Page 57 of The Truth About You and Me
‘Oh. OK.’ I fold the paper.
‘Same time?’
‘Um. Yeah. I’ll be here.’ I pull on my coat and head towards the door.
‘Before I go…’ I should push the thoughts aside, keep Maggie and her confession locked away with the rest of my old life. I’m behaving like a kid still trying to believe in Santa Claus even when the evidence is stacked up against the truth. Even so,ifwhat Maggie is saying is real, or some part of it is, I’ve just destroyed a relationship with the one person who gets me without having to pretend I’m someone I’m not. The words come out anyway.
‘Before I go, I have this… friend and she thinks she can hear thoughts.’
‘Afriend?’ His eyebrows rise sardonically. He takes off his glasses and cleans them with the corner of his navy jumper.
I catch on. ‘Arealfriend.Idon’t think I can hear people’s thoughts.’
‘Right.’ He puts his glasses back on.
‘Is there, I mean…’ I look to the picture on the wall of a much younger Dr Levin holding a pint to the camera. ‘Are there any studies about it? Or any theories?’
‘It’s not my area, I’m afraid.’
I’m being ridiculous. What did I think he was going to say? Give me the answers to explain it all? I can’t ignore the way that it hurts to let that small glimmer of hope fall away though. I’m clutching at the smallest of straws and I can’t deny the way I wish I had some glimmer of tangible evidence that I could hang on to. If there is even a small chance that what she is saying is true, then I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind for wanting to believe her.
I nod. ‘Well, thanks anyway.’
‘But there will be some papers on it somewhere. Have a dig around. You’ll find something I’m sure. Us academics can’t help ourselves researching one thing or another.’
I don’t ask how I’m supposed to do that when I can’t read.
‘And Jack?’
‘Hmmm?’ I wrap my scarf around my neck.
‘You did good.’
26
MAGGIE
I rip the brown tape off the cardboard box and lean back on my knees.
Heritage Retirement Home is nothing like I was expecting. I suppose, what came to mind was one of the more institutional homes that I was placed in, but this is like a five-star hotel. The large building is Georgian, set amongst acres of lush green land, tall oaks around the perimeter. From Riz’s room, you can see the sea and the whole place smells like furniture polish, and not the cheap stuff either.
I look around her room, or maybe suite is a better word? It’s large, two big windows behind a neat round table, a small kitchen area, and to the right is her bedroom. Her bed is large and the only hint to this being anything other than a hotel is in the hospital-style bed, the call buttons to the side, and the handrails in the bathroom.
The removal firm had brought her things, and now Riz looks perfectly at home, sitting in her favourite chair, a large black A4 portfolio on her knees.
‘Of course, I turned him down,’ Riz continues.
‘John Lennon?’ I blow my hair out of my eyes. ‘You turned down John Lennon?’
‘I absolutely did. Even if I wasn’t already married, he wasn’t at all my type. Here, look.’
She tilts the folder open. I get up and peer over the back of the chair and there smiling up at the camera is the man himself. He’s young, early twenties I’d guess. He’s wearing a black tie and a white shirt. He has a spark of mischief and is clearly flirting with whoever is behind the camera. She turns the page and there he is again, laughing at a woman with thick black hair beneath a jockey cap, mini skirt, three-quarter-length leather jacket, her camera held in her hands. ‘Art took that one.’ She sighs and shakes her head. ‘He never could get to grips with proportions, far too much of the brick wall to the left. It was navy blue that jacket. It should be in one of those boxes I left for you; it’ll suit you.’
‘You are stunning, Riz. No wonder he had eyes for you.’
‘I think he liked the chase more, to be honest. It must have been refreshing to meet a girl in her twenties who wasn’t falling at his feet. Tragic what happened to him.’
I shake my head. The more I learn of her life, the less believable it all is. But each time I think she may be exaggerating, she produces some kind of evidence.
