The Truth Club by Grace Wynne-Jones Read Free Book Online

Fiona are not the type of women who sit around discussing casseroles. I assumed they were talking about wedding presents; but now I suspect they were wondering how to tell me they didn’t think Diarmuid and I were suited. Looking back, I can see they gave me little hints, like, ‘They say a sense of humour is crucial for a healthy relationship; I could never be with a man who didn’t make me laugh.’ Diarmuid is a rather serious person, but I didn’t mind, because life is a serious business. You can’t just go around laughing at everything. There are decisions to be made, practicalities to be attended to. You have to know what’s important.
    Fiona’s large cream house overlooks a well-maintained, tree-lined square in Monkstown, which is an old and grand and very attractive Dublin suburb. As the bus bumps its way along, I think that, if I were Fiona, I wouldn’t be on this bus; I would have walked, because of my firm commitment to regular exercise. I also think that, if I were Fiona, I wouldn’t be wearing jeans with a zip that opens up stealthily every time I sit down and a pink cotton jumper with a small rip underneath the right arm. If I were Fiona, I would still be happily married, because I would have thought about it all long and carefully, before, not after, the wedding. She and Zak even went to a marriage counsellor before they said, ‘I do.’
    Fiona’s first question to me as I walk through her front door is, ‘Would you like some lasagne? It’s delicious. We got it from that swanky new deli. The chef is Italian.’
    I naturally say yes, because I am now in comfort-food territory. Any time I’m with Fiona, I eat far more than I should, while she pecks at salad and radishes. She and Zak never have large portions, which is why they haven’t finished the lasagne and greedy plump little Sally has been called upon to finish it. I was nine stone when I married, and now I’m ten.
    As I consume Fiona’s lasagne, my eyes are drawn to her large, luxuriant stomach, which is not caused by chocolate biscuits and crackers covered in hummus. There is a baby in there.
    ‘Sally?’ Fiona smiles. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
    ‘I’m thinking about that lovely little baby that’s in your stomach.’ I smile back. ‘And I’m thinking you’ll make a great mother because you know how to love people.’ As I say this, I feel lighter. When I’m not comparing myself to Fiona, but just appreciating her, I feel more like her. I feel like I’ve been let in on some secret.
    She laughs. ‘I wish I were as sure about that as you are,’ she says. Fiona has a lovely, deeply playful laugh. This is not, of course, the only lovely thing about her. Her blaze of red-blonde hair frames a soft, thoughtful and extremely pretty oval face. It is the sort of face that manages to be an unexpected combination of qualities. Her nose, for example, hints at steely determination, while her full lips regularly curl up into a playful, stunning smile that reveals even, pristine white teeth. Her eyes are grey-blue and watchful, because she notices things. She is wearing a beautiful, voluminous woven shirt with buttons in unusual places, including the elbows. Fiona has those sorts of clothes – clothes that aren’t generally available in ordinary shops.
    Fiona gives me one of her looks. ‘Sally, I hate to bring the subject up, but have you thought any more about…’
    I know she is referring to Diarmuid. ‘No… I mean, sort of.’
    Fiona nods, and I know she wants me to talk about Diarmuid. If I were Fiona and had left my husband, I would be talking about it and getting advice and support and perhaps even crying. Because Fiona doesn’t just know how to be happy; she knows how to be sad. She cries at funerals and she cries at poignant films. She cried buckets when Alfie Armitage went off with Naomi O’Sullivan at that dance when we were fifteen; she was heartbroken for a week, until she met that French exchange student who