The Secrets She Keeps, page 5
Afterwards we lay on Simon’s Pashtun rug catching our breath. I saw the silhouette of branches thrown by the streetlights against the blinds and recognized a different world from the one that had existed only a few moments ago. The lust and anger had seeped away, leaving behind a terrible numbness and an emptiness that felt violent. Where did it come from? Was I really so unhappy?
I retrieved my knickers and pulled them on under my skirt, smoothing my blouse. I was in shock. What had I done? After six years of blissful (OK, reasonably happy) marriage, out of the clear blue sky, I had shagged my husband’s best friend.
What was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn’t.
There are no excuses. I am a terrible person. I am the sort of crass, shameless slag who should be humiliated by Jeremy Kyle or Dr. Phil. Yes, Jack raised his hand, but he didn’t hit me. He said he didn’t love me, but he was angry. Lashing out.
Every relationship goes through rocky patches. We had been through worse and always bounced back. Normally, all it takes is a weekend away, or a great night out, or a moment of intimacy to remind us why we fell in love.
In the days that followed I was convinced that people could see my guilt. I felt it was tattooed on my forehead or sticking out like a forgotten label on a new pair of jeans. Jack apologized for scaring me and agreed to see a marriage counselor. He wasn’t particularly open about his feelings at our therapy sessions, but he made an effort, which is more than I did. My secret crippled me. It isn’t simply about the betrayal—it is the shameful memory of how good the sex was; how hot and urgent and desperate. Each time the details flood back to me my thighs want to open and close. I have to squeeze them together, hating myself even more.
Anyone who says that honesty is the best policy is living in la-la land. Either that or they have never been married or had children. Parents lie to their kids all the time—about sex, drugs, death, and a hundred other things. We lie to those we love to protect their feelings. We lie because that’s what love means, whereas unfettered honesty is cruel and the height of self-indulgence.
Then came our weekend away and the madly impulsive hotel sex. I missed my periods in April and May. I panicked. I couldn’t remember if Simon had used a condom. I rang him. In the background I could hear people laughing and drinking in a noisy bar. Simon told me yes.
“Why?” he asked, shouting.
“No reason.”
“I thought we were never going to speak about that night.”
“We’re not. Ever.”
“I’ll take it to my grave.”
“Good.”
AGATHA
* * *
We had a robbery at the supermarket today. A jittery-looking dodo in a hoodie and sunglasses was hanging around near the freezer section, muttering and shaking his head. He didn’t have a shopping basket and he kept glancing at the CCTV cameras above the aisles.
“What can’t you find?” I asked, trying to be helpful.
He ignored me completely and walked away, heading towards the doors. I was going to say something to Mr. Patel, who was at the registers, but I thought the guy was leaving. At the last moment he turned back and pulled a knife.
Mr. Patel’s eyes snapped open like they were spring-loaded. I think I might have screamed.
The guy told him, “Empty the register or I’ll cut your throat.” He spun around and waved the knife at me. “Get on the floor!”
I pointed to myself as if to say, Who, me? and dropped to my knees.
“All the way down,” he said. “On your stomach.”
“Really?”
He noticed I was pregnant and said I could stay on all fours.
Mr. Patel was trying to open the register. He kept pressing the No Sale button, but the key was on the wrong setting and the cash drawer wouldn’t open.
The robber told him to hurry up.
“You have to buy something,” said Mr. Patel.
“What?”
“I can’t open the drawer unless you buy something.”
The robber looked at him incredulously. “I don’t think you know how this works.”
“Right,” said Mr. Patel, nodding furiously.
I was in the process of moving away, crawling backwards towards the end of the aisle, but I could see Mr. Patel was panicking. I called out, “Scan the cigarettes.”
Mr. Patel took his eyes off the knife and looked at me.
“The cigarettes—scan them,” I said. “The register will open.”
That solved the problem and the drawer opened. Mr. Patel gave him the cash.
“Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s all.”
The knifeman pointed to the drawer below the register. It’s where Mr. Patel keeps the daily cash float and any large bills. It’s also where he has a loaded gun, which he shows to all the new employees—particularly the college girls who work weekends and he hopes might be impressed.
Great plan, I thought. He’ll make a citizen’s arrest, or shoot the guy if necessary. But Mr. Patel didn’t go for the gun. He handed over the cash float and said to the knifeman, “Can I get you anything else?”
Why not join our loyalty program? How about some lotto tickets?
Later Mr. Patel told the police he was trying to protect me, which was bollocks because I saved his arse. We both had to give statements and look at mug shots on a computer, but I’m terrible at remembering faces. The knife I could have picked out of any lineup.
The police wanted to have a doctor examine me because of my pregnancy but I told them I was fine and just wanted to go home. They gave me a taxi voucher and said I should take tomorrow off work, which didn’t impress Mr. Patel.
The cab drops me outside my flat and I step over junk mail as I shoulder open the large front door. I’m tired now that the adrenaline has evaporated, and the stairs seem steeper than before.
