The Secrets She Keeps, page 15
I hear her tapping at her keyboard. “It’s 34 Milgarth Avenue, Barnes.”
“Right road, wrong number,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”
The address is less than half a mile away. Detouring slightly, I stop at the Barnes Fish Shop and buy two pounds of cooked prawns. The fishmonger is full of banter about fish being good for pregnant ladies.
“You know why fish are so smart?” he chirps.
“They swim in schools,” I reply.
“You’ve heard that one.”
“Noah heard that one.”
Rhea Bowden lives in a pretty detached cottage on a street with lots of trees and builder’s skips. There are two types of cars in places like this—the stockbroker brands like Mercedes, BMWs, or Audis, and the cool cars like Mini Coopers, Aston Martins, or original Beetles. Jack’s car is parked across the road behind the BMW convertible.
Slipping through the main gate, I take the narrow side path past a rusting bicycle chained to a post. As I pass each window, I crouch to avoid casting a shadow on the curtains.
At the rear of the house, I hear music and voices. Stepping in a flower bed, I stand on tiptoes and peer through a window, seeing the corner of a bed and a discarded pair of trousers on the floor . . . a shoe . . . a shirt . . . a blouse.
Holding the window ledge, I scrabble upwards, lifting my chin higher. This time I see Rhea Bowden dressed in black lingerie. She’s straddling Jack, bracing her hands on his chest and rapidly jerking her hips. Her belly is jiggling and Jack reaches up and massages her breasts beneath the camisole. She’s talking dirty to him, grinding her hips and moaning like a porn star.
A part of me is disgusted and another part wants to keep watching. I contemplate interrupting them. I could ring Rhea’s doorbell or set off her car alarm. No, that’s too childish.
Retreating along the path, I walk to Jack’s car and tear a page from a notepad in my handbag. I picture Jack inside having a postcoital cigarette while Rhea douches in the bidet. She’s the sort of woman who will have a bidet because it makes her feel more European and sophisticated.
Dear Jack,
I know you’re having an affair. I know where and when. I have photographs of you and Rhea Bowden together. I also know your wife is pregnant. End the affair now or I’m going to tell Meg. You don’t deserve her. Arsehole!
Yours honestly,
A friend
Folding the page in half, I tuck it beneath the wiper blades of Jack’s car.
Checking the street again, I wander along to Rhea’s BMW and crouch by the passenger-side tire. Unwrapping the prawns, I begin cramming them into the hubcap, moving from wheel to wheel and then the air vents and grille. Some of the heads break off, but I shove them through the gaps.
It will take a few days for the prawns to rot. At first Rhea will wonder where the stench is coming from and blame the neighbors, but slowly she’ll narrow it down because the smell will keep following her around.
Satisfied with my work, I wash my hands under a nearby tap. Hopefully I’ve done enough to teach Jack a lesson. If not, I’ll send the next letter to him at home. I need him to stay married to Meg and be faithful and raise Lucy and Lachlan. I might not be the most moral person, but I will not let them break up. Soon they’re going to need each other.
MEGHAN
* * *
What am I going to do about Simon? I am trapped by his demands, caught between my infidelity and his misguided declarations of love; a rock and a hard place, the frying pan and the fire. Memories of our night together keep popping into my head, creating waves of shame and emotions that swing between murderous rage and my complete surrender.
What if I were to tell Jack and beg for forgiveness?
“It was just sex,” I’d say. “It meant nothing.” How pathetically trite. “Just sex” is what every unfaithful spouse says, as though putting just in front of a word minimizes the betrayal.
Do I also tell Jack that Simon is in love with me and I once had a relationship with him? Surely it makes everything worse because I’ve kept it hidden. I should have told Jack from the very beginning, but it was the night before our wedding.
This is Simon’s fault. He professes to love me, but I don’t think he’s capable of loving anyone other than himself. He’s an opportunist and a dilettante. You can see it in the girlfriends he chooses, who are dull-witted and earnest and never his intellectual equal. Underneath his charm and lavish good looks is a man lacking in emotional conviction or depth. He has no idea what it takes to hold a family together or to maintain a relationship. And the only reason he wants a child is because it would make him more interesting.
Grace wants to take me for a girls’ day out because I quashed her plans for a baby shower. She has booked us into a day spa just off Sloane Square and insisted on driving.
“I hope they have a whale wash,” I say, but she ignores me and says self-pity is proof that I need pampering.
The spa is hidden discreetly behind a heavy wooden door. The décor has a Southern Asian feel, like some idyllic Malaysian oasis with teak carvings, marble floors, and sandalwood scents. Grace won’t let me look at the price list.
“This is my treat,” she says, sipping on her first glass of champagne. “Three hours from now we’re going to feel like new women.”
She’s not wrong. Soon I’m being pummeled, rubbed, stroked, stretched, and perfumed until I fall asleep and drool on my towel. A couple of the male masseurs keep vying to get their hands on Grace, who has that effect on men and boys, straight or gay.
We were so different growing up. Grace was rebellious and headstrong while I was timid and eager to please. Each time I won new freedoms because of my maturity, Grace would get hers taken away. “Give that girl an inch and she thinks she’s a ruler,” my father would say.
