I was secretly glad when the rest of the team drove off in search of food. We had been doing lives from the woods for hours, and I needed some time by myself. I told them that I wanted to go for a walk. Richard offered to go with me, but I didn’t want to be alone with him in a secluded corner of the forest, or anywhere else for that matter. Eventually he got the hint and went with the others.
Once they were gone, I took a familiar footpath through the trees toward the high street. All the other roads and footpaths in Blackdown spread out through the woods from there, like the veins of a twisted leaf, with the high street for a stem. The whole town seems to exist beneath a canopy of leaves and unspoken lies, as though the oaks and pines that make up the forest clawed or climbed or crawled out from under its boundaries at night, stalking the people that live here, and setting down roots outside each and every home in order to keep watch over them.
I found myself standing behind the house where Jack now lives with Zoe. I never saw eye-to-eye with my sister-in-law, and my husband never knew the real reasons why. He doesn’t know her the way I do. Families often paint their own portraits in a different light, using colors the rest of us can’t quite see. Zoe was dark and dangerous as a teenager, and probably still is. She was born with the safety off.
When Jack and I met as adults in London, I was a junior reporter, trying to get on-air with a story about a murder he was investigating. I didn’t remember him at first, but he knew me instantly, and he threatened to make a formal complaint to the BBC about my conduct if I didn’t have a drink with him. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered by his flirtatious blackmail at first. I found him attractive—as did all the other female reporters—but men came second to my career, and I had little interest in relationships.
In the end, I agreed to one date—thinking I might get some insider information—but instead I woke up with a huge hangover and a detective in my bed. Knowing who his sister was, and what she was capable of, almost put me off seeing him again. But what I thought might be a one-night stand led to another date, which led to a weekend in Paris. I sometimes forget that Jack used to be spontaneous and romantic. Being with him made me happy, and loving him made me dislike myself less.
Zoe did a bad job of hiding her feelings about our relationship. She’d avoid eye contact with me at all family gatherings, and was the last to congratulate us when we got engaged. She didn’t come to our wedding either. She sent Jack a text saying she had norovirus the day before, then posted pictures of herself in Ibiza the day after. When our daughter was born Zoe sent us lilies, a well-known symbol of death. Jack said it was an innocent mistake, but there is nothing innocent about his sister.
I stared up at Jack and Zoe’s house, filled with loathing and disgust for the woman inside it. Then I noticed that the kitchen door was slightly ajar.
A little later, back on track but having lost some time, I walk past all the familiar shops and quirky old buildings which make Blackdown so unique. I hurry along what is often described as one of the UK’s prettiest high streets, knowing that I’m running out of time to get the things I need. I make a quick pit stop at the cheap and cheerful clothing store that has been here since before I was born. Thanks to my missing overnight bag, I need something to wear tomorrow. I grab an inoffensive white shirt and some very unfashionable underwear, then pay without trying anything on. Clean clothes aren’t the only thing I’ve run out of, and I need a drink even more badly than before, after my visit to Zoe’s house.
The supermarket doors slide open—as though the place has been expecting me, just waiting to swallow me inside—and the air-conditioned aisles aren’t the only thing to make me shiver. It feels like I’m walking down old familiar lanes, and the alcohol section looks exactly as it always did. There are no miniatures, sadly, but they do sell mini bottles of wine and whiskey, which I hold up against my handbag, trying to decide how many I can fit inside and still close the zipper.
I add a small box of mints to my basket at the checkout, and when I look up, to my slight horror, it becomes clear that the cashier recognizes me. Her face expresses a judgment I cannot afford.
People get preoccupied with the fiction of truth.
The lives we lead need to be gold-plated nowadays, a series of varnished truths for the sake of how we appear on the outside. Strangers who view us through a screen—whether on TV or social media—think they know who we are. Nobody is interested in reality anymore; that’s something they don’t want to “like” or “share” or “follow.” I can understand that, but living a make-believe life can be dangerous. What we won’t see can hurt us. In the future, I expect people will long for fifteen minutes of privacy, rather than fifteen minutes of fame.