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

was the first person to feel inside her bra. When Fiona has been dumped, she has been known to howl. Maybe that’s why she gets over it so quickly.
    But, now that she’s met Zak, her love life seems to be verging on the idyllic. And the thing is, he’s not even handsome. He’s bald and has rather small eyes and a plumpish nose. His mouth is too big; when he smiles, it virtually takes over the lower part of his face. But there is something about him – a confidence, an aura of strength and wisdom. His body is compact and muscular and his movements are lithe and agile, like a dancer’s. I wouldn’t have looked at him twice, so that’s another impressive thing about Fiona: she looked at Zak twice and saw he was special. And he is s pecial. He is very kind and thoughtful and sweet and funny. He and Fiona look after each other. Sometimes they feed each other chocolate ice-cream in bed. Somehow I wish she hadn’t told me that little detail.
    Zak isn’t with us this evening because, after he had his lasagne, he went to the pub with some friends. He isn’t the sort of man who prefers being at the pub with his friends; but when the baby is born he won’t see his friends so often, so he wants to have some quality time with them now. He is an accountant, but that simply seems to make the whole profession more glamorous. And Fiona is something very important in software. Sometimes she even gives talks at conferences in London and Paris and Rome.
    We sit in silence while Fiona clearly hopes I will say more about Diarmuid. Eventually she says, ‘Would you like some chocolate cake? It’s home-baked. I got it from the deli too.’
    I look at her warily.
    ‘It’s got cream in it, so it has to be eaten soon,’ Fiona coaxes.
    ‘Oh, all right, then.’ I grin at her. Then I add, and I am not entirely joking, ‘Sometimes I think you’re trying to fatten me up, Fiona. I’m going to be like a woman in a Rubens painting if I go on like this.’
    Fiona smiles serenely and pads, barefooted, to her gleaming kitchen. It has a maple floor and an Aga cooker that she actually understands. I don’t understand my cooker. It does things I don’t need it to, and sometimes it makes strange noises.
    ‘I always find a nice chocolate cake cheers me up when I’m worried,’ Fiona says, as she hands me a large slice on a hand-decorated ceramic plate.
    I’m about to protest that this is nonsense, but then I realise that Fiona does comfort-eat sometimes. I have seen her. But she never gains an extra pound. For a moment I feel like throwing myself on the hand-woven Persian carpet in outrage.
    ‘Sally, I know this really good therapist who –’
    ‘Look, Fiona, I can’t afford to see a therapist right now,’ I snap, my mouth full of creamy calories. ‘I have to write imploring letters to the bank manager about my overdraft as it is. You wouldn’t believe the things I say to him about cash flow.’
    ‘Make it a priority,’ Fiona says. ‘It is a priority. I’d lend you the money.’
    I take another bite of cake and chomp it thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll think about it.’ But what I’m thinking is that I’ve tried therapy, and I just ended up talking about things that happened years ago when I was a kid in California and it looked like my parents were about to divorce. I can’t see how talking about my parents is going to help me decide about Diarmuid.
    ‘Not all therapists get you to talk for ages about the past,’ Fiona tells me. ‘At least talk to me, Sally. You’re unhappy. I can see it.’
    This would be the ideal moment to cry. I should cry. I want to, but I somehow can’t. I don’t feel I deserve to cry, because this situation with Diarmuid is entirely of my own making. He is the one who deserves to cry. He is the one who has been left to share a house with Barbecue Barry. He is the one who has to eat alone tonight because I wouldn’t alter my arrangements.
    Instead I sigh, deeply and