Let Me Lie

by Clare Mackintosh

People liked boxes, Murray had concluded. You were ill or you were well. Mad or sane. Sarah’s problem was that she climbed in and out of a box, and people didn’t know how to deal with that.

I have lots of photos of Dad, but hardly any of Mum. Always behind the lens, never in front of it – like so many women once they have a family. So intent on documenting their children’s lives before they grow too old, it doesn’t occur to them to document their own. That one day, their children will want to pore over photos of a time they were too young to remember.

Unlike my parents, who seemed at times to thrive on confrontation, the idea of entering into a dispute with a neighbour fills me with dread. Perhaps it’s being an only child, with no sibling warfare to toughen me up, but the hint of an argument is more likely to push me to tears than fire me up for retaliation.

Money makes it easier. Look at the races, look at the pretty young things in their posh hats tottering along with a bottle of champagne in each hand. It’s fun, right? But swap the posh hats for filthy beanies, and the bubbly for cooking brandy, and you’d cross the street to stay out of their way.

The internet means there’s no such thing as tomorrow’s chip papers;

‘We can’t change the past,’ Mark says gently. ‘We can only change the way we feel about it, and the way it affects our future.’