The Secrets She Keeps, page 28
I don’t want to forgive him. I want to be home in bed with Jack.
Simon moves closer. “Is there any news?”
“No.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing.”
My body is shaking. Simon puts his arms around me and for the briefest moment I sink against him, accepting his embrace, enjoying the physical contact. I push him away. Hating myself. Hating him.
“Remember what I said.”
AGATHA
* * *
Rory had a difficult night. He screamed for hours and wouldn’t feed. I tried everything. I rocked, jiggled, soothed, and patted his back. I carried him in a sling, held him against my heart, and walked him up and down stairs. I tried white noise—the dishwasher, washing machine, running water, music videos, and the radio. He finally fell asleep at 3 a.m. curled up on my chest on the sofa.
I weighed him again this morning—stepping on and off the bathroom scale and calculating the difference between my weight when I hold him and when I don’t. As far as I can tell, he’s not growing. “Failure to thrive” is how they describe it on the Internet.
So far I’ve tried three different types of formula but Rory won’t take more than thirty milliliters at a sitting, which he sometimes throws up. He has to start growing soon. He can’t be like the others. My dearest babies have all died young. I tell myself there is a purity in that because only the young are completely innocent. My babies didn’t have time to grow up and become adults; to be disappointed or disappoint others. They will always shine brightly and be forever good.
Emily was the last one. I lost her three years ago. Nicky and I were separated, but not yet divorced. I went to Brighton for a week, hoping to find companionship among the summer crowds, but I found no comfort. I exhaled loneliness. It followed me around like a raincloud or a smell.
On my last night—a Saturday—the pubs were full of drunken revelers listening to doof-doof music and smokers spilling onto the pavements. I bought a can of soft drink and sat on a bench on the pier, watching courting couples snog in the shadows or paddle at the water’s edge. It had been a hot day and everybody seemed to be waiting for the mercury to fall.
I contemplated catching a late train back to London rather than spending another night in my cheap hotel. A young mother passed by pushing a pram. I don’t know what made me follow her home. I didn’t plan to steal her baby. I only wanted to look.
The woman lived in a garden flat on a quiet street with an alleyway at the back and a rear garage with a sign saying PLEASE KEEP ACCESS CLEAR. A small spiral staircase climbed to the back door. I waited and watched until the lights went off.
A net curtain billowed from a window that had been hinged open to catch the breeze. I reached inside, unhooked the latch, and lifted the window high enough to crawl through. The baby girl was sleeping in a Moses basket. She looked to be about three months old. A baby monitor blinked above her head. I turned it off. The red light died.
I picked her up and put her in a pillowcase and carried her out the window like a burglar stealing silverware from a country house. By the time anyone knew Emily was missing I was back in London. Nicky had moved out of the house and we had plans to sell, but in the meantime I had the place to myself.
Emily lived for twelve days. It was my fault. She fell asleep while I was feeding her and I put her straight into her crib, laying her on her back, when I should have kept her upright on my shoulder. If I had burped her properly she wouldn’t have vomited and aspirated milk into her lungs.
I woke at five and found her. She wasn’t breathing. Her skin was blue. The vomit had dried on her cheek and on the back of her head. I washed her little body and wrapped it in a sheet and took it to my special place. I laid her to rest alongside Chloe and Lizzie, the ones who never grew up—forever innocent and untainted. Set free.
* * *
It’s still early when I put Rory in his pram and push him through the streets, hoping the fresh air might make him hungry. I catch a bus to Hammersmith and another along Kensington High Street as far as the Tube station.
I have to wait until nine thirty before a young librarian opens the doors of Kensington Central Library. By then the queue consists mainly of homeless people who are looking for somewhere warm to spend a few hours.
“If you fall asleep I’m kicking you out,” says the librarian. “This is a library, not a shelter.”
Sitting at a computer, I create a username and password before beginning a search. Rory watches me from his pram. Periodically, I pause and stroke his forehead, explaining what I’m doing.
I type in a search for breast milk and come across dozens of classified ads:
Healthy Mother Ready to Sell Extra Milk ASAP
Breast Milk for Sale, Excess Amounts (no drugs or alcohol)
High Quality breast milk London SW1—organic diet only!
At the same time there are government warnings about sourcing breast milk from the Internet, saying it could be tainted or diseased. I wonder if they’d ask for identification. Would they care?
I contemplate sending an email, but wonder if the police might be monitoring sites like these looking for me. I can’t take the risk.
Deleting the search, I clear the browser history and take Rory across the road to the pharmacy, where I look at treatments for colic and brands of baby formula that I haven’t yet tried.
Hayden is waiting for me when I get home. Rory has fallen asleep. “I left the pram downstairs,” I say as I put him in his cot. “I picked up a few things for supper. Can you pop the groceries in the kitchen?”
Hayden hasn’t moved. I smell cigarette smoke. He promised not to do that.
