Something to Tell You

by Lucy Diamond

  No, he wasn’t sure how many other members of staff had been laid off.

  No, he didn’t know when the compensation package would be paid out.

  No, the department hadn’t tried to help him find a replacement post – for crying out loud, Robyn, what’s with the Spanish Inquisition here? Give a bloke a break, won’t you?

  Robyn couldn’t help feeling rejected. Couldn’t help harking back to their early days of romance and tenderness, when he’d seemed so delighted to be with her. When she was pregnant with Sam, for instance, you could not have found a more doting husband than John. He’d gone to every scan and midwives’ appointment, he’d cooked her wholesome dinners and rubbed her feet when she was tired in the evening; and then, when Sam was born and they’d brought him home from hospital, he’d actually had tears in his eyes as they held hands and peered at him sleeping in the Moses basket. ‘You gave me a son,’ he had said, his voice cracking. ‘Our son. You are the most amazing woman.’

  Robyn had felt that they were such a team together – that was what she couldn’t help remembering now. That it had been the two of them standing side by side in this marriage, facing down every obstacle between them. John might not show his emotions all that much, preferring to hide his feelings in his bluff, gruff practical manner, but those feelings were there, and she alone was privy to that secret vulnerable side of him. And yet recently it was as if he was shutting her out of this particular problem. He wouldn’t talk to her about money, about how they were going to pay the mortgage and bills next month. The grim picture of a future where they depended on her meagre part-time salary kept sliding around her mind. Was it too late to get the deposit back on their summer holiday? Should they sell one of the cars? She could try to up her hours at the school next term, she supposed, or do what her mum had suggested and brave a look at returning to the university herself. Or would that be rubbing salt in John’s wound, effectively stealing his place as Breadwinner Numero Uno?

  Robyn wiped down the table and then twisted the wedding ring on her fìnger, round and round, as she wondered what, if anything, she should do. Hurt pride, her mum had said the other day – and John was hurting, that much was obvious. Maybe it was hard for him to go cap in hand and ask how much he would be given in the redundancy package. So why didn’t she do that for him, spare him the indignity? At least it would be a start, she fìgured.

  Feeling pleased with her own thoughtfulness, she grabbed her phone – no time like the present – and dialled the number of Gabrielle, John’s secretary. Former secretary, rather. Gabrielle had worked in the department for years and knew everything. She was trustworthy, efficient and organized, with her calm manner and that steady gaze behind small steel-rimmed spectacles. If anyone could advise Robyn on departmental workings, it was this woman.

  ‘Good afternoon, Gabrielle Patterson speaking, how may I help you?’ came her reassuring tones over the audible patter of typing. Robyn could picture her sitting there in her neat shift-dress at the reception desk, earpiece and microphone in place, and instantly felt better.

  ‘Hi! Gabby, it’s Robyn Mortimer here,’ she said thankfully. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Gabrielle. The peck-peck of typing stopped. ‘Er . . . hi. How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s about John,’ Robyn said, feeling a surge of matrimonial loyalty for poor, wounded John. ‘About him losing his job.’

  There was a delicate pause. ‘Ahh,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Yes?’

  Was it Robyn’s imagination or did she sound uncharacteristically flustered? Usually she was brisk and businesslike, all ‘No problem’ and ‘Leave that with me’. Robyn ploughed on regardless. ‘I gather the redundancy package hasn’t been announced yet and – look, he’d kill me for phoning up like this, but the thing is, Gabby, we really need to know what John’s actually going to get, financially, because—’

  ‘Um,’ said Gabrielle awkwardly. ‘Can I just stop you there?’ She cleared her throat, before adding in an apologetic sort of way, ‘I think there must have been a misunderstanding.’

  ‘A misunderstanding?’ Robyn’s heart swelled with immediate hope. Oh my God! Maybe John had got the wrong end of the stick. Had she been panicking over nothing? ‘Do you mean . . . ?’

  Gabrielle sounded agonized. ‘I mean . . . Well, there haven’t actually been any redundancies in the department.’

  Robyn felt confused. ‘Oh,’ she said, frowning. ‘So what are you saying? He’s still got a job? I don’t understand.’ This was good news, surely. So why was Gabby sounding so cagey and weird?

  ‘Um,’ said Gabrielle again. ‘Look, I’m not sure I should really be having this conversation with—’

  ‘But he’s not been made redundant,’ Robyn confirmed, interrupting her. ‘Well, that’s great! Oh my goodness, that’s such a load off my mind.’ She found herself laughing out loud like an idiot. ‘I’ve been so worried, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘No, Robyn, the thing is—’ Gabrielle broke off, as if it was hard to get the words out. ‘The thing is, he has lost his job,’ she said eventually.

  What? Robyn couldn’t keep up. First he was redundant and then he wasn’t, and now . . . Suddenly it dawned on her what Gabrielle was trying to convey, in her polite, embarrassed way, and her stomach gave a lurch. ‘Wait – are you telling me John was sacked? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Er,’ said Gabrielle, clearly wishing she had never picked up the phone. ‘Well, um . . .’ A small sigh came down the line. ‘Yes, actually, Robyn. I’m sorry.’

  Robyn swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked faintly. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Sacked, she kept thinking. There was no fat pay-off when you were sacked, was there? There was nothing, not even a good reference, she realized, turning cold. What had he done to get sacked?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gabrielle said again and, give her credit, she did sound very apologetic. It was almost as if she could see Robyn leaning like a dead weight against the kitchen counter with her