Thirty-Two
While Sir John remains blissfully oblivious on the journey home, my entire body feels like a block of ice, and questions hurtle through my mind. What did Emma make of our encounter? How much of a big deal is it? Is it the sort of confusion you just clear up when you next meet up, or is it the sort of thing you phone your brother to warn him about? Even while I’m trying to calm myself, I know it’s a big deal. I’m even lying to myself now. How can I get myself out of this one?
I scold myself. No. No more lies. That’s what’s got me in this mess in the first place. But all the same, it’s not unreasonable to have generations of family in Chester cemeteries and just one line that branches out into Tsarist Russia, is it? That could explain everything. And as for the name, how likely is it that Emma would remember “Alex Taylor.” But then I think back to how she was saying the name. It was like she was deliberately committing it to memory. I know it’s time to come clean. I just hope I can get to Ryan before Emma does.
Meanwhile, Sir John happily holds court on the Tube, making loud speeches to a host of commuters who could not be less interested. I drift in and out as he drones on about the cost of clothes today and how much he once bought a suit for in Hong Kong in 1969. I can’t help but smile occasionally; his joy is infectious.
Oh God, though, If Emma says the name “Alex Taylor” to Ryan…It’s not likely that Ryan would have mentioned his correspondence with an Agony Uncle to his sister, is it? Even if he did, Emma would not remember his name, which is unlikely. But then, why did it look like a lightbulb had gone on when Sir John said it? My brain spirals on and on, and before I know where I am, I’ve ruminated the entire journey away.
Later, as I start getting ready to meet Ryan, I continue my internal debate. I keep remembering how suspicious Emma looked. I apply my make-up as I ponder the degree of suspicion. Is it “This woman is lying to my brother” or is it “She’s exaggerated her life story to seem more interesting; that’s vaguely pitiful but in a lovely way.” I hope against hope that it’s the latter. That’s possibly the kind of thing you could laugh about around the table at Christmas… just another bizarre family anecdote.
As I straighten my hair and choose my nicest, least Alexy shoes, I reason that I’m not such a bad person. I was planning to tell Ryan. It was literally on the tip of my tongue on Saturday before Sir John interrupted me. And now I’m telling him this evening instead, which was my next possible opportunity.
On the Tube to meet him, I practise my speech. I mutter through the lines – the sincere lines – about how much I liked his letter. How bad I felt when the advice went wrong. How I just wanted to make it better but then ended up falling for him, and how I’d never do something like this again.
I know he’ll be shocked at first, and I’ll need to give him time to cool down. But this couldn’t be the end… surely not?
On the walk from the Tube station to the wine bar, I continue to rehearse. I go through all the things I love about Ryan. Yes, love, I suddenly realise, feeling a pang at the memory of all the sweet things he’s done and said. As I get closer to the bar, my shoes feel heavier and heavier, and my legs have turned boneless. I stop to take a deep breath and brace myself. It’s going to be scary and difficult. A painful confession. Painful for him, too. But I can do this. We’ll be better for it in the long run.
I take a deep breath and walk into the bar. He’s already in a booth at the back, looking despondently into a glass of red. He hasn’t ordered me one, which is unlike him. He looks up, and with one glance at his face, I can tell he already knows.
I slide into the seat opposite him, knees almost knocking. He doesn’t even glance up from his drink, but I can see his jaw clenched, the fingers of one hand drumming an angry beat on the table edge.
“Hello… Alex,” he says. The lack of tone in his voice is worse than if he sounded angry.
“Ryan…” I begin.
“Is this you?” he interrupts. He shoves his mobile across the table. The screen is open on one of my – in the guise of Agony Uncle – emails to him.
I swallow and reach for his hand, but he moves it quickly away. “Yes,” I say, looking down.
All my arguments, my narrative about this came to be, have just evaporated.
He nods and looks down, staring fixedly at his phone.
“It’s a long story, but…” I begin, but he cuts me off.
”All this time, you’ve been emailing me as him,” Ryan says, more a statement than a question. His voice is clipped, tight.
“Yes.”
“And letting me email you – about Anastasia. About personal stuff.”
“Yes.”
He laughs hollowly, but there’s no humour in it, just fury and humiliation.
“I know how stupid and weird it all seems,” I say, starting to tear up.
He looks up properly for the first time, but I almost wish he hadn’t. His eyes are glacial. “It’s not stupid and weird. It’s much more than that. It’s dishonest. It’s lies on top of lies. It’s creepy and invasive. And it’s a betrayal. And I just mindlessly believed you! All my instincts told me that it was weird for a writer to have no social media presence and that, surely, you’d use it to promote yourself, but you know what? I didn’t even Google you. I just trusted. What a fool. And not only did you let me waste my time taking you on dates, you slept with me! You met my friends and family! You completely humiliated me. And for what? Was this some sort of game?”
I start to choke up, “I know. I was going to tell you anyway tonight. And last Saturday, after we visited your parents, I was going to tell you… and then Sir John interrupted.”