I begin putting groceries away, sorting out the cold items for the fridge. Opening cupboards. Hayden is staring at me from the doorway. Something is wrong.
“Your mother phoned,” he says.
I don’t respond.
“When did she go back to Spain?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, continuing to unpack. Hayden picks up a can of tomatoes and seems to weigh it in his fist.
“She was pretty fucking surprised when I mentioned Rory. Do you know what she said?”
I don’t answer.
“She said, ‘Who’s Rory?’ And I said, ‘Your grandson.’ And she laughed like I was joking. ‘But you were at the birth,’ I said. And she laughed again.”
Still I say nothing. Hayden slams the can of tomatoes down on the counter, which sounds like a gunshot in the small kitchen. He holds it up again. I hear Rory start to cry.
“I can explain.”
“OK.”
“First tell me what you told her.”
“I told her about Rory. I said you had him in Leeds—a home birth. Is any of that true?”
“Yes.”
“Who was with you?”
“A midwife.” I fill the electric kettle. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Fuck the tea! Why did you lie to me?”
“I don’t get on with my mother. I knew she’d try to take control. She belittles me. She bosses me around. She manages to poison everything good in my life.”
“Why go to Leeds? You could have stayed in London and had the baby. I could have been there.”
“I got scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“I’ve never told you this before—but Nicky and I lost a baby. I was five months pregnant. She died inside me. I was terrified it might happen again. That’s why I didn’t want you there. I didn’t want anyone with me—not friends or family.”
Hayden doesn’t seem to know how to react. He wants to believe me, I can see that, but his faith has been shaken. He asks about the miscarriage. He wants the details—who, where, what, and why? I find myself telling him the truth.
“I saw what it did to Nicky—losing a baby. That’s why we divorced. The marriage couldn’t survive the heartbreak.” Rory is still crying, growing more and more distressed. “That’s why Nicky contacted me. He heard about me having a baby. He was happy for me, but also a little sad.”
“Is that why he topped himself?” asks Hayden.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I move towards the bedroom, wanting to comfort Rory. Hayden grabs me by the wrist, twisting it painfully.
“Why lie to your mother?”
“I didn’t lie to her. I just didn’t tell her. It’s none of her business.”
“Why do you hate her so much?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“She’s crazy. Manipulative. Cunning. She has a thousand clichés in her head and when she opens her mouth it’s like they’re all trying to escape . . . I bet she said she loved me.”
Hayden nods.
“Did she say I broke her heart?”
“Yeah.”
“Was she drunk?”
“She sounded sober.”
“She’s very good at hiding it.”
I peel Hayden’s fingers away from my wrist. He hasn’t finished. “What else have you lied about?”
“Nothing.”
“You lied to Jules, to me, to my family . . . It’s not right. You made me feel like an idiot.”
“I’m sorry.” I put my head against his chest.
He pushes me away, holding me at arm’s length. “Your mother didn’t even know about me.”
“Because I don’t talk to her.”
Hayden doesn’t answer. Stepping around him, I fetch Rory from the bedroom, jiggling him in my arms until he stops crying.
Hayden hasn’t given up. “I want to know the name of the midwife—the one who delivered the baby.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to her.”
“What can she tell you?”
“The truth.”
“I’m telling the truth. Why would I lie about her?”
“Call her.”
He knows! He knows!
I pick up my handbag and take out my mobile, flicking through the contacts list. Hayden waits.
“I can’t find it.”
“You don’t have her number?”
“I do. I’m trying to think . . . My phone was dead, remember? I have her number written down somewhere.”
“What about paperwork? There must be something.”
“Of course, lots of paperwork,” I say, getting flustered. “I can’t remember where I put it.”
He knows! He knows!
“So you have no phone number and no paperwork—this is bollocks!” He grabs his jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking Rory for a walk.”
No!” I say it too urgently. “I mean, where?”
“Maybe we’ll go to the zoo. He’s never been to the zoo.”
“Can I come?”
“No!”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to see you for a while.”
I make up a bottle for Rory and help Hayden get him ready. I’m still reaching for excuses, not wanting them to go. I tell him that I’m desperately in love with him and that I’ve never seen a father as wonderful as he is and that I couldn’t do this without him. I say that I would marry him tomorrow at Fulham Registry Office and I would go anywhere in the world with him, as long as we were together.
Hayden says nothing. He’s not listening to promises or platitudes. He doesn’t love me anymore.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, pleading with him.
“Tell anyone what?”
“I mean, don’t tell your parents about my mother. They might not understand.”
“You’re right,” he replies. “I don’t understand. You tell me lies and you don’t do anything to help us.”
“What does that mean?”
“You could have sold your story to the papers—the one about knowing Baby Ben’s mum. We could have made some money.”
“I don’t want to talk to reporters.”
“Mrs. Shaughnessy is doing plenty of talking. She’s always on the news, crying for the cameras. I’m sick of hearing her voice.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know her.”
“I know her type—perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect marriage—and now the perfect sob story. She gives me the shits.”
Hayden used to feel sorry for Meg, but now he’s attacking her because he’s angry with me, or testing me. I have to show him I can be honest. I have to win back his trust.
“They’re not perfect,” I whisper.
“You said that before, but what does it mean?”
“Jack Shaughnessy had an affair.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him with another woman. He was buying condoms at the supermarket. She was parked outside. He jumped in her car. They were kissing.”
“Who was she?”
“An estate agent. She sold them their house.”
Hayden whistles through his teeth. “Dirty bugger!”
I shouldn’t have told him. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I say. “It ended weeks ago . . .”
Hayden doesn’t answer. He carries Rory down the stairs and straps him in the pram, tilting it backwards as he lowers it down each step to the street.
I watch them from the front window, resting my forehead against the glass, following their progress until they reach the corner and disappear. I want to go after them. I want to snatch Rory back.
I know that Hayden wants to believe me because he loves our little boy, but I’m giving him too many reasons to doubt. He hasn’t accused me of faking my pregnancy and stealing a baby, but has it crossed his mind? No. He doesn’t think I’m clever enough to do something like that.
But from now on he’s going to watch me more closely and check up on everything I’ve said and done. Even if I forge the paperwork for the birth, I can’t conjure a midwife out of thin air.
Why couldn’t my mother leave me alone?
MEGHAN
* * *
The police arrive before 6 a.m., in a convoy of cars blocking the street outside. Doors open in unison and officers march past the reporters and cameramen. Jack answers the doorbell still in his pajamas. DCS MacAteer hands him a search warrant.
“Who is it?” I ask from the top of the stairs.
Officers are moving past Jack. They’re dressed in overalls and wearing latex gloves.
“We have authority to search this property,” MacAteer announces, no longer sounding avuncular or sympathetic. “I will allow you to stay here so long as you don’t interfere. Police personnel will accompany you while you get dressed. I suggest you then assemble in the kitchen.”
“What about the children?”
“Them too.”
Jack keeps asking what’s happened. Do they have information? Is there some reason why they’re here? He looks at me, hoping for an explanation. I shake my head. Lisa-Jayne accompanies me to the bedroom and watches me dress. I move towards the bathroom. She follows.
“Can’t I do that alone?”
She shakes her head.
“Why are you here?”
She doesn’t answer.
For the next two hours we sit in the kitchen as police search everywhere from the attic to the cupboard below the stairs. Our computers and iPads are confiscated. We’re told we’ll get them back once the hard drives have been copied. Belongings are picked up, opened, and examined; books are feathered, furniture is moved, and carpets are peeled back to reveal bare floors. I wonder what they imagine they might find: Hidden rooms? Secret stashes? This is crazy.
Our questions are ignored. Officers are polite, but adamant that we don’t interfere. First names are no longer used.
Jack is incensed. “What have we done? Where is the justification? They’re trying to deflect attention. They can’t find Ben, so now they’re going to blame us.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would they think that?”
“I don’t know—but look at what they’re doing.”
He confronts MacAteer, demanding an explanation, refusing to be fobbed off. The detective unbuttons his suit jacket and pushes his hand into his pocket.
“We have received information.”
“What information?”
“Someone called the hotline.”
“Who? What did they say?”
“On the night Ben went missing, you left the hospital before the police arrived.”
“I was looking for Ben.”
“You were missing for almost two hours.”
“I knew what the nurse looked like. I thought she might be nearby . . . I’ve told you this already.”
“Did you come back here?”
“What? No!”
“You were seen carrying something from the house that night.”
“That’s ridiculous. Whoever told you that is lying.”
“By leaving the scene, you compromised the investigation. You weren’t available to give us a detailed description. There could have been fibers on your clothes. DNA trace material.”
“I didn’t think.”
“Where did you go?”
“I told you.”
I’m looking at Jack, as though I’m part of the interrogation, suddenly wanting the same answers. Jack meets my gaze, his eyes pleading with me, no longer angry. I see another emotion there: fear.
“Do we need a lawyer?” he asks.
“That’s completely up to you, Mr. Shaughnessy.”
DCS MacAteer turns to me. “I wish to speak to you in private.”
I want to tell him that Jack and I have no secrets from each other, but that’s not true . . . not since I slept with Simon. Not after this.
Leaving Jack with the children, I follow the detective to the sitting room. He closes the door. I notice signs of the search. Officers have tried to put everything back in place, but it’s not the same. The photographs on the mantelpiece are in the wrong order and the DVDs are mixed up. It’s like a robbery where nothing has been taken except my peace of mind.
MacAteer motions to the sofa. I choose to remain standing. The room feels too small for the both of us.
“I’m going to ask you several questions,” he says. “I would appreciate you answering them truthfully.”
