica, rather ignoring the evidence to the contrary. “The only thing he takes incredibly seriously is his class. Oh, and fashion, obviously. And that scruffy dog.”

  “He’s not a dog, darling,” said Riley in an uncanny impression of Julian. “He’s a masterpiece. Do you think we might get stuck into the Bailey’s anyway? He can catch up.”

  “Sure,” said Monica, looking over toward the door again.

  By half past seven, the mood was starting to fall a little flat. They kept trying to distract Monica, but it wasn’t working. Alice picked up her phone and loaded up Julian’s Instagram page.

  “Monica, I’ve tracked down our star guest,” she said. “He’s just posted a photo of himself with the cast of some reality TV show in Sloane Square.”

  “Bloody hell. What a total wanker,” said Monica. Alice hadn’t heard her sound so cross since the time she’d thrown her
out of this very café on Christmas Day. “And he’s not answering my calls.”

  “I’ll message him via Insta,” said Alice. “I bet he’s checking that.”

  JULIAN. GET YOUR BONY ARSE DOWN TO MONICA’S RIGHT NOW OR SHE WILL EXPLODE. LOVE ALICE, she typed as she watched Monica pacing up and down, winding herself tighter with every step.

  It was eight o’clock before Julian finally showed up, looking way less apologetic than Alice imagined Monica was expecting. He was going to need to start groveling pretty smartish. Alice knew how it felt to be in Monica’s bad books, and it was not fun.

  “So sorry, everybody! I hope you started without me! You’ll never guess what happened . . . Goodness, what’s all this about?”

  “Well, we’ve thrown you a surprise party. We imagined that you might be feeling a bit low today, since it’s the fifteenth anniversary of Mary’s death, so we thought we’d help you remember her,” said Monica, in a voice that was pure steel. “You’d forgotten the anniversary, hadn’t you?”

  “No, of course not!” said Julian, who obviously had. “And thank you all so much for all of this. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” Alice looked over at Monica, to see if Julian had succeeded in calming her down. Not a bit of it.

  “What happened to authenticity, Julian? What happened to sharing the truth? Do you even know what the truth is anymore?” she said. Everyone else had fallen silent, their gazes switching from Julian to Monica and back like a crowd watching a tense final at Wimbledon.

  “OK, OK, Monica, I’m just a foolish old man, I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding entirely convincing, putting his hands up in front of him, as if to ward off an attack. Monica hadn’t finished.

  “Why are you spending all your time with your Instagram ‘friends’”—she put aggressive little air quotes around the word friends—“with shallow, B-list celebrities, for Christ’s sake, rather than with the people who really care about you? You have no idea what friendship means.”

  Alice was rather relieved when the door opened, thinking that a new arrival might help break the tension. And it did seem to stop Monica in her tracks.

  She turned away from Julian and looked toward the door at the well-dressed, white-haired stranger who looked strangely familiar.

  “This is a private party,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “You must be Monica,” the newcomer replied, looking composed, despite the obvious tension in the room. “I’m Mary. Julian’s wife.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Mary

  Mary hadn’t had a chance to open the post until the evening. Gus and William, Anthony’s sons, had both been round for lunch with their wives and children. They had five children between them, whom she loved as if they were her own grandchildren. Whenever their mothers weren’t looking, she slipped them pound coins, chocolate bars, and Cheesy Wotsits.

  She’d adored playing the matriarch today. She’d watched them tucking into her roast lunch from her position at the head of the large, scrubbed-oak kitchen table, Anthony, her partner, at the other end. But, at seventy-five, she also found days like today rather exhausting.

  The pile of post was, on the whole, unexciting. It usually was these days. Surprises were for the young. An electricity bill, the Boden catalog, and a thank-you letter from a lady she’d had round for lunch the previous week. But there was also a slim package, hand-addressed, in writing she didn’t recognize. The name on the front was Mary Jessop, a name she hadn’t used for fifteen years. As soon as she’d left Chelsea Studios, she’d gone back to Mary Sandilands, which had been like rediscovering the girl she used to be.

  She’d not just left her married name behind fifteen years ago, she’d left everything. She’d written a note explaining that, after years of putting up with the humiliation and pain of all the other women, she’d finally had enough. She’d also left a whole load of instructions, like how to work the washing machine, written on little pieces of paper and hidden around the cottage. She’d looked after Julian for so long that she knew he’d find it difficult to manage without her. Perhaps every time he found one of her messages he’d be reminded of how much she’d done for him. That thought had comforted her a little, until she’d realized that he’d probably moved in one of the models as soon as he’d cleared the cupboards of her clothes.

