The Polite Lie

“When someone says, ‘Don’t worry,’ you start worrying. But when they say it twice, you check the locks.”

The chilly morning air of Hobart nipped at my cheeks as I pulled into the driveway of Jamie and Luke's Berriedale house. A sharp, bracing cold that slipped beneath the collar of my coat and pricked at the skin like a thousand tiny pins. It was a typical July morning in 2018, the heart of winter, with the sky a pale, washed-out grey—the sort of colour that made you wonder if the sun had simply given up. The low cloud hung heavy, muting the street into quiet submission. Their house, nestled among others in this quiet neighbourhood, had a comforting familiarity to it. A low, brick-fronted structure with a squat chimney and a slight lean to one side, like it, too, was bracing against the cold.

I parked the car, the dashboard still humming with the last vestiges of warm air from the heater. It had been my little sanctuary for the short drive—well, sanctuary might be too strong, but at least it didn’t demand conversation. The windows were fogged at the corners, the radio faintly muttering the tail end of a traffic report no one was listening to.

Beside me, on the front seat, lay the bottle of shiraz I had brought. "Don't you go anywhere," I told the bottle, my breath forming a small cloud in the cold air as I spoke. The words were half in jest, half in earnest. "I may still need to come back for you yet." There was a strange sort of comfort in saying it aloud. A little pact between me and the wine: I bring you in if it all goes well, I retreat to you if it doesn’t.

Reaching behind me, I grabbed the large plastic container from the backseat, its emptiness a stark reminder of the cheesecake it once held. A noble end, really—if you’re going to go, go as something unforgettable. My fingers felt slightly numb as I clutched the container, the cold seeping in despite my gloves, the stiff plastic biting through the thin fleece like it knew exactly where to aim.

I stepped out of the car, the crisp winter air greeting me fully now, no longer filtered through the crack of a window or the fading heat of the vents. My breath puffed visibly, trailing behind me as I shut the car door with my hip. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and chimney smoke—familiar notes in the symphony of a Tasmanian winter morning.

My boots crunched softly on the frost-covered driveway, each step leaving a delicate imprint on the brittle surface. The sound was oddly satisfying, like breaking the top of a crème brûlée, if crème brûlée were paved and liable to crack your hip if you weren’t careful.

I made my way to the front door, adjusting the container under one arm, wine safely left behind but not forgotten. Raising my hand, I gave three solid knocks on the door, each one resonating against the wood and cutting through the morning silence. There was a brief pause—the kind that always seems longer when you're waiting on a doorstep—where the cold had just enough time to creep into the bones of my knees before the door opened.

As Luke opened the door, a wave of warmth from inside the house enveloped me, a stark contrast to the cold air outside. It wrapped around me like a thick woollen scarf, heavy with the scent of coffee, toasted bread, and the faint floral tang of whatever diffuser Jamie insisted wasn’t overpowering (though it always was). My bones sighed in relief. I couldn't help but smile as I caught sight of Duke, their adorable white and brown Shih Tzu, his eyes sparkling with the kind of joy only a pet can radiate—pure, uncomplicated, and immediate.

"Duke!" I exclaimed, my voice bubbling with genuine cheerfulness, “Hello!" The greeting came instinctively, with the kind of warmth usually reserved for old friends. And in a way, he was one. These little furry companions had a way of worming themselves into your heart, no matter how many times you told yourself you weren’t that kind of person.

Luke stepped aside to let me enter. His movements were smooth and welcoming, an unspoken invitation into the cosy sanctuary of their home. I stepped in, grateful for the transition from biting air to domestic haven. My boots clicked softly against the hardwood floor, the soles still dusted with frost. I paused to wipe them, conscious of Jamie’s unspoken code about clean floors and muddy footprints.

As Luke closed the door behind me, Duke's excitement seemed to reach new heights. His little body quivered with it, as if he might actually combust from delight. Luke gently put him down, and with an energy only a small dog could muster—some chaotic blend of determination and fluff—Duke dashed over to his toy box. His brown-and-white coat flowed behind him like a miniature cape, a delightful sight that brought a smile to my face.

