The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

summoning my last scrap of energy, then knocked back the rest of the glass. That was when I heard the scream. I ran from the kitchen, the bottle still in my hand, to find Toby lying at the bottom of the stairs. I heard myself shouting his name as I knelt down beside him. Time seemed to stop; I was senseless with panic. The relief I felt when he got up and threw himself into my arms was indescribable. “Are you okay?” I asked as he screamed hysterically. “Oh, my darling, are you okay?” Frantically I checked him over for broken bones, but miraculously he seemed unharmed.

I have never known fury like it. When I looked up, I saw Hannah sauntering down the stairs toward me, a serene smile on her face. I admit that in that one brief second I wanted to kill her. “What did you do?” I screamed. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing, Mummy,” she said.

“Did you push him, Hannah? Did you push your brother down the stairs?”

She reached the bottom step and considered me. “Nope. He fell,” she said, then shrugged. “It wasn’t my fault.”

And then I did it. I slapped her. I had never once raised a hand to either of my children before, but everything seemed to boil up inside me in that moment. My handprint left a livid red mark on her cheek. “You little bitch!” I shouted. I was completely beside myself; all I could think about was the fact Toby could have died. “Don’t you ever touch my child again. Do you hear me?” I was screaming so loudly I didn’t hear Doug’s key in the door.

“Beth?” He stood in the hall in his coat, a look of horror on his face. “Beth. What the hell are you doing?”

When she saw her father, Hannah began to cry. “Mummy hit me, Daddy! I didn’t do anything! Toby was sad because Mummy was gone so long. She went to get her wine and she never came back—and then Toby fell and Mummy hit me! She hit me and I don’t know why!”

I shook my head in disbelief and turned to Doug. “She’s lying. I was only gone a moment. She pushed him!”

His eyes still wide with shock, Doug bent down and took Toby from me, gathering him in his arms. “Okay, little man,” he soothed, “it’s okay. It’s okay now.”

“No!” I shouted at him. “No, it’s not okay! Nothing is okay! She pushed our son down the stairs!”

His eyes fell to the bottle of wine that in my panic had fallen to the floor. “You’re drinking?” he said. “You’re looking after our children and you’re drinking?”

“Don’t you fucking dare say this is my fault,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’ve had one drink. I was gone less than a minute!”

I sank to my knees and pulled Toby away from Doug’s arms. “Darling,” I said, “tell Daddy what happened. Did Hannah push you, honey?”

But Toby was too hysterical to answer. “Want Daddy,” was all he said, turning back to his father and burying his face in Doug’s chest. “Want my daddy!” Meanwhile, Hannah’s own sobs rose to a fever pitch.

I got up and went to Hannah. “What’s wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you?” My anger and guilt and fear mingled, fueled by the wine I’d drunk.

I felt Doug’s hands grip my shoulders as he pulled me away from her. “Stop it, Beth!” he shouted. “This isn’t helping. Go and calm down. I’ll deal with it.”

I looked at Toby, still clutching Doug and sobbing, the satisfied glint in Hannah’s eyes, the puddle of wine on the carpet, and ran from the house.

THIRTEEN

LONDON, 2017

Clara was still thinking about Tom when Mac called to say he was on his way over. She stood at the window while she waited, recalling the unsettling intensity of Tom’s gaze, the peculiar texture of the air between them as they’d stood together in the hall. Try as she might, she couldn’t work him out. He was such a strange mixture of contradictions. At times during his visit, she’d seen flashes of sympathy in his eyes, yet there still remained that strange reserve, the feeling that he was scrutinizing her intently. Mac had mentioned him going off the rails in his teens, but she couldn’t imagine him ever losing control, or being vulnerable or lost. And then there was the distance he kept between himself and his parents, an ambivalence toward them that bordered on disdain, which had always seemed especially cruel after they’d suffered so much already. On the other hand, he’d cared enough about Clara to travel some distance to see her, to check that she was all right. It was all entirely baffling.

Beyond her window, the sky hung tepid and sallow over Hoxton Square. She watched as a group of achingly hip twentysomethings appeared at its farthest corner, on a wave of energy and laughter. They passed an elderly man, his chin nearly on his chest, edging with painful slowness along the pavement, a blue plastic bag dangling from his fingers, until at last he crept off down a side street to be swallowed by the council estate that lay beyond view of the square’s bustling restaurants and bars.

She turned and considered her flat, its disorder reminding her now of the day she and Luke had moved in—the excitement they’d felt as they’d unpacked their belongings and talked about the housewarming party they were planning that weekend. She remembered how happy she’d felt at the prospect of their living together, of waking up every morning next to him.

Her gaze traveled now over their ransacked belongings: the stuff they’d chosen together when they’d first moved in, gathering bits and pieces from markets and junk shops, slowly and lovingly transforming the small, modern white-walled space into somewhere that felt more like home to her at last than anywhere else she’d lived before.

She was dragged from her thoughts by the