BEX
Jen didn’t respond and so I asked her again what her editor meant by ‘discrepancies’.
‘Oh God, I could do with a drink,’ she replied.
She looked around the flat for a bottle that still bore a trace of wine, but we’d knocked back everything.
‘I think you’ve had enough,’ I said.
‘Can you go out and get another bottle? Or have you got any whisky – or gin? What about gin? I’m sure you must have something.’
‘No, Jen, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.’
Jen took a deep breath and swallowed, but the disgust on her face as she did so made it seem as though she was being forced to gulp down a mouthful of her own vomit.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘It started small. And it was reasonable, and professional too. I told lies to protect those around me. Anyone would do the same, swapping Sally for Sarah, Lucy for Lydia. So do you remember that column I did about orgasms? In that, I used stuff Sarah told me, about how she always had to go into the bathroom to masturbate after sex, but I gave her the name Sally. That’s not bad, is it?’
I told her that I understood, and encouraged her to continue.
‘But sometimes – well, sometimes there were weeks when I didn’t have that much to say,’ she said, looking down. ‘I mean, how many times can you open up your soul and talk about your latest dating disaster, your terrible row with a good friend, that embarrassing period incident, or weird sexual fantasy, or whatever? Sometimes, life was, well, it wasn’t always that interesting. And occasionally, well, occasionally I had to make the odd thing up.’
‘So, what is it you’re saying, Jen?’
‘They’re saying I lied!’ she said, spitting the words out.
‘And did you?’
‘I told them that I hadn’t, apart from the occasional need to protect the privacy of some of my friends. Jonathan pressed on and asked, “Apart from this, have you ever lied in your column?” He told me to think very carefully about how I answered. The readers of the newspaper expected only the highest standards of journalism. There was an unspoken bond between the reader and a columnist, he said. Hundreds of thousands of people, mostly women, bought the paper because of me, he added. It would do untold damage to the reputation of the newspaper if it came to light that I had lied about significant events in my life. And so he asked me again. “Was I lying to him now?”
‘I felt as though I was on trial. I couldn’t bear it. And so I shook my head and said no, I hadn’t lied. Jonathan looked away, as if he was disgusted with me. He said that he was disappointed and that he had evidence to show that I was lying. But how else was I supposed to keep up with that weekly deadline? It was punishing.’
‘So what are you saying? That you did lie? What kind of things did you lie about?’
‘Some of the stuff that happened with early boyfriends, certain incidents and conversations,’ she said. ‘Things they couldn’t check up on.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand what the editor’s problem is. Surely it will blow over.’
‘I doubt it,’ she said.
She went quiet again.
‘He might be just trying to shake things up and will have changed his mind by Monday. You’ve always said how unpredictable he can—’
‘I’ve been sacked, Bex, can’t you understand that?’ Her voice was full of anger.
‘I’m only trying to get a clear picture of what happened, that’s all,’ I said.
She took a deep breath and spat out the words, ‘What happened is that I lied about my parents!’
‘What?’
‘The death of my mum and dad, in that car accident,’ she said. She closed her eyes as if she were trying to protect herself from the horror of her disclosure. ‘They didn’t die in that car crash. In fact, there wasn’t a car crash at all.’
‘I don’t understand. You told me that – that you were fourteen. Your life was turned upside down.’
‘My mum and dad died when I was in my early twenties, Mum first from cancer, Dad soon after from a heart attack,’ she said, reciting the words as if she were an automaton.
‘But that’s when we already knew each other,’ I said. ‘How could you lie like that?’ I cast my mind back to the first conversation we’d had in halls. ‘I remember your words as clear as anything. How your parents had died in a car crash. I saw the pain on your face. I couldn’t imagine how that must have been for you. I felt so sorry for you.’
‘I know, and it was wrong of me. Unforgivable.’
‘Unforgivable? Is that all you’ve got to say? For fuck’s sake, Jen. But why?’
‘I don’t know, I suppose I thought you’d find me more interesting.’
‘So what happened? Did someone find out about your little secret?’
‘Go ahead and hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you,’ I said, even though I wasn’t sure about the truth of those words at that moment. ‘I’m just trying to get my head around this.’
‘A reader sent a letter to the editor’s office, outlining some of the things that he said I’d made up,’ she said. ‘For proof, the reader very helpfully enclosed copies of my mum and dad’s death certificates. The managing editor checked it all out and it turned out she came to the same conclusion.’
‘Who was he? Was it someone you know? An ex-boyfriend?’
‘I don’t know, Jonathan wouldn’t tell me,’ she said. ‘And he ordered me to clear my desk there and then. He told me that if I made a fuss or tried to fight him he’d make sure that the truth would come out. That I was a liar.’
‘Fuck.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Fuck.’ She put her head in her hands and started to sob again.
I didn’t know what to say, how best to comfort her. Or whether she should be comforted at all.