He rummaged for a moment—snout buried deep, tiny hind legs braced—before triumphantly retrieving his prized toy, Horsey, which was almost comically as long as he was. Its faded yellow felt had seen better days, and one of its stitched eyes was dangling by a thread. Duke ran back to us, his tight tail wagging proudly with every step, as if presenting a freshly hunted trophy. If Horsey had ever had dignity, it was long gone.

"Henri!" I called out, my attention turning to Duke's brother. Bending down, I reached out to pat Henri on the head. His tail-wagging was far less coordinated but no less endearing. Henri’s tail was foxlike and beautiful, a striking feature that drew the eye—a great feathery thing that should’ve belonged to a woodland creature in a children’s book. As he wagged it, the tail swished from side to side in a grand, sweeping motion. The entire back half of his body seemed to get involved, making the gesture somewhat hilarious.

I watched, amused, as Henri’s enthusiastic tail-wagging caused his whole back end to wiggle, the motion making him rock slightly from paw to paw. It was like watching a puppet whose strings had all been loosened at once. I remembered times when his excitement had been so great that his back legs had simply given out from under him—a kind of joyful collapse, as though his love of life exceeded his structural integrity. It was these little moments, so full of character and warmth, that made visits to Jamie and Luke’s house such a delight. There was something about dogs—especially these two—that softened the edges of the day.

"I'm just returning Jamie's cheesecake container," I said, my voice a mixture of casualness and a slight undercurrent of guilt, finally directing my full attention towards Luke. As I reached out to place the large, square container on the kitchen bench, a faint sense of embarrassment crept in. The container felt almost symbolic—a plastic relic of my indulgence, my affection, and my habitual procrastination. A physical reminder of my long-standing friendship with Jamie… and my somewhat lesser connection with Luke.

"Oh, thanks. I forgot about that," Luke replied, his voice easy and unconcerned as he moved the container over to the sink. His casual demeanour only heightened my blush. I felt momentarily childish, caught out returning something months overdue like a library book with dog ears and jam on the cover.

"Well, it has been several months since my birthday,” I admitted, trying to brush off the awkwardness with a light tone. The fact that Jamie had been my closest friend for decades only added to my sheepishness about holding onto the container for so long. Some people returned things promptly. I… formed emotional attachments.

In an effort to deflect from my tardiness, I glanced down the hallway, eyes lingering on the closed door at the end. The house was unusually still. "Where's Jamie?" I asked, my voice laced with genuine concern. Jamie wasn't just a friend; he was a significant part of my life, a companion through thick and thin over the years. He’d held my hair back once in a dim toilet cubicle in Salamanca after one too many cabernets. He’d made me tea with lemon and honey the day after Beatrix and I had our worst row. That kind of friend. Steady as the tide, and just as inevitable.

"He's in bed. He's not feeling well," Luke informed me, his tone carrying a hint of concern that immediately resonated with me. Something in the way he said it—flat, factual—didn’t quite sit right.

"Oh no! What's wrong with him?" My concern deepened, the lightness in my tone replaced by genuine worry. The thought of Jamie sick—Jamie, who could practically bounce off walls on a normal day—felt wrong, like seeing a lightbulb flicker in a room that had always glowed steadily.

"Not sure. I think it's just a tummy bug." Luke sounded unsure, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of anxiety for Jamie. Just a tummy bug, he said. But the words didn’t land softly. They hovered, awkward and flimsy, as if trying too hard to do the job.

"I'll just pop my head in and say hello," I suggested, already stepping towards the threshold of the lounge room door, my movements driven by an instinctive desire to offer comfort. It wasn’t nosiness, not really—just that kind of reflex you develop after years of showing up for someone.

“No!" The word burst from Luke with unexpected force, halting me in my tracks. It wasn’t angry—but sharp, immediate, like a hand across the chest in a crowd. His sudden enthusiasm for the word seized my attention completely. My body froze, not because I was frightened, but because something unseen had just shifted. The temperature in the room, the balance of familiarity—something.

Then, softening his tone, he continued, "I think he's asleep. He didn't sleep very well last night."

"Fair enough," I responded, albeit reluctantly, making my way back to the lounge. But something about the exchange clung to me like static. As I walked, a cold shiver of doubt ran down my spine. Luke's reaction was unusually sharp, almost protective. Too protective. The kind of protectiveness that makes you wonder what, exactly, is being protected.