I studied English at Edinburgh—choosing a university as far away from home as I could find. I passed my exams, graduated with honors, all the while watching Grace talk her way into nightclubs at sixteen, get drunk, chain-smoke, wear miniskirts, and run away to Europe for two years, pretending to be a hippie. Eventually she came home and went to university, somehow passing her exams. I suspect she slept with some of her tutors, but that’s my jealousy showing.
For most of that time I thought we had nothing in common, but we’re closer now. She’s easy company—never trying too hard to impress or make me laugh.
“How about lunch?” she says as we’re leaving.
“Only if you let me pay.”
Her car is parked on a side street. We walk arm in arm, still drowsy from the spa.
“You’ve been quiet all morning. Is everything all right?” she asks. “Is it Jack?”
“No.”
“The kids?”
“They’re great.” I take a deep breath. My voice shudders. “I’m in trouble.”
“Bit late now.” She laughs, looking at my bump. Her smile vanishes because I’m not joining in.
“I can’t tell anyone. I can’t tell you.”
“Sure you can. We tell each other everything.”
“Not this.”
Tears are hovering. I wipe them away angrily.
Across the street, I notice a removal van with its back doors propped open. Two men are carrying a sofa from a house and hauling it up the ramp. I imagine that it’s my home and Jack is divorcing me.
“Come on, Megs, don’t cry, it can’t be that bad.”
“I fucked up. I did something truly stupid.” My voice trembles. “It only happened once. I was drunk. Angry.” I stop. Sigh. Steel myself.
Grace frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“I slept with Simon.”
Grace doesn’t react. She can barely speak.
“Jack and I had a fight. He said some hurtful things . . . he said . . . he said he wanted out of the marriage. I went to Simon’s house. I wanted to know if Jack had said anything to him. Did he still love me? Simon poured me a drink. We talked. I cried. He put his arm around me. It was really stupid.”
“You had an affair!”
“It was one time.”
“You? Miss Goody Two-Shoes.”
“Please don’t.”
“I mean, I know it happens all the time, but not to you.”
“I know, I know.”
“Didn’t you have a fling with him—before you met Jack?”
“Yes.”
She sucks air between her teeth, making a whistling sound. We’ve reached her car. She unlocks the doors and we sit in silence, staring out the windscreen.
I bite my bottom lip. “Say something.”
“I’m shocked.”
“Is that all?”
“I feel a little vindicated.”
“Why?”
“You were always Little Miss Perfect—the favorite daughter. You could do no wrong.”
“I wasn’t the favorite. Compared to you, I was sensible.”
“Until now.”
Why are we arguing about this?
Grace has both her hands on the wheel. I wonder how much she’s had to drink. There is an edge to her voice. “Get over it, sister.”
“What?”
“You’re feeling guilty. Get over it. Move on.”
“It’s not that. There’s more. Simon thinks the baby is his.”
This time her mouth opens and shuts without a sound emerging. She tries again. “Is it?”
“No. Definitely not.” I’m shaking my head adamantly, trying to appear confident.
“So why does he think it is?”
“He has this stupid idea . . . because . . . you see, I asked him about whether he used a condom, so he thought . . .”
“So it could be Simon’s baby?”
“He said he used a condom.”
“You don’t remember?”
I shake my head. Grace laughs.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a nervous laugh, OK? But why does any of this matter? If you both keep quiet, nobody will ever know.”
“Simon wants to know. He’s demanding I take a paternity test after the baby is born.”
“Tell him no.”
“I told him.”
Grace is finally fully engaged and cognizant of my problem. She is angry, which is good. She has a first-class mind and third-class morals, which is exactly what I need right now if I’m going to stop Simon.
“I’ll talk to him,” says Grace.
“It won’t do any good.”
“I can be very persuasive.”
“You’re not going to . . . ?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow and create twin creases that concertina on her forehead. “No, Meg, I’m not going to sleep with him. Contrary to your perception of me, that’s not my answer to everything.”
“Sorry.”
“We need something on him.”
“Like what?”
“Dirt.”
“That won’t work.”
“Didn’t he used to take a lot of drugs?”
“So did lots of people.”
“Did he deal in them?”
“Yes . . . a little.”
“Maybe we can blackmail the blackmailer to guarantee his silence. I’m sure his bosses won’t be impressed by employing a former drug dealer.”
Grace is on a roll, enjoying this a little too much.
“No! We’re not going to blackmail him. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
“Hey! This is war, big sister. We have to fight fire with fire—or in this case, dirt with dirt.” She squeezes my hand. “If this doesn’t work out—you might have to tell Jack.”
“I know.”
“What will he do?”
“I wish I knew.”
AGATHA
* * *
Jules went into hospital yesterday and had her baby in the early hours. I heard the news from Kevin, who came home this morning to shower and change.
“A little girl,” he said breathlessly when I met him on the stairs.
“How is Jules?”
“Brilliant. No dramas. It was textbook, according to the midwife. They’ll be home later today.”
“So soon?”