My flat is on the second floor. Mrs. Brindle, my landlady, lives downstairs with her two sons, Gary and Dave, who are both forty-something and in no hurry to leave home. Gary, the older one, is on a disability pension, while Dave drives a minicab. I suspect half the reason Mrs. Brindle charges me so little rent is because she’s hoping I might take one of them off her hands.
A door opens behind me.
“Hello, princess.”
“Go away, Dave.”
“Need a hand?”
“No.”
He positions himself at the bottom of the stairs so he can look up my dress. I move closer to the wall.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “You have great legs, Agatha, what time do they open?”
“Drop dead.”
I keep climbing. He shouts after me. “Just remember, I’ve got a condom with your name on it.”
“What? Durex Extra Small?”
“That’s a good one,” he says with a laugh, “but I’ll be gentle with you.”
Flopping onto the sofa, I kick off my shoes and rub my feet, which ache from standing up all day. The buttons on my blouse are stretched so tightly across my belly they could pop and take out an eye. I loosen them and glance at the mess around me, wishing I had cleaned up last night, or yesterday. Unwashed dishes are piled up in the sink and the dining table is covered in brochures and catalogues for baby clothes.
Farther along the hallway is a bathroom with a tub, and my bedroom, which is really nice because I can make it dark and sleep until noon when I don’t have work. My double bed is a rickety affair with a varnished headboard and a boggy soft mattress. At night I like turning off the lights and listening to the trains pulling into Putney Bridge station.
My best friend, Jules, lives upstairs with her husband, Kevin, and their little boy, Leo, who is four and a real cutie. I sometimes babysit Leo when Jules nips out to the shops or the Laundromat or to get her hair done.
Jules is pregnant again and we’ve been inseparable these past months, shopping and having manicures and treating ourselves to chocolate milkshakes, which are the best cure for morning sickness ever invented.
Having caught my breath, I retrieve three envelopes from the doormat: a gas bill, a telephone bill, and a letter from my mother. I recognize her handwriting and the Spanish stamps.
What does she want? I should throw it away. Something makes me tear at the flap and unfold the single perfumed page.
Dear Agatha,
Please don’t be angry with me for writing to you again. I’m not even sure I have the right address. I tried to call, but you must have changed your number.
I miss you. I’ve been dreadfully lonely and you’re the last family I have left. I know a lot has happened between us but I’m hoping that you can forgive me.
Marbella is sunny, but not as warm as it was last year. I’m renting the same apartment, which is next door to Mr. and Mrs. Hopgood (I mentioned them in my past letters). He’s a bit of a bore, but Maggie is nice. We play bingo together and have cocktails at the yacht club.
You should come and visit. I could send you money for the airfare. We could spend Christmas together. They do a lovely spread at the yacht club—with roast turkey and a free bottle of wine on every table.
Please write back to me.
With all my love,
Mum
xxoo
I tear the letter into little pieces and put them in the kitchen bin, which is so full of rubbish that the scraps fall on the floor. My mother doesn’t know I’m pregnant. She’d only mess things up.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Piss off, Dave,” I shout.
“It’s me,” answers Jules.
Shit!
“OK. Give me a minute.”
I straighten my clothes and button my blouse, checking myself in the mirror before unlocking the door.
“What took you so long?” asks Jules. She waddles past me and throws herself onto the sofa with a grunt. “You left me waiting out there forever.”
Half German and half Scottish with an explosion of steel-wool hair and legs like tree stumps, Jules is a striking-looking woman and I envy her clear skin and doe-brown eyes. Big even before she got pregnant, she loves to flaunt her size because Kevin likes her that way. He’s not a “feeder” or a “fatty lover” but he definitely plumps for the plump.
I tell her about the robbery and she hangs on every word, wanting to know if I was frightened.
“He was probably an ice addict,” she says. “Those guys are mega-scary. They eat people’s faces.”
“Really?”
She nods. “That stuff causes holes in your brain and makes your teeth fall out.”
“This robber had all his teeth.”
“For now.”
Suddenly she remembers why she’s come downstairs. “Hey, do you want to come with me to an acupuncturist? I got a two-for-one offer.”
“Nobody is sticking needles in my baby,” I say.
“They don’t stick needles in the baby,” she replies, waving a brochure. “This says acupuncture helps pregnant women get over nausea, fluid retention, tiredness, cramps, and heartburn.”
“Even so.”
“What about a bikini wax?”
“I’m not bothering at the moment.”
“Lucky for some,” she sniffs. “I got a full seventies triangle growing down there. Kevin needs a machete to find my grotto.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“At least I’m getting some,” says Jules. “Upon which subject—have you heard from Sailor Boy?”
“I haven’t checked.”
My laptop is hidden under magazines. I open it up and wait for the wireless to find a signal. Two emails pop into my inbox. One of them is spam. The other is from Hayden. My heart trembles.
“He’s going to call me tonight,” I whisper, blinking at her in shock.
“What else does it say?” she asks excitedly.
“That’s all.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Lucy has a friend over this afternoon. Her name is Madeleine and she’s a grumpy little madam who ignores my fruit platter and asks for chocolate biscuits and crisps.
I tell her, “We don’t have those in our house,” and Madeleine looks at me as though I’m something nasty on her shoe. They’re playing outside now. I think Lachlan is getting a cold so I give him a bath and some paracetamol and let him watch the Disney Channel.
I glance at the clock. Madeleine is getting picked up at six. I want to fast-forward and have everyone in bed, so I can crawl beneath the covers and sleep. Jack is away tonight. He’s been in a good mood all week. I’d say “back to normal” but I don’t know what “normal” is anymore. No, that’s not true. I love it when Jack teases me and flirts and randomly touches me, brushing my backside, or cupping my waist, or stealing a quick snog when we pass on the stairs.
Lachlan is laughing at something. I sit next to him on the sofa and put my arm around him, sniffing his fresh-out-of-the-bath little-boy smell.
“Is Daddy coming home?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Where is he?”
“Working.”
“Is he going to be on TV?”
“Uh-huh.”
Later I make Lachlan a boiled egg for dinner and line up toast soldiers on either side of his eggcup. He’s a hungry child in all senses, desperate to grow up; a wrecker of games, a hoarder of toys, and a monopolizer of attention. Lucy appears tolerant, but recently I have noticed scratches and pinch marks on Lachlan’s arms. His favorite truck disappeared a week ago, triggering howls of outrage. Lucy watched from the corner, denying all knowledge. I found the truck beneath her bed a few days later.
Lucy and Madeleine have macaroni and cheese, which Lucy normally loves, but today she turns up her nose, mimicking Madeleine. Why do children choose the most inappropriate friends? I’ll probably write about this tonight—changing the names, of course. My blog is like a hungry beast that has to be fed with more and more content.
At university I dreamed of being a serious journalist—the next Marie Colvin or Kate Adie, reporting from the rubble-strewn streets of Baghdad or teeming refugee camps in North Africa. I don’t know when that ambition died. In truth, I have always been someone who matched expectations rather than exceeded them.
When I began writing my blog I wanted to make it edgy and funny—maybe even controversial. I thought with my background in marketing and public relations, I could influence opinions and build a brand, but in reality I spend my time writing quirky stories about my imperfect family and oh-so-happy marriage.
I read the other day that the average mummy blogger is thirty-seven, has two children, is left-leaning and socially conscious and buys eco-friendly products. That’s me! I am a cliché. My blog sums up my existence—safe, uncontentious, and shallow.
I clean up the kitchen and the bathroom before making my own dinner—leftovers from the children. Jack calls me from Old Trafford, where Manchester United are playing Tottenham at home. “It’s one of the games of the round,” he says, sounding excited. “I think the new talk show is in the bag.”
“Don’t say that. You could jinx it.”
He laughs and needs a favor. He left a business card in his other jacket. Can I find it for him?
I carry the phone upstairs and go through his wardrobe. Jack spends more money on clothes than I do. He has three Paul Smith suits and two dozen shirts. Searching through the pockets, I come across a folded sheet of paper. It’s a mobile phone number, written in longhand, but someone has placed a lipstick kiss next to the number. No name.
I keep searching the pockets until I find a business card.
“Is this the one you wanted?” I ask, reciting the number to Jack.
“Thanks, babe.”
“I found another number. It’s on a piece of paper . . . the one with a lipstick kiss. No name.”
“Oh, that,” he says, not missing a beat. “Some woman put that in my pocket in the pub. She recognized me. I think she thought I was a famous footballer.”
“And you kept her number?”
“I didn’t keep her number—I forgot it was even there. Are you jealous?”
“No.”
He starts teasing me. “You should be. She was all of twenty-five.”
“Dirty old man.”
“She wanted a job in TV.”
“Don’t they all.”
He laughs and sends hugs and kisses before hanging up. I look at the slip of paper, crumple it up, and toss it into the bin.
I don’t mind that Jack treats me like a girlfriend sometimes, because that can be exciting. We used to have date nights where we each pretended to be someone else. He’d be a pilot and I’d be a weathergirl and we’d meet in a bar where one of us would take the lead and chat the other one up. Once I pretended to be a crazed fan.
“Oh my God, you’re Jack Shaughnessy, aren’t you?”
“Ah, yeah,” he’d replied.
“You’re on TV. I love your voice. Say something sexy.”
“Like what?”
“That’s it. Ooh, I could just melt. Jack Shaughnessy, blimey. What are you doing here?”
We chatted for about twenty minutes and left arm-in-arm, a textbook pull. The bar staff were stunned.
I used to love our date nights and how Jack would write me lovely notes, leaving them in random places such as the microwave, or a coat pocket, or tucked into my Wellingtons. Dearest wife, your boobs are the best, he’d write, or: This coupon is good for one extra-special foot massage. Yes, he had an ulterior motive, but he didn’t have to be so thoughtful.
Memories like this make me feel grateful as well as angry. How dare I doubt Jack! I’m the one who broke our vow.