  Some instinct told her to sit down before she opened the package, so she made herself comfortable in the kitchen armchair, put on her reading glasses, and carefully cut open the tightly taped envelope with the kitchen scissors. Inside was an exercise book, covered in clear sticky-backed plastic, on the front cover of which were the words: The Authenticity Project. How strange. Why on earth had someone sent this to her? She opened the book to the first page.

  She recognized the handwriting immediately. She remembered the first time she’d seen it. It had formed the words: Dear Mary, I would be most honored if you would join me at the Ivy for dinner on Saturday, 9 p.m. Sincerely, Julian Jessop.

  She’d thought everything about that writing glamorous and exciting. The Ivy, which she’d heard so much about, but never been to, not eating until 9 p.m., and, most of all, the author of the words—Julian Jessop, the artist. She’d turned over the paper the words were written on, and on the other side was a sketch—just a few bold pencil strokes but, even so, unmistakably her face.

  Why her? She had absolutely no idea, but she was unbelievably grateful. And she remained grateful for almost forty years, until, one day, she discovered that her gratitude had left. And, not long afterward, she followed.

  She started to read.

  I AM LONELY.

  Julian? The sun around which they had all rotated, held in place by his gravitational pull. How could Julian be lonely? Invisible?

  Then she read the next words: Mary . . . died at the relatively young age of sixty. The bastard. He’d bumped her off. How dare he?

  She supposed she shouldn’t be entirely surprised. Julian had always had a rather flexible and creative relationship with the truth. It was his ability to rewrite events in his head to suit his requirements that had allowed him to lie to Mary for so long. All those artist’s models who he’d only painted, never anything more, how could she even suggest such a thing? She was deluded, paranoid, jealous. And yet, the smell of sex, mixed with paint, had hung in the air with the dust motes. She’d never been able to smell oil paints since without being reminded of betrayal.

  She’d spent years, decades, avoiding reading the gossip columns and ignoring the way chattering groups fell silent when she entered the room, before subjects were rapidly changed. She tried not to notice the pitying looks from some women, and the hostile glances from others.

  Then, swiftly following on from Julian’s latest great untruth, a simple truth: I had to be the most loved . . . I took Mary for granted.

  And that, she realized, was why she had stayed for so long: he had made her feel less than him, as if he were so much better than her in every single way, that she should feel happy just to be allowed to share his life, to hang in his firmament.

  It was a relatively small event that had tipped the balance.

  She’d come home early, still dressed in her midwife’s uniform, after an expected delivery had turned out to be Braxton-Hicks contractions. Julian was sprawled across the sofa, wearing nothing but an artist’s smock and smoking a Gauloises. Delphine, the latest of his models, was standing next to the fire, naked apart from a pair of stilettos, and playing Mary’s viola, badly.

  Other women had played with her husband for years, but nobody played her viola. She threw Delphine out, ignoring Julian’s standard protestations about art and muse and her overactive imagination and it’s only a bloody viola.

  Mary had spent years thinking that Julian would eventually grow out of all the womanizing, that one day he’d just discover he didn’t have the desire, or the energy, or that he’d lost his allure. But the only t
hing that changed was the age gap between herself and Julian’s girls. The latest one, she estimated, must be thirty years younger than she was. The next day, while Julian was painting the Countess of Denbigh in Warwickshire, she left her little household notes and him.

  She’d never looked back.

  A year later, she’d met Anthony. He’d adored her. Still did. He told her constantly how lucky he was to have found her. He made her feel special, loved and secure. He’d never made her feel grateful, but she was—every single day.

  She’d tried calling Julian about a divorce, and had written to him several times, but she’d not had any response, so she’d eventually given up. She didn’t need an official piece of paper to feel safe with Anthony, and marriage hadn’t worked out terribly well for her the first time.

  Sometimes she’d wondered if Julian were dead. She’d not heard anything about him for so long. But pride stopped her from googling him, or seeking out anyone who might know where he was or what he was up to. Anyhow, as his official next of kin, surely she’d have been informed if he’d died?

  She read through the stories following Julian’s in the book pretty quickly, unable to concentrate properly, trying—but failing—to not make snap judgments:

  Monica—try to relax a little more.

  Hazard—brave man, confronting your demons.

  Riley—sweet child, hope you get your girl.

  Alice—you have no idea how lucky you are having that baby.

  There was only one story left. A short one. It must have been written by whoever had posted her the book. The writing was unashamedly large and loopy, and there was a smiley face in the o of “love.”