Did Luke just lie? The question echoed in my mind, unsettling me. It nestled in the corners of my thoughts like a draught under a closed door. My relationship with Luke had always been cordial, but it was fundamentally an extension of my deep bond with Jamie. He was polite, thoughtful in the way someone is when they care for your friend, but we weren’t close. This unexpected behaviour from Luke left me feeling uneasy, a sensation I wasn't accustomed to in the warm, familiar environment of Jamie's home.

The uneasiness in my stomach, stirred by the odd exchange, made me think twice about settling down on the couch. Its usually inviting comfort—plump cushions, a familiar throw with one corner chewed by Duke—now seemed less appealing, overshadowed by my swirling thoughts and concerns. I didn’t want to sit. Sitting felt too still, too settled, when my mind wasn’t.

Instead, I found myself changing direction, walking over to the large island bench that marked the boundary between the spacious, newly renovated kitchen and the open living room. The space, a blend of modernity and warmth, reflected Jamie's impeccable taste and Luke's practical touch. Timber and matte black fixtures met soft greys and deep green accents—tasteful, clean, lived-in. The kind of kitchen that made you want to bake something complicated just to justify its loveliness.

I ran my fingertips along the cool stone surface of the bench, grounding myself with the simple texture. Still, in the quiet hum of the house, Luke's sharp "no" echoed louder than any sound.

Luke leaned forward from the other side of the bench, his actions deliberate. The air between us felt suddenly weighted, as if the morning had shifted gears. He pushed a small piece of paper towards me, its edges slightly curled, hinting at its frequent handling. I felt a surge of curiosity as my hand instinctively reached out for it, my fingers brushing against the paper’s worn surface. It was warm from his hands, slightly creased—a note that had already lived in a pocket too long.

"Jamie was planning to start a new little house project. He's made a list of things he needs. Don’t suppose you could do us a massive favour and grab a few things?" Luke's request came with a casualness that seemed at odds with his earlier urgency. "You know how I hate driving, and he is so excited to get the project started.” His voice wore the lightness of a favour-being-asked, but there was a press to it—a low hum beneath the words, a little too smooth, too prepared.

I studied the rather lengthy list Luke had handed to me, my eyes scanning each item with a mixture of intrigue and slight bewilderment. "Concrete mix, cement mixer, posthole digger, mattock," I read aloud, enunciating each item as if saying them aloud would make them less absurd. These were not casual Bunnings bits for hanging a photo frame. The list read like the beginning of a backyard apocalypse—or, more likely, a Jamie-sized vision about to be enacted with far too much enthusiasm and far too little planning.

As I pondered over the items, Luke slid a small plastic card towards me across the smooth surface of the island bench. "You can use that," he said, his voice casual but with an underlying note of something I couldn't quite place.

I blinked at the card. "What's this?" I asked, my curiosity piqued even more than before. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. It was a credit card, smooth and cold. The name Paul Smith embossed on the front caught my eye like a splash of colour in a monochrome room. "Paul Smith," I read aloud, my voice trailing off as I looked up at Luke with a questioning gaze.

Why does Luke have his brother’s credit card? The question rang out in my mind, clear and immediate, bringing with it a ripple of unease. I didn’t recall Luke mentioning that Paul was coming for a visit. It had been several years since I'd first met Paul, but the memory was vivid—he’d flown down from Broken Hill for Christmas, a dry-humoured man with a warm smile and a fondness for the cheese platter.

Paul and I had clicked almost instantly. There was something easy about him, unpretentious. Within twenty-four hours we’d shared stories, laughs, and—embarrassingly—followed each other on Facebook. We'd chatted occasionally since, friendly but never overly familiar. It was one of those odd digital friendships that felt both distant and oddly enduring.

Holding his credit card now, a card clearly meant for personal expenses, felt odd—almost intrusive. A tangible link to someone I hadn’t thought about in months, now thrust unexpectedly into my morning like a character from a previous chapter stepping back onto the page.

"Paul's come down to visit. Jamie asked him to. Apparently, he thinks Paul can help him with his project," Luke explained, his voice carrying a tone of casual normalcy that didn't quite mask an underlying tension.

