I know you lied.
That’s all the email says.
I check the sender’s address: theliesthatbind@gmail.com. It should be illegal to hide behind an anonymous email address. Why should a person be able to obscure their identity online? I stare at the message again. Deliberately brief – designed to incite fear. What does this person know about me?
Next to me, Jamie sleeps, his elbow too close to my body. This is a double bed, yet whenever he spends the night it feels as though we’re stuck together in a space as claustrophobic as a coffin. With a sigh, I nudge him further away. I’m not being cruel; sometimes I just cannot bear the hot sticky feel of anyone’s flesh against mine. And now, I know I have something else to worry about.
Jamie mumbles something, and with his eyes still closed he edges back to me, so quickly I sit up and throw the duvet off my clammy legs. It’s not even six a.m., yet sunlight streams through the window, making it feel as though it’s already ninety degrees. It’s only May and it’s being reported that we’re already having a heatwave not witnessed since the seventies, and while the whole country rejoices, I silently count the days and hours until the nights are shorter, and I can once again feel an ice-cold chill on my skin.
‘Where are you going?’ Jamie asks, his eyes still shut. I should have known he’d wake up the second I tried to grab some time for myself. He places his hand on my back, and I feel the excessive heat through the oversized T-shirt I’ve slept in. One of Aiden’s, I think, and I wonder, yet again, why I haven’t thrown it away like I have everything else. And why I even have it in the first place.
‘I’ve got a load of work to do,’ I tell Jamie, stretching my arms upwards. It’s not a natural gesture; I just need something to distract me because I’m starting to feel the walls closing in on me. Because it’s time. Perhaps I’ve known this was coming, but the message pinging into my inbox this morning has cemented it in my mind. I have to do this now.
The excuses I offer Jamie come hard and fast: I’m behind with my marking, there are sessions to plan and students coming who will expect me to be prepared. I can’t let them down.
‘Eve,’ Jamie says, his voice a croaky half-whisper, ‘a bit longer in bed won’t hurt, will it? Let me persuade you to stay.’ His warm hand reaches for mine.
I flinch and pull away. ‘Sorry, I can’t.’ He has no idea how important this day is to me; he’s unaware of the nausea bubbling in the pit of my stomach.
He admits defeat too easily. ‘Okay, spoilsport. How about I come over this evening after work? We can get a takeaway. Bottle of wine.’ Lose ourselves in oblivion, he means. That’s what we always do when we’re together. I know what I’m hiding from but what about Jamie? I’ve only known him for four months, but everything I’ve learned about him could fit on a Post-it note: thirty-three – two years younger than me; a freelance website designer; twin sisters he doesn’t get along with; and he lives nearby in Enfield. That’s it. The extent of my knowledge. It’s not that he doesn’t share information, more that I don’t let it seep into my brain. I can’t let myself know more about him. Familiarity terrifies me. And if I asked questions of him, he would do the same, and then sooner or later I would slip up.
‘I need a shower,’ I tell him. ‘Do you mind seeing yourself out?’
My small dining table is set up as it usually is for my tutoring sessions. The textbooks I’ll need are in a neat pile, my pencil case parallel to them, and a stack of loose paper sits in the middle, where either of us can easily reach it. I’ve laid out a plate of biscuits, leaving off the custard creams. It’s Maya who’ll be coming, and I’ve never once seen her eat one, although the chocolate Bourbons always disappear.
Today, more than any other day, I welcome the distraction the next hour will bring; I don’t want to think about what this morning’s email means. Maya will appear promptly at ten a.m., if not a few minutes before, her large bag of textbooks and revision guides weighing her down. Tardiness is her enemy. ‘I hate being late, miss,’ she’d told me at our first session. ‘It makes me anxious and then I can’t concentrate for the rest of the time.’ I admire this punctuality in someone so young, and have told her so, even though I’ve never shared that I am exactly the same way.
Right on time, she rings the buzzer at 09:59, and I promptly let her in. ‘Oh, miss, I’m so hot,’ she gasps, pulling off her thin cardigan. ‘How can it be so hot? This is London, we’re not in Ibiza!’
I try not to shudder at being called miss; the title haunts me, reminds me of someone I no longer am, but I’ve long ago given up trying to get Maya to call me by my first name. ‘It feels weird, miss,’ she’d claimed when I first suggested it. ‘Kind of disrespectful.’ I don’t point out that as she’s eighteen, I wouldn’t have any problem with her calling me Eve.
‘It probably doesn’t help wearing those,’ I say now, gesturing to her skinny jeans, which have huge rips down the legs. ‘Shorts might have been a better option today.’
She fans herself with her Oyster card and lets out a huge puff of breath. ‘Or a bikini?’ she offers, and we both chuckle.
It’s only when Maya sits down that I realise something seems different about her today, aside from the sweat glistening on her skin, and the fact that her thick black hair is scraped back into a long ponytail. It’s not her clothes – she’s wearing one of her usual close-fitting tops, which always make me feel old. I long ago lost touch with fashion trends and now I select dark-coloured outfits that help me blend in. Clothes that make me look neither glamorous nor frumpy, just average and bland. No, it’s something else about Maya. She doesn’t seem herself.
‘So, only two more weeks, Maya,’ I say, pulling out two copies of an old exam paper. I slide one towards her. ‘I thought we’d work on a practice question together. How does that sound?’
She offers a small nod and stares at the sheet, making no move to open her bag and take anything out. This is not like her. Something is definitely wrong. Immediately I assume the worst: she knows about me. It’s caught up with me before I’ve even made the attempt to put things right. Nausea once again floods through me. Could it be Maya who sent me that email?
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, forcing the words out. Even though I don’t want to hear her tell me she knows what I did, I need to make sure she’s all right. And she is still here after all, so maybe she wants to give me a chance to explain.
‘Yeah,’ she says, her eyes fixed on her hands, which she fans out in front of her. I’m surprised to notice her nail polish is chipped; she’s usually so careful about her appearance.
‘I know I’m just tutoring you for your A-levels, but I’m not a bad listener if there’s anything troubling you.’ Please don’t let this be about me.
Still without looking up, she opens her mouth but doesn’t speak.
‘Maya?’
I can’t see her eyes, so it’s only when tears splatter onto the table that I know she’s crying. Ignoring the discomfort I feel, I leave my seat and crouch down beside her, tentatively putting my arm across her back. She needs me, so I won’t shy away from soothing her.
‘Please talk to me, Maya. It’s possible I might be able to help. I’ll definitely try my best, even if it’s got nothing to do with your studies.’
She looks up, her dark brown eyes glistening. ‘It’s not schoolwork,’ she says. ‘Nothing like that.’
It must be family, then. All sorts of terrible scenarios cross my mind, and I try to recall what I know about her home life. As far as I’m aware, she gets on well with both her parents, and she’s close to her older sister who’s away at university. Nothing Maya’s said has ever set off any alarm bells, and I’ve been trained to look out for warning signs. I prepare myself to explain that if she’s in any danger then I will have to report it.
‘Then what is it? What’s happened?’
‘I’m pregnant,’ she blurts out, her eyes wide.
Aside from the fact that she’s only eighteen, this isn’t a catastrophe. Her words shouldn’t make my body feel as if it’s folding in on itself, as though I’m being crushed from the inside.
And all I can think is that I am the last person she should have told.