“Jules doesn’t want to stay in hospital. I’m off to pick up Leo from her mum’s so he can meet his baby sister.”
“If you need any help,” I said, but Kevin was already skipping down the stairs. I imagine Hayden being like that when he becomes a father. He’ll be bouncing around the place like an Irish setter puppy. He’ll be clumsy, of course. I’ll have to teach him how to hold a baby and change a nappy, but he’ll soon get the hang of things.
Later that afternoon I hear Jules arriving home. Kevin is carrying the baby in a car seat while Jules struggles with her overnight bag and two bunches of flowers—one of them from me.
“I got a new sister,” brags Leo as he climbs past me on the stairs.
Taking the flowers from Jules, I give her a hug and follow her up to their flat, where I make a cup of tea and put water in vases, arranging the bouquets on the table.
Kevin wants to go out with his mates and celebrate the old-fashioned way with beer and cigars. “To wet the baby’s head,” he says. “But if you want me to stay . . . ?”
“No, you go,” says Jules. “Say hello to the boys from me. And don’t get too pissed.”
“I won’t.” He peers into the crib. “A little girl.”
“Have you decided on a name?” I ask.
“We’re thinking of Violet,” says Jules.
“That’s pretty.”
Kevin grabs his coat and kisses her on the forehead, calling her a clever girl. I hear him jogging down the stairs, taking them two at a time and swinging across each landing.
“So how was it really?” I ask. “I want all the gory details.”
She smiles tiredly. “Easier than last time.”
“Great.”
“You’ll be fine.”
I listen as Jules describes her labor and the delivery. She has photographs on her phone. Some of them show Violet in the minutes after her birth, being cleaned and weighed by a midwife.
“Kevin was really good. You’ll be glad that Hayden is with you,” she says wearily. Her words are beginning to lose shape.
Leo has come to peer into the crib. He looks at me. “When is your baby coming out?”
“Soon.”
“Are you still bleeding?”
“No.” I laugh nervously and ruffle his hair.
“What do you mean, sweetie?” asks Jules. She’s looking at Leo.
“Nothing,” I say, my heart hammering. “I spilled something on my skirt. Leo thought it was blood.”
Leo wants to say something else. I interrupt him and tell him Mummy needs to rest.
“I’ll look after Leo. You have a nap.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I tuck Jules into bed and she’s asleep within moments. Leo has gone to the sitting room, where he’s watching TV. I sit next to him and make him look at me.
“I didn’t bleed.”
“But I saw.”
“I spilled something.”
He nods, more interested in the TV.
“Listen to me,” I say, squeezing his upper arm. “You shouldn’t tell lies.”
He tries to pull away.
He knows. He knows.
He’s a child.
What if he tells someone?
Nobody will believe him.
Stupid! Stupid!
Leaving Leo, I return to the bedroom, quietly opening the door, making sure that Jules is sleeping. Tiptoeing across the floor, I take a nightdress from the dresser drawer before going to the small painted crib and gently lifting Violet into my arms. I carry her out of the room, shielding her from Leo’s gaze when he turns and looks at me reproachfully. He goes back to watching TV.
Slipping into Leo’s bedroom, I lay Violet on the floor between two pillows and quickly remake the bed, pulling back the SpongeBob duvet and taking plain sheets from the linen cupboard. Retrieving two bunches of flowers from the kitchen, I arrange them on either side of the bed. The only other furniture in the room is a chest of drawers with a tilting beveled mirror on top. Using books and soft toys, I prop my phone next to the mirror and turn on the camera, adjusting the angle to put the bed in the center of the frame. Some of Leo’s drawings have been stuck on the wall above the bed. I pull them off gently, trying not to tear the corners.
Once I’m satisfied, I take off my clothes and the prosthetic bump, before slipping the nightgown over my head. I dampen my hair using Leo’s water bottle, plastering strands on my forehead and splashing water on my face before picking up Violet, who is still swaddled in a crocheted woolen blanket. Half sitting up in bed, I hold her in the crook of my arm so that only part of her face can be seen. She smells so beautiful, so clean and new.
Using the timer, I take multiple photographs, checking the composition after each one. Satisfied, I unhook my bra and press Violet’s face into my breast, smiling tiredly at the camera. This time I’m recording.
“Hello, everyone, this is Rory. I would love to show you his face, but he’s pretty hungry right now. I’m exhausted, but so, so happy.”
Violet has woken. She snuffles and opens her mouth, searching for my nipple. I set her down and stop the recording before quickly rearranging the room and remaking the bed. Violet is now fully awake and her cries are getting louder. I pull off the nightdress and begin fastening my prosthetic. I hear a sound from the main bedroom. Jules is awake.
“Where’s Violet?” she asks, panic straining her voice.
“She’s with me,” I reply, wrestling with my clothes. Jules is in the hallway . . . at the door.
She appears. I’m breathless.
“What were you doing?”
“Violet was restless. I didn’t want her waking you.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Not long. I think she might be hungry.”
Jules picks up Violet up from the bed and points to my blouse. “Your buttons aren’t done up properly.”
“Oh. Silly me . . . I’d forget my head . . .”
“Are you OK?”
“Fine.”
