The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh

Four

Frankie

THEN

The afternoon of my eighteenth birthday, I’m heady with excitement and come home early from the hairdresser’s, eager to try a few new make-up looks before the party tonight. I jog up the path to the front door and am about to open it when I hear a crash coming from the garage. Hoping it’s not a present for me that’s fallen—my folks have always hidden large birthday and Christmas gifts in the garage since I could walk—I let myself in the side door to check out the noise.

To find my dad having sex with my mom’s best friend.

They don’t see me because I back out of the door as fast as humanly possible, those few seconds I witnessed more than enough. It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen but not the most shocking.

The shock comes thirty minutes later when I confront Mom at work after running the whole way there to tell her what I’d seen.

And she shrugs.

My gorgeous mother—with her flawless skin, big hazel eyes and long auburn hair—who I’ve wanted to emulate my entire life, actually shrugs, like what I saw is inconsequential.

“Francesca, I haven’t raised you to be a prude and now you’re eighteen perhaps it’s time you understand the ways of the world?”

As if by some miraculous changing of my age from seventeen to eighteen I should find it acceptable that my father is cheating on my mother. “What the hell are you talking about, Mom?”

Remorse deepens the lines bracketing her mouth, and she takes a deep breath before responding. “Your father and I have an open marriage and have for years.” She gives a little shake of her head, like she didn’t want me to discover the truth. Too late for that, Mom. Way too late. “I think you’re old enough to know that now.”

My mouth drops open as I stumble to the nearest seat and collapse into it. I thought open marriages were a thing of the past, in the sixties and seventies when key parties were all the rage. I’d read about them online while doing a history project on feminism at school last year and had found more detail than I would’ve liked. Now, to discover my parents indulge in partner swapping… I want to vomit.

“I know this must come as a shock, and I’m sorry you had to find out that way, but do you have any questions?”

Embarrassment heats my cheeks. Hell no. I don’t want to ask anything about their sordid affairs. “I don’t get it. I’ve grown up idolizing you and Dad, and can’t fathom you being blasé about something so…”

I’m about to say sacred but stop myself at the last second. Will she even understand? And after what I’ve learned today, my parents obviously don’t understand me. If they did, Dad would’ve taken greater care to hide what he was doing and Mom wouldn’t calmly pronounce their life choices like I’m the one with the problem.

“Francesca, I’ve been married to your father since I was your age. He’s my one, true—”

“Don’t say love, because if he was, you wouldn’t be cheating and calling it an open marriage.”

I’ve always admired my parents’ relationship—I thought they were committed to one another. They’re so affectionate, touching each other on the shoulder and hip as they pass in the kitchen, holding hands when we go out. I catch them looking at each other sometimes and their level of devotion makes me equally uncomfortable and envious. How could they still be so in love after nineteen years of marriage?

To discover it’s all a lie is devastating.

The last few years, I’ve wanted to find a guy like my dad, a man who adores his partner. A boyfriend I can rely on, to make me feel special, like I’m the only woman in the world for him.

Discovering what my parents are really like is disillusioning, like the day I learned there’s no Santa. Now, like then, I have the same queasiness in the pit of my stomach and the tightness in my chest, like nothing will be the same again. Tears of disappointment burn the back of my eyes and I blink to keep them at bay.

“He is my one true love, and I won’t have you disparaging that. Perhaps you’re still too young to understand.”

I don’t like her condescension. “As you just pointed out, I’m the same age you were when you married Dad, so I’m not too young to judge my parents and find them lacking.”

Hurt flickers in her eyes and I almost feel bad, before the image of my dad in the garage flashes in my head.

“We got married too young and that’s something I wouldn’t wish on you. I want you to take your time. Date different boys. And don’t settle.”

Confusion makes my head ache and I press my fingertips to my temples. “I don’t understand. You just said Dad’s the love of your life and that’s why you married young, now you’re telling me to do the opposite?”

She nods, sadness bracketing her mouth. “People change over time. Rather than drift apart, as was starting to happen a few years ago, we embraced a different lifestyle.”

“Is that what you’re calling cheating these days, a different lifestyle?”

I lash out, disappointed to discover the people I idolize the most in this world aren’t who I thought they were.

“When you fall in love, you’ll understand how you’ll do anything to keep that love alive.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking, that when I fall in love I won’t lose my self-respect. That I’ll find a man who adores me so much he won’t look elsewhere. That I’ll build a solid relationship with that man, far from here.

I need to get away, to distance myself from my folks. I hate them for ripping off my rose-colored glasses. But I love them too. They’re my parents and we’ve been close for so long.

“This changes nothing, Francesca. We’re still your parents. We love you. And we’re looking forward to your party tonight.”

Mom’s wrong. Discovering their proclivities changes everything and the last thing I feel like doing is pretending this is the best day of my life.

“Cancel the party.” I stand, eager to get away. I’ve heard enough.

“Darling, that’s impossible.” She looks at her watch. “The caterers will start dropping off food in an hour.”

Like a bunch of stupid hors d’oeuvres is so damn important when I’ve had my life upended. “Doesn’t it bother you at all what I saw?”

Her expression is guilty as she nods. “I’m sorry you had to walk in on your father. He should’ve been more circumspect. But it’s done and I can’t change it. But what can change is your attitude. I want tonight to be special for you. We’ve invited all your friends and you deserve to have fun.”

Mom has the best intentions but she leaves out one salient fact. She’s invited a bunch of my parents’ friends too, family friends we socialize with regularly, friends with kids my age. I used to think it so cool I got to have a wide circle of friends that extended beyond school. Now I wonder if those people only come around because they share in my parents’ liberal views on marriage.

“You’re a young woman now, Francesca. And while I wish you’d learned the truth about us in a different way, it’s done. So let’s focus on the party, huh?”

Mom takes hold of my hands and I stare at her long crimson manicured talons, the flashy gold rings adorning almost every finger, the bangles jangling at her wrists, and close my eyes against a horrific image of her grabbing at every one of the men who we class as “family friends”.

“Baby, are you okay?”

She releases my hands to place a finger under my chin and tips it up. I have two choices. Make a big deal of this and ruin my eighteenth or try to forget it. I open my eyes and give a little nod.

“That’s my girl.”

However, as Mom bundles me into her arms and I screw my nose up against the overpowering waft of the rose fragrance she favors, I know one thing for sure.

I’m not her girl.

And I’ll make it my life’s work to be nothing like my mother.