Dear Diary,
This afternoon I uploaded a picture from our family holiday to the internet, and within the hour my brotherinlaws sister, Sophie, rang me, her voice trembling with tears.
Look at this, isnt it lovely! my wife Marian said, perched on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, scrolling through the images on her tablet. Arthur, see how funny Mike looks here!
I was hunched over the spreadsheet of our household budget the one I update with obsessive precision each month when I glanced over her shoulder.
Its not bad, I replied, though my mind was already drifting to the numbers. The sea was wonderful, but it has left a sizeable hole in this months balance.
Marian pursed her lips. We havent been away for a whole year, Arthur. We saved up for this. You kept saying we needed a break, that we should take the kids to the coast.
Yes, I said that, I said, sighing. But seeing the final figures is another matter. Well tighten the belt next month. Mikes summer camp will have to be cancelled; we simply cant afford it.
Cancel it? Marians disappointment was palpable. Hed been looking forward to the hikes, the canoe trips
It wont be the end of the world. He can stay at Grans cottage, get some fresh air. Itll be good for him. Lets drop the argument. Ive decided.
I watched her fall silent. Arguing about money with Marian was futile. She loved me I was a caring husband and a reliable father but when it came to finances I was rocksolid. Every penny counted. I was proud of our safety cushion, the savings account we kept for unexpected expenses. Marian sometimes muttered that the cushion was too hard, yet deep down she valued my prudence and planning.
She selected what she thought was the best shot: the three of us Marian, me, and our twelveyearold son Charlie standing on the Brighton promenade, sunkissed and smiling, the azure sea behind us and a white paddle steamer gliding in the distance. It was the ideal picture of a happy family. She hit publish on her social feed with the simple caption: Our little slice of southern bliss.
Within minutes the post was flooded with likes and comments: Stunning!, Looking great!, Where did you go? Marian replied with a grin, basking in the warm glow of virtual approval.
An hour later, as I was preparing dinner, the phone rang. The screen showed Sophie. I was pleased; weve always been close.
Hey, Soph! Hows it going?
Instead of her usual cheerful tone, she burst into sobs.
Arthur is it true? she choked.
Whats true, Sophie? Whats happened?
The photo yours online Is it a fake? she demanded.
Its just a holiday snap. Explain whats wrong, youre scaring me! I pleaded.
There in the background, by the steamer a man in a white shirt is that him? Is that David?
My heart skipped. David Clarke my best mate from university, the husband of Irene Clarke, his wife who had been widowed three years ago after a tragic crash on the M5. The accident had claimed his life, the car reduced to a charred husk. He was buried in a sealed coffin. The loss had devastated everyone; I had turned pale and seemed ten years older. Irene, his widow, still struggled, raising their daughter Lucy alone, scraping by from one paycheck to the next.
David is dead, Sophie. You must be imagining things, I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
No! Sophie screamed. I recognise him! His mole on his neck, his watch! Arthur, look closely!
I dropped the knife, wiped my hands, and rushed to the tablet. I opened the picture and zoomed in. Past our smiling faces, toward the steamer, a small crowd stood. Among them, a man in a white shirt and light trousers turned slightly, speaking to a woman who held a little girls hand.
I zoomed further. The resolution was poor, but the shoulders, the tilt of his head, the watch on his wrist the same watch wed all gifted David and Arthur for their thirtieth birthdays and that dark mole on the neck just visible under the shirt collar.
It was him. David, alive, healthy, apparently happy with another woman and a different child.
The world tilted. I sank onto a chair, my mind refusing to accept the absurdity. It felt like a cruel prank.
You see? Sophie wailed. Hes alive and Irene shes been scraping by for three years, working three jobs, raising Lucy alone! And he just ran off! How could he?
I I dont know, Sophie Ill call you back. I hung up, staring at the photo of my own beaming face. How foolish Id been, how blind.
Then the pieces began to fit. My monthly transfers the ones I told Marian were for my elderly aunt in Devon, Aunt Lucy, she needs extra pension, we must help her were actually going to David. Hed claimed he was struggling after the crash, but in truth he was rebuilding a new life, using our money.
The hushed phone calls in the study, the sudden stinginess that had appeared three years ago, the constant refrain of we must save, we cant afford a camp they were all covers for my secret funding of Davids fresh start.
The front door opened. I stepped back into the kitchen, trying to act as if nothing had changed.
Hey! Whats that wonderful smell? I said brightly, entering.
I saw Marians pale face, the tablet on the table, and the shock in her eyes. She stared at the screen, then at me.
Whats happened? I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
It happened, Arthur, she said, her gaze empty, cold. Your sister called, asking after Aunt Lucy in Devon. She seemed to have settled nicely down south, even looks younger now. Except shes not Lucy any more shes David. You know what I mean.
She turned the tablet toward me. The image of David stared back, his face grey for a split second, then back to normal.
I get it now, I whispered.
She snapped, Dont bother trying to explain, I dont want to hear your lies any longer. How much have you sent him over these three years? A thousand pounds? Two thousand? Ten thousand? How much of our money have you stolen from us, from Charlie?
I didnt steal! I blurted. I was helping a friend! He was in trouble, drowning in debt. He would have been killed otherwise! Disappearing was his only way out, a fresh start.
And Irene? And little Lucy? Their lives werent in danger! she shouted. His wife, who thought shed been a widow at twentyeight! His daughter, growing up without a father! Did you think of them when you funded his new life?
Ira is strong, shell manage, I muttered. David had no choice.
There is always a choice, Arthur! Marian exploded, her knuckles pounding the tabletop like a gunshot. You chose him over us! You lied to me every day! Every time you said we couldnt afford the camp, you were lying! Every time I patched Charlies jeans because there was no money for new ones, you were lying! You made me complicit in your deceit!
I bowed my head, speechless.
I want to know one thing, she whispered. Our trip to the sea we didnt end up in Brighton by accident, did we? You wanted to see him, didnt you?
She nodded, and the final piece clicked. The holiday, the little slice of happiness, had been nothing more than a cover for a secret rendezvous with David.
I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling. Who are you calling? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
To the place where truth still lives, Marian replied.
On the other end, Sophies voice, now steadier, said, Sophie, put the phone to Irene.
Marian, maybe we shouldnt shes I began.
Its necessary, Sophie. She has to know. Weve lived in lies for too long.
Arthur stared at me, horror dawning in his eyes. He realized his world was collapsing. I took a step forward, trying to snatch the phone away.
Dont, Marian hissed, her eyes flashing with cold fury, and I backed off.
A tired, weary voice whispered through the line: Yes, Im listening.
I inhaled deeply.
Hello, Irene. We need to talk. It concerns David.
I sat down, back turned to my husband, who remained frozen in the doorway. I didnt know what tomorrow would bring divorce, division of assets, Charlies tears but I was doing the only thing I could: returning the stolen truth to the woman whose whole life had been ripped away.
Sometimes a single photograph can shatter the illusion of a perfect life and uncover a terrible reality. I have learned, through my own ruin, that honesty is not a luxury but a necessity; without it, even the brightest holiday snaps turn black.
Arthur.