“After I’d already brought you into my parents’ home – with your fake identity – and let you make a fool of all of us? After we’d already been dating for three months? Then you were planning to tell me you’re a made-up person?”
“I’m not! I’m not made up. Everything else about me was real. Just the stupid name and the family stuff.”
“And the fact that I wrote to you, and I thought you had written back in confidence. To a totally different person.” Ryan’s voice is low, but it feels like it drips with hate. “Emma was right to be suspicious. She knew from that barbecue… there was something.” Ryan looks like his own eyes are tearing up, “I wish I’d listened now rather than just telling her to stop being difficult about someone I love. Loved.”
“Ryan, I…”
“And what was all this for? Some article for that magazine?”
“No! Of course not! I didn’t mean for any of this to happen; it all just ran on ahead. I only meant to help you at first at the singles night because I felt so terrible for the bad advice, but then you were so lovely I said yes to a date. And then ended up really liking you. And all the stupid lies just got bigger because I couldn’t tell you my actual name… and then I just didn’t know what to do next.”
Ryan gulps his wine and slams down the glass. “So that’s why you came to the singles night. Because I was so pathetic, you thought you might need to pretend to be interested in me to improve my self-esteem. Well, that worked out well.”
“Not pathetic. I just wanted to boost your confidence. That’s all.”
I have never felt so wretched in all my long, rich career of stupidity. I think about the other “worst” moments of my life. The moment Chris didn’t take me to a family party because he was ashamed of my lack of success. The moment he wouldn’t introduce me to the editor of The Guardian because he wasn’t confident that he could endorse me as a writer. The moment he broke my heart. The moment I realised he’d moved on. Nothing compares to this. I’d repeat any of those moments again and again if it meant I could spare Ryan this pain.
Ryan is silent. He’s still seething with fury. I can’t bear it.
“I would have told you,” I try, “but I didn’t want to lose you. And I couldn’t see any other way out. I knew it was weird. It was creepy. That’s why I’ve been torturing myself for weeks.”
“Wow. Thanks so much. It was really good of you to feel so guilty about making a total moron out of me.” Ryan is giving no quarter. The most painful thing is his refusal to look at me, but when his eyes occasionally flick up, it’s even worse. They’re icy with disdain.
I take a breath and start to tell him everything in a rush, from applying for the job as an Agony Uncle for extra cash to first seeing him at the bar. To how amazing the first date was, and how I was falling for him. The times I’d tried to tell him but failed.
“I wasn’t cheating on you. I wasn’t laughing at you. It was just stupid. You know how I get myself into stupid situations and make them worse,” I’m crying now. “This was one of those.”
He stays hunched over his drink. “This isn’t some funny little accident we can laugh about. You’ve been lying to me since we first met. You know what that means to me. What trust means to me.”
I choke back tears, “Yes. I do.”
“It’s the one thing I needed. The most important thing to me.”
“I know… and I promise, no more stupid stuff. No more lies. I’m not lying when I say how I feel about you…”
“That’s the problem,” he interrupts. “There’s no way to say what’s honest and what’s not. Not anymore. As stupid as this stuff all was, that’s what this has cost us. That’s what kills it.”
“Kills it?” I ask weakly.
He runs his hand over his face wearily. “Yes, kills it. We’ve been together for three months. And for 100% of that time, I’ve been the idiot going out with a made-up person. I don’t think we can go anywhere else from here.”
I nod. I can hardly argue. I’ve brought all of this on myself. After a few more minutes in silence, I try again, “But… all the stuff I told you. Not the stupid name and stupid ancestor stuff. All the rest about Chris and my work and what I love. All the important stuff – that was true, that was real.”
Ryan doesn’t look up. He’s focusing entirely on his empty glass. He shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry. It feels a bit too late for that.”
I try to stem my tears. I can’t blame him for any of this, but the pain is horrible. The guilt makes it twenty times worse. It feels like there are 100 miles between us across the table… the guy who would take my hand and laugh at all my stupid antics might as well be carved in marble now. He’s drawn so far away. And it’s all my fault. This is worse than when Chris broke my heart. At least then, I had some self-righteousness, some sense of pride, and knew I was the injured party.
His voice rises, “I just find this unbelievable. Not only did you do this, but you thought we would just be able to carry on when you told me. Did you think we’d laugh about it? Did you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I just… I didn’t think,” I say, defeated, slumping my head into my hands.
“Yes, well, that’s true. You didn’t think. That might be the first truthful thing you’ve ever said to me.”
We sit like that for what feels like forever, him staring down at the table, me leaning forward into my hands and occasionally peeking through my fingers to make sure he hasn’t suddenly softened. He hasn’t. I feel the blood pumping in my ears as I will him to say something else, anything to break the torturous silence.
He finally does, and I wish he hadn’t.
“Goodbye Alex.”
He says it almost gently before standing up and slowly walking out. I carry on sitting there in the booth as the early summer light fades and everything turns to shadows.