The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh

Seventeen

Frankie

NOW

After the play date, I don’t feel like working. I have a slight headache, the kind that always comes on when I’m stressed. Silly, really, because Celeste made an effort to be friendly and having Saylor pop over to join us was nice. Both women are lovely and I hate that I’m letting my insecurities taint what could possibly be great friendships.

I feel like I’m unraveling. I can’t believe I told Celeste my innermost fear about being a nobody if I quit my job… I overshared, something I never do. But she’s a good listener and asked the right questions without coming across as probing or inquisitive. And she offered to take Luna if I ever need a break. That was thoughtful. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a friend close by I could rely on.

While there are many perks with my job, a major downside is the isolation. Sure, I have many “friends” and followers on social media, but I drifted away from my school friends when I left Gledhill and didn’t form any real attachments to Andre’s crowd when we lived in Manhattan. I guess I’ve always been a bit of a loner and it’s suited me. I didn’t need anyone apart from Walt in my first marriage. He’d saved me in a way, taking me far from Gledhill, and I’ll always love him for that. With Andre, our relationship had been so intense, so insular from the start, I didn’t need anyone else. These days, I wonder if that’s a good thing.

Luna and Vi are besties already and I’m glad, considering I’m too busy to take her to play dates with other children she’s met at dance class and most of our neighbors have boys. Luna having a friend the same age next door is handy so it looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time with Celeste. I need to get over my suspicions and she’s presented me with the perfect opportunity to do just that, asking for Andre’s help to move stuff for her. My husband has a hero complex so he’ll love to help, and I’ll tag along with Luna on the pretext of the girls spending a bit more time together. Underhand, maybe, but I need to get over this funk once and for all and if I see them interacting together up close and personal I’ll know whether this is all in my head.

Ironically, my session online today is on hiding vegetables in popular foods for kids. I’d joked around with Luna in the park today but my daughter has no idea on the number of times she eats vegetables she hates. Violette’s horrified expression had been priceless and I’ll make sure to ask Celeste about her daughter’s eating habits later and if she’s as sneaky as me. It’s something we can bond over, our commonalities as mothers, and I’m determined to make an effort.

As I do my make-up in the mirror, I hate how tired I look. I didn’t sleep well after confronting Andre last night and the dark shadows under my eyes prove it. While I’d tossed and turned he’d snored softly beside me, oblivious to my turmoil. He played the wounded husband well, like he couldn’t fathom me doubting him. But I can’t help but remember he played that role once before, that even after his confession he couldn’t figure why I couldn’t trust him.

I squeeze a dot of primer onto my fingertip and use it to smooth away the frown line between my brows, a line that’s becoming increasingly prominent the more I obsess about things I shouldn’t. With a final slick of a nude gloss with peach undertones over my lips, I’m ready. The outfit I’ve chosen today is a simple white long-sleeved cotton top with cutesy pineapples all over it to go along with my food theme.

I try to mix up my content: food, fashion, decorating, skincare, whatever I feel like. It seems to work better than the set days I started with, like Food on Friday and Skincare Saturday. At the beginning I was lucky to make it online once a week but as my hits and my followers grew, I upped my game. Today, I’m guaranteed to have over a million views at least and so many comments I can’t respond to them all. Andre says I should hire someone to help me, but I’m a control freak and like reading through all the comments, even if it is becoming onerous.

Luna is great with my live streams. She knows not to interrupt, probably because she gets more screen time to play games than I’d usually allow. I peek into her room, my heart swelling with love as I hear her giggle at her favorite show.

“Honey, I’ll be online for about half an hour, then you can help me prepare dinner, okay?”

“Sure, Mom,” she says, without looking up from the screen.

Like most parents, I’m anti-screens, but I’m honest enough to admit they’re a godsend at times.

I have everything set up in the kitchen. It’s a perfect space for filming, with a massive island bench covered in a white marble top, and five trendy chrome lights resembling peppershakers hanging over it from above. Behind me is a row of white cabinets over an induction stovetop, with subtle hints of lighter wood throughout. It’s modern, bright and airy, and many have commented on the decor. It’s professional yet homey and I love this kitchen as much as the rest of the house.

What I’m about to do—fake it in front of a camera—pays for this house. Growing up, I always dreamed of living in a brownstone one day. I’m lucky, because this is no ordinary brownstone. Converted about a year before we bought it, the street level is a giant rumpus room that we admittedly rarely use, the first story is our lounge, dining room and kitchen, while the upper story has a generous master bedroom, along with Luna’s room and a spare. Andre and I don’t mention the spare room. I’m terrified he’ll want another child; he’s probably scared of my answer.

In all honesty, I don’t know if I want another child. Luna is enough for me. And if my fanciful imagination over the last twenty-four hours is any indication, maybe a part of me doesn’t want another child because I still don’t fully trust my husband. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget what he did.

He’s made the occasional flyaway comment about using the room as a nursery, but I don’t respond or make light of it, and I assume he’s got the message. I half expected him to bring it up again yesterday after the gender reveal party—would’ve been the perfect opening—but he hadn’t and I’d been relieved.

I check the bench top to make sure my ingredients are lined up. I’ve got flour, sugar, grated carrot, zucchini, beaten eggs and butter arranged in white bowls, with spoonfuls of cinnamon and nutmeg on a white saucer. After switching my ring light on, I take a deep breath and blow it out.

I’m prepared for this charade I perpetuate, that I have the perfect life, if only for thirty minutes.

When in reality I’m doing my best day-to-day, trying to gloss over the cracks.