The Good Liar Read Online Free PDF Page B

must. Betty would normally
    come to ours anyway and it would be nice to have the two of you.’
    ‘Ah no,’ says Roy, looking directly at Michael. ‘You misunder-
    stand me. Betty and I have set our hearts on our first Christmas
    together being here, alone. Haven’t we, my dear?’
    Betty, looking at Michael, says, ‘Oh yes. I was going to mention
    it. I hope you don’t mind.’
    There is an awkward moment in the air. Roy can see Michael
    thinking, battling perhaps with an instinct to vent his annoy-
    ance. Come on, man; show some spirit at last; spit it out, he thinks.
    But no.
    ‘Oh well,’ says Michael. ‘It was just an idea. A romantic Christ-
    mas with just the two of you. Wonderful. Great.’
    Is that relief Roy sees shimmering on Stephen’s face? Possibly, but then again maybe not. It was there for just a second and he finds
    these days that his senses are not as finely tuned as once they necessarily were, and his eyesight not so sharp.
    5
    It’s a truism that the older one grows, the more conscious of the
    seasons one becomes and the separations and transitions between
    them. Maybe it’s just true. Or possibly, Betty thinks, our weather
    has become more extreme, as the experts say, and the seasons are
    consequently delineated more starkly.
    Whatever. A young person’s word that, with its tone of resigna-
    tion and extinguished hope, signifies the point this generation has reached on the journey from inquiry via bewilderment and disillusion to despondency. Not, therefore, a word for Betty. She rephrases the concept in her mind: it’s beyond me. Accompanied by a win-some girlish giggle, it will suit perfectly, she thinks; a suitably little- woman expression.
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    Roy would know the answer for sure. Which is to say he would
    be sure he knew the answer, whether or not he did, and would be
    able to state it with sufficient authority to brook no argument. He is very strong on certainty, Roy, and this is a good thing for Betty.
    At any rate the season is currently biting at its coldest, with relentless ferocity. In September she found herself wishing away summer
    and welcoming in cooler evenings and the march of the night. Bet-
    ter a genuine autumn than the apparition of summer. Strange for
    her. Since her childhood she has been a creature of the summer:
    those hot days whiled away in the garden with her sisters, the sounds and cares of the city beyond the high rose- covered brick wall; white dress, bare legs, dipping her toes in the clear pond by the summer
    house; playing with Elsa, the dog; and those fragrant evenings
    watching the elder girls through the balustrades of the gallery as
    they were courted in their ball gowns by dashing army officers. So
    long ago. Autumn brought gloom and equinoctial winds blowing
    leaves and dust along grey avenues under grey skies.
    Now the moon is full and she watches through the kitchen win-
    dow as from a leaden sky snow falls in clumpy flakes too heavy
    almost for their intricate fragility. There is a feeling indoors of cosi-ness, of protection from cold and misery in this warm centuries- old mews cottage. Perhaps it is another facet of age, she fancies: a
    greater comfort with the season of winter and its imposed seden-
    tary inwardnesses and reliance on such protections as fluffed- up
    duvets, strong stone buildings and roaring fires.
    Yet she knows this to be counter- rational. In the summer you
    may at least sit out your dotage on the small patch of lawn under
    the lilac tree, drink a cup of tea and read a book. You may pretend for a moment that the ageing isn’t happening. It is winter that brings arthritis, the inability to venture far, the seclusion that imprison-ment at home denotes, the reinforcement of helplessness and
    uselessness. And she knows that despite the impression of cosy,
    tucked- up warmth, she may be anything but safe. The wolf lurks,
    yet his tune is siren- like. She must keep her wits