Free Telling Lies to Alice by Laura Wilson Page A

unshakeable—nerves of steel. And totally reliable as a performer—no matter what was happening, he’d always turn up on time, make sure the audience got their money’s worth, and send them home laughing. Utterly professional. Everyone said that about him. When he and Lenny were at the Fortune doing Gnus Before Butter and Lenny was pissed out of his wits, Jack would go on stage night after night and cover for him. Once he’d done almost an hour of old-fashioned stand-up while Lenny was in the dressing room throwing up because of the Antabuse—or rather, because he’d been taking Antabuse and drinking at the same time. I used to go and watch—I’d changed my shift to the afternoon because Lenny wanted me at the theatre—I’d be standing there thinking, what’s going to happen this time, literally shaking, but Jack never turned a hair. . . .
    But now . . . Something was wrong. Something was really, badly wrong. The blankness in his face in the kitchen—as if there was a switch inside him that had just turned off—and now this . . . Perhaps I was right, he was drinking. Or maybe something else—drugs? From what I’d been able to see, he was still in pretty good shape. I wondered if he was still taking the diet pills. He used to pinch them out of girls’ bathroom cabinets the same way he’d nicked bars of chocolate from Don Findlater’s secretary’s desk. That’s what started it. Don’s secretary was called Araminta. Minty, though anyone less minty you can’t imagine—she was more like an old lemon. But she always kept one drawer full of chocolate, because both she and Don had a sweet tooth. Minty was on to Jack, but she got tired of having to be on guard every time he came in, so she typed Fatso on a sheet of paper and stuck that in the drawer instead. Lenny thought it was hilarious, but it really got to Jack. Gave him a complex. Amphetamines stop you sleeping, don’t they? And with the whisky as well . . . But even that . . . I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was definitely something else.
    He’s in a mess, I thought. I can’t just kick him out. Besides . . . I turned off the light. It was easier to face up to things in the dark. If Eustace hadn’t been there . . . Jack needed me. Needed someone, at any rate. And—no point in being dishonest about it, not to myself, anyway—so did I. Jack was right when he said I’d been on my own for too long. As for Val . . . Jack just is chronically unfaithful. Some men are. Their wives either accept it or leave, and Val had stayed put. If it wasn’t me, I thought, it would be somebody else. Doesn’t make it right, but . . .
    None of this is right, I thought, getting really angry. Lenny dying wasn’t right . Getting anonymous newspaper cuttings in the post isn’t right, either. What’s going on?
    In the morning, I’ll talk to Jack. When he’s got rid of the hangover.
    The room was stifling. I got out of bed and padded over to open the windows. In the doorway, Eustace raised his head for a moment, and then shifted position onto his side. I crouched next to him and rubbed his tummy. The house was silent. After a few minutes Eustace began to snore gently and I went back to bed.

 
Eight
    Another beautiful morning. Boiling-hot sun, birds singing, blue sky, sun-scorched grass. I tiptoed across the landing. The door to Jack’s room was ajar so I poked my head round. Out for the count. Getting bathed and dressed and feeding the animals, it almost felt like an ordinary morning, except that I kept thinking, maybe he won’t remember—maybe he will remember and won’t come down—maybe he’ll just phone for a taxi and leave.
    I took Pablo for a ride to give Jack the chance to leave without seeing me if he wanted to, but when I got back he was sitting on a chair outside the kitchen door, drinking coffee and watching the chickens behind his sunglasses. “You left me alone with that monster,” he said, jerking his thumb at Eustace, who was sunning