"Jamie asked him?" I enquired, my voice tinged with suspicion. It was common knowledge among our circle that Jamie still harboured a small grudge against Paul—a minor fallout from something that had happened years ago, the kind that lingered more in tone than words. The idea of Jamie inviting him down, especially to help with a project, struck me as odd. Not impossible—but out of character, like seeing a cat play fetch.

Despite my rising suspicions, I decided to shrug them off for the moment. "Are you sure he won't mind?" I asked, referring to Paul's apparent generosity. It was one thing to help a friend—it was another to hand over your wallet to someone you hadn’t seen in half a decade.

"Not at all, and you might need this too," Luke replied. He hastily scribbled Paul's credit card PIN onto the corner of a piece of paper, tore it off, and handed it to me. His movements were quick, too quick. The act, so casual and yet so significant, heightened my sense of unease. People didn’t just hand over PINs like that. Not unless there was a reason they wanted it off their hands.

I hesitated, the piece of paper with the PIN feeling heavier than it should have. It pressed against my fingers like a secret I hadn’t agreed to keep. "Okay," I said slowly, my mind still grappling with the oddity of the situation. "Yeah... I guess I can help.” Agreeing felt like stepping into uncharted waters—there was no map for this kind of favour—but my desire to assist, coupled with a natural curiosity, nudged me forward. I didn’t like loose ends, and this whole conversation was starting to unravel at the edges.

"Awesome, thanks so much. If you get stuck with anything, just give me a call and I’ll explain it to the cashier," Luke promised, his words laced with a gratitude that seemed to border on relief.

"Sure, will do," I replied, carefully tucking the card and the piece of paper with the PIN into my purse. The leather creaked faintly as I did so, like it knew this wasn’t entirely above board. A part of me felt a certain thrill at the prospect of shopping with someone else's money—an odd little adventure in the midst of an otherwise ordinary day. It was certainly an unusual situation, but the mystery of it, the role I found myself playing, sparked a quiet, cautious intrigue.

My eyes wandered back to the list, reading through it once again, the items printed in Jamie’s neat, looping script: hoe, fork, large charcoal garden shed. It read more like a riddle than a shopping list. "It's an interesting list. So, what on earth has Jamie got planned this time?" I asked, my tone laced with curiosity and a touch of amusement. Jamie’s projects were always a source of mystery and, often, entertainment. There was rarely a dull moment when he set his sights on something—though the outcomes were occasionally more ambitious in theory than in practice. The man had once tried to install a pizza oven and ended up with a small sinkhole in the lawn.

"I know, isn't it just?" Luke replied, his voice carrying a light chuckle that seemed to dance in the air, easing the tension of earlier. "I'm not totally sure what mischief he's up to. He wouldn't tell me. I'm secretly hoping it involves a few chickens.” His words were playful, with just the right amount of theatrical mischief, yet I detected a genuine curiosity behind them. It struck me that Luke, for all his practical demeanour, enjoyed the theatre of Jamie's schemes as much as I did—though perhaps he was more often cast in the role of clean-up crew.

I couldn't help but laugh in response. The sound came freely, warming the back of my throat. Luke’s comment stirred up a memory—years back now, but still vivid. I had been sworn to secrecy over Jamie’s plan to build a surprise hen house for Luke’s birthday. I’d nodded solemnly, promised my silence, and then let it slip two weeks later in a drunken slip of the tongue that involved far too much rosé and an ill-advised charades clue involving feathers. The whole thing had unravelled, and the surprise had died on the vine. Yet we’d laughed, all three of us, and for a brief moment, it had felt like we were characters in one of those charming domestic sitcoms where everything goes a bit wrong but no one minds.

It’s still a possibility now, I mused, the thought drawing a private smile to my lips. Perhaps Jamie was circling back to an old idea, letting it hatch properly this time. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

"So, you’ll get the stuff?" Luke's question hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the task at hand. His tone was hopeful, yet there was a trace of something else—perhaps an unspoken awareness of how strange it all sounded. "I promise that I’ll get Jamie to tell you what he’s up to when you return," he added, a slight twinkle in his eye. He had a politician’s grin—charming, mildly evasive, and just plausible enough to disarm you.

I eyed Luke cautiously, my mind still turning over the peculiarities of this whole situation: Jamie sick in bed but plotting concrete foundations; Luke with his brother’s credit card and PIN; the garden shed, chickens, and who-knows-what else bundled together in a neat list. Something about it didn’t sit quite right, but it also wasn’t enough to object to. Not yet.

"Sure, I'll get it all for him," I responded, my voice steady but laced with a hint of scepticism. If nothing else, I could always prod Jamie for the truth later—he’d never been particularly good at keeping secrets from me, even when he tried. My loyalty to him, my dear friend of many years, overrode the instinct to question further. For now.

Having completed the task of returning the cheesecake container—though somehow leaving with far more responsibility than I arrived with—I headed towards the door. My steps were measured, each one echoing softly in the calm quiet of the house. There was something eerie about the stillness now. Too clean, too composed.

As I passed by Duke and Henri, I gave them a small wave, their innocent, furry faces lifting from their respective lounging positions. Their eyes followed me with mild interest, as if sensing I was off to do something important, but not quite understanding the intricacies of credit cards and cement mixers.

"Bye, boys," I murmured to them, their tails wagging in response, blissfully unaware of the complexities of human interactions and the peculiar errand I was about to embark on.

Stepping out of the house, the crisp winter air greeted me, a sharp contrast to the warmth—and mild confusion—I was leaving behind. I pulled my coat tighter around me and glanced up at the pale, grey sky, a faint breath escaping my lips. The morning was unfolding in strange ways. And though I didn’t know what Jamie was really up to, I had the oddest feeling I was about to find out more than I bargained for.

As I slid back into the driver’s seat of my car, I tossed my handbag onto the floor of the passenger side—a bit more forcefully than intended. The soft thud it made was sharper than expected, and I winced, not just from the sound but from the tension still coiled in my shoulders.

My mind was swirling with an uneasy feeling, a lingering sense of disquiet I just couldn’t shake off. It clung to me like the last traces of a bad dream—something seen but not remembered, only felt. The taste it left behind was unpleasant, like the metallic bitterness of old paracetamol dissolving too slowly on the tongue.

I sat still for a moment, fingers curled around the steering wheel, mulling over all the possible scenarios. Each one bloomed into a shape that, while not catastrophic, was certainly not comforting. Luke’s explanations hadn’t settled anything—they’d simply quieted the noise for a moment, like closing a door on a room you didn’t want to clean.

He had entrusted me with Paul’s credit card.

But the question that kept looping through my mind like a song stuck on repeat was: Where was Paul? And why hadn’t he gone shopping himself? It was a reasonable question, and yet I hadn’t asked it. I'd let it slip past like a fish through a broken net.

I chided myself for the oversight. It felt foolish now—obvious. A missed opportunity to bring some clarity to this odd little morning. Should I go back and ask? The thought hovered, tempting me with its simplicity.

Yet something held me back.

Perhaps it was politeness. Or fear of appearing nosy. Or maybe—deep down—I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know the answer.

Reaching for my handbag to tuck away Jamie’s shopping list, I paused mid-motion. The bottle of shiraz, still resting peacefully on the passenger seat, caught my eye. Its dark glass glinted slightly in the weak winter light, a quiet little presence in the unfolding mystery.

A soft sigh escaped me.

Relief. Something solid, something expected. A small anchor of normalcy in a sea that had suddenly grown unfamiliar.

"Oh, good. You're still here," I remarked to the bottle, my voice light, the humour half-hearted but welcome. It didn’t laugh back, of course, but it didn’t need to. Sometimes, saying something aloud was enough to release a little pressure from the valve.

Gently, I let Jamie’s list fall into the open mouth of my handbag. The paper rustled softly as it nestled among receipts, lip balm, and all the other flotsam of daily life.

I turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life with its usual mechanical rhythm, a sound I’d heard so many times it might as well have been part of my pulse. It was comforting—predictable.

And yet, something still tugged at the back of my mind. A thread I couldn’t ignore.

I reached into my bag again, this time pulling out my phone. My fingers moved almost instinctively, thumbs tapping with the ease of habit. No overthinking. No drafts. Just a simple message born from instinct and affection.

Sorry to hear you don't feel well. Call me when you wake up. G.

I stared at it for a moment before hitting send.

A quiet offering. A lifeline, if needed.