The Secrets She Keeps, page 14
When I turned eighteen I asked the adoption agency about my daughter. That’s when I discovered my mother’s ultimate act of betrayal. She had tricked me into signing a document saying that I would seek no future contact with my child. With one flick of the pen, in my childish handwriting, I had condemned myself to a lifetime of wondering. Wondering if I did the right thing. Wondering if she’s happy. Wondering if she ever thinks of me.
Every mother who gives up a baby has these questions, but for me they echo loudest because I have no other children to ease the pain. My daughter will be twenty-three now. She could be at university. She could live a few streets away. She could be strolling down King’s Road in Chelsea, hips swinging and handbag swaying, checking her reflection in the shop windows.
I have no legal right to search for her, but now that she’s over eighteen my daughter can look for me. That is my hope, my dream, my prayer to the God who turned his back on me. I hope that one day I will open the door and she will be standing on the step. I will tell her that I didn’t abandon her and that I have loved and cherished her for twenty-two years. My daughter . . . my first child . . . the one who survived . . .
MEGHAN
* * *
Simon has left me a dozen text messages, all of them the same. He wants to see me. I’ve turned off my mobile and chosen to ignore him. In the meantime, I try to cheer myself up with some retail therapy.
John Lewis has a babywear and nursery department on the third floor, as well as a maternity section and gift service. My “fashion adviser,” Caitlin, is annoyingly perky and clearly has never had a muffin, let alone a baby. I let her show me outfits and sell me spa treatments. One particular dress catches my eye. It’s black and elegant and I have nothing in my wardrobe even half as beautiful.
“Sadly, we don’t have it in your size,” says Caitlin.
I don’t like her tone. I don’t like her skinny waist and her flat stomach and her high cheekbones. I take the black dress and head for the changing rooms, where I strip down to my bra and maternity knickers. Unzipping the black dress, I lift it over my head. The layers of silk begin to slide over my shoulders and then they don’t. I tug, squirm and pull, slowly working the dress down over my breasts and my bump.
I look at myself in the mirror. It’s horrible! The once sleek dress balloons out from under my bust like an empire-waist ball gown. Pop a bonnet on my head and I could audition for Pride and Prejudice—The Mourning Years.
Seizing the hem, I pull it over my head, forgetting to unzip the side. Halfway up, my arms lock. I’m stuck. I can’t get my arms back down and I can’t get the dress over my head.
I glimpse myself through the sweetheart neckline and see a strange, misshapen black-and-white creature whose stomach bulges over the top of grandma knickers. I don’t look pregnant. I look like I ate all the pies.
“Is everything all right?” asks Caitlin, speaking from the other side of the door.
“I’m having a small problem with the dress.”
“I’ll get the manager.”
“No, that’s OK.”
I heave at the dress, huffing and puffing. The manager has arrived, talking through the door. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Nothing.”
I curse some more. The lock rattles. The door swings open. I cannot lower my arms to cover my bits.
The manager and Caitlin and three shoppers are witness to my retailing horror, seeing my purple veins, stretch marks, and dimples of cellulite.
“You’re stuck,” says Caitlin, stating the obvious. “I told you it wasn’t your size.”
Bitch!
“It fit me just fine. I forgot to unzip it, that’s all.”
The manager and Caitlin have to pull the dress off me, almost costing me an ear.
“Would you like to try something else on?” asks the manager.
“No. Thank you. This one is fine.”
I get dressed, my face on fire and static electricity having made my hair fly around my head. I pay for the dress and walk out of John Lewis, picturing the staff laughing at me. I can never go back. I blame Simon. If I weren’t so worried, I would never have tried on that dress.
Arriving home, I discover more messages on the answering machine. What if Jack had picked them up first? I have to stop this. The phone rings again. I don’t recognize the number.
“If you hang up on me, I’ll come to the house,” says Simon.
My finger is paused over the button to disconnect. “Please leave me alone.”
“We have to sort this out.”
“No! Stop texting me. Stop calling. I don’t want to see you again.”
“You have no choice.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“Fine. Call them.”
I want to kill the arrogant fuck, but there’s nothing I can do. I can’t involve the police or take out a restraining order without Jack finding out. Simon knows I’ll do anything to protect my marriage and family.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he says quietly. “Meet me. Let me explain.”
* * *
At high tide on the Thames path at Kew the water has breached the banks in places, trickling across the towpath, turning into puddles and muddy pools. I wait on a bench, watching a rowing eight skate across the river, creating ripples that angle like a feathered arrow.
“Sorry I’m late,” says Simon.
“We’re both early,” I reply, standing to meet him, not hiding my anger.
He’s come straight from the office, wearing a rumpled suit and loosened tie, the picture of studied nonchalance. Sunglasses are propped on his head. He leans close, as though expecting an embrace, but I step back and away.
“What is it, Simon? I have to get home.”
We begin walking along the path beneath the trees where the last of the leaves have turned, yet cling stubbornly to the branches.
Simon clears his throat. “When the baby is born, I want a paternity test done.”
The gasp of breath is mine, but sounds like it comes from behind me. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I stop walking and step to the side of the path. A jogger passes, nodding hello. My fingernails are cutting into my balled fists.
“You have to stop this. Jack is your best friend. He’s my husband. What happened between us was wrong. We admitted that. We promised never to speak of it again.”
“That was before.”
“Before?”
“I want to be a father.”
“This baby has a father.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Explain it to me.”
He takes in a deep breath, as though the story is like a balloon that needs inflating.
“I don’t have a father. I have only vague memories. He’s a man in a photograph, standing next to a VW Beetle in the driveway of a house. He’s someone banging on the door, begging my mother to let him come inside, his voice getting louder. Angrier. My brother and I were cringing in the darkness. My mother threatened to call the police.
“A few years later my brother saw a man standing opposite our school. He followed my brother home but never crossed the road. My mother called the police, but the man had gone when they arrived.
“For years I told myself that I didn’t care about not having a dad. Loads of kids come from broken homes. Some are better off than if their fathers had stuck around. When I turned fourteen I began asking questions. My mother wouldn’t answer them. I went searching among her things and found the photograph—the one of him standing next to the VW. I asked her if it was him, but she snatched the picture away and accused me of stealing. I never saw it again.”
I don’t know why Simon is telling me this. I want him to get to the point because my feet ache and I need to pee.
“A year after I finished school, I visited my grandmother in Scotland, whose mind had started to scatter. She told me my father was a master of get-rich-quick schemes that always seemed to fail, leading to bankruptcy and bailiffs knocking on his door. Even as she told me the story, I remembered my mother in tears, watching our furniture being carried out of the house and loaded into a truck.
“After I graduated I was living with my mother. A water main burst and flooded her basement, where she kept old letters and postcards. Most were water-damaged. I began throwing things away. In one of the boxes I came across dozens of unopened letters. They were addressed to my brother and me. There were birthday and Christmas cards dating back to when we were children . . . all sent by our father. He didn’t abandon us. He had tried to stay in touch.”
“If he’d really wanted—”
“Please let me finish,” says Simon, grimacing and apologizing for his tone. “I started searching for my father. I tried the usual channels—phone books and electoral rolls. I hired a private investigator. It took six months and most of my savings. An email arrived with two attachments: a death certificate and the findings of a coroner’s inquest. My father had died of a drug overdose in Morocco. He was forty-seven.”
Simon looks at me, pain etched into his forehead, and I feel a flutter of sympathy.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “The guy was a loser and we were better off without him. But I have mourned the absence of that man for my entire life. It probably seems ridiculous to miss someone I barely met, but I’ve always wondered if his absence was the cause of my problems with women. Is that why I can’t commit to a relationship? I also wonder if it’s easier for children who lose a father they have grown to love. They can mourn an absence or try to fill the space that was once taken. I have no space to fill, but I still feel empty. Maybe the separation wasn’t worse on him than me. Did he worry about me? Did he mourn for me? Is that why he turned to drugs?”
“That’s a big leap,” I say.
“Maybe”—he shrugs—“but I don’t want to be like him, Meg. I don’t want to waste any part of my life, and that includes being a father.”
He delivers this last statement as though pleading with me. I fight the urge to prick his grandiosity. I have seen Simon snort more coke than Charlie Sheen and change women more often than his designer ties. I hold my tongue and stay calm.
“There is a difference here, Simon,” I say, speaking softly. “You grew up without a father. My children have one.”
“But is Jack the right father?”
“He is the only father.”
“I want to be in my son’s life.”
“He is not your son. He has nothing to do with you.”
“I have a right to know if he’s mine.”
“You have no rights.”
“I talked to a lawyer. He said I could have a case. He said a judge might order a paternity test.”
I raise my eyes skywards. “Christ, Simon, have you any idea . . . this will destroy my family.”
He goes quiet. Inhales. Whispers. “Please understand, I don’t want to upset you, but I’ve thought about this. I’ve thought about you . . .”
“What does that mean?”
Simon’s face seems to be shapeshifting in the dappled light. “Do you ever think about our time together—back before you met Jack?”
“No.”
The answer seems to sting him.
“I was devastated when you left me.”
“You were stoned most of the time.”
“I was in love with you.”
“Rubbish!”
“I told you so.”
“You told every girl you loved her—it was part of your foreplay.”
“You’re wrong.” He touches my arm and makes me turn to face him. “I have said those words to two women in my life. One of them was my mother. The other is you.”
I study his face, looking for some sign that he’s lying.
“Are you saying . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“You’re still . . . ?”
“In love with you.”
He seems to hold his breath, waiting for me to answer. I can’t. He fills the silence—giving me a history lesson, recounting our first date and our first weekend away and our trip to Paris for Easter. He remembers everything, right down to what I was wearing when he first saw me.
“I’ve tried to forget you. I went to live in America and then Hong Kong. I dated loads of other women, hoping that one of them would make me forget you. I can’t tell you how it felt when I came back to London for Jack’s wedding and discovered that he was marrying you. I was happy for him. I carried on. I pretended it didn’t matter. I told myself that I’d meet someone, fall in love, and forget that I ever felt this way.” He hesitates. “That night when you fought with Jack and came to see me . . . I hate myself for saying this, but a small part of me hoped, wanted, wished I could tell you how I felt. I know what we did was wrong, but I can’t deny my feelings anymore. And if that night led to this . . .” He points to my pregnancy. “If you’re carrying our child, I want to play a part. I love you, Megs. Always have. Always will.”
His arms close around me, but I do not soften. My body grows hard like a mannequin and I push him away. My mind is racing. All these years . . . the dinners . . . the barbecues . . . the tennis and golf games . . . the Christmases and christenings. Did I give Simon false hope? Am I a terrible person?
“I have to go,” I mumble, looking around me, suddenly lost. How could I have missed this? I’ve known Simon for years. I know he’s prone to wheedling self-pity and sodden promises, but not love. Does he expect me to choose between him and Jack?
“I’m sorry, Megs,” Simon says. “I wish I could do this without hurting anyone, but I can’t live with the thought that a child came into the world not knowing his true father.”
“It happens all the time.”
“And it’s wrong.”
“Is this about me or the baby?”
“Both of you.”
The glibness of his answer triggers something inside me. I spin around and slap him hard across the face. It stings my hand. I have never hit anyone before.
“You truly are a selfish prick.”
“I love you.”
“No! Don’t you dare say that! If you loved me, you would never have told me. If you loved me, you would have sent me away that night instead of getting me drunk.”
Simon starts to protest. I interrupt him.
“If you go through with this—if you insist on a paternity test—I will make sure that you never see this child. You will never hold him in your arms. You will never again enter our house. You will be dead to me.”
AGATHA
* * *
This is my last day at the supermarket. I asked Mr. Patel if he could write me a reference but he said he didn’t know me well enough.
What an arsehole!
Consequently, I don’t feel guilty about stealing a Snickers bar and a can of Coca-Cola when I sneak outside on my break. Abigail joins me, lighting up a cigarette and waving the smoke away from me. We’ve perched our buttocks on a low brick wall behind the bins beneath an ivy-covered trellis.
“I won’t be staying long,” she says. “I’ve applied for a job at the new Apple store in Regent Street. They give you free T-shirts.”
“What about discounts?”
“Yeah. I need a new iPhone.”
She shows me her broken screen.
I like Abigail because she’s unapologetically loud and is far more adventurous than I am. She once hitchhiked across Europe and spent a month traveling in Turkey by herself. On top of that she rides a motorbike and has no interest in getting married, but that could be because her boyfriend has a wife and two kids.
Mr. Patel whistles out the back door. We’ve had our fifteen minutes. He wants me to mop the floor in the produce section, which is always the dirtiest spot. I fill a bucket with hot water and wheel it out of the storeroom.
“Excuse me,” says a male voice.
I step to one side and mumble an apology. It’s not until he’s gone past me that I realize who it is. Jack is scanning the shelves in the pharmacy section. He doesn’t have a basket or cart. It’s a quick purchase, something forgotten perhaps. He picks up condoms and reads the packet, trying to decide which brand or size to buy. Having made a decision, he goes to the checkout. Abigail has a little smirk on her lips as she rings up the sale.
Something about the scene makes me uncomfortable. Why would Jack be buying condoms? I set down the mop and walk to the front window. A car is double-parked out front—a black BMW convertible with a woman driver. I recognize her. It’s the estate agent who showed me around the house in Cleveland Gardens that Jack and Meg eventually bought. I watch as Jack gets into the passenger seat.
“What’s wrong?” asks Abigail.
“Nothing.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
I return to mopping the floor, sloshing water angrily. It’s obvious what’s happening. Jack is cheating on Meg. He’s sleeping with that stiletto-wearing, Botox-frozen, painted whore of an estate agent. How dare she break up my perfect family? What if Jack leaves Meg? What if she kicks him out?
At three o’clock I collect my last pay slip and say good-bye to Abigail and the other girls. Having changed into my winter coat, I walk along the back lane, heading into Barnes village. Pausing outside the estate agent’s window, I look at the glossy photographs of flats and houses for sale. Below the specs for each property there is contact information and a photograph of the agent. Rhea Bowden—that’s her name. I remember her fawning over me when I looked at the house and asking if my husband wanted a private viewing.
There is a pay phone at the pub. I call the estate agency. A receptionist answers, young and plummy.
“Can I speak to Rhea Bowden?” I ask.
“She’s not in the office this afternoon. Can I take a message?”
“I’m calling from Homebase. One of our drivers is trying to deliver bathroom tiles but can’t find her house. We must have the wrong address.”
“Bathroom tiles?”
“I tried her mobile number. No answer. I think she has a tiler waiting for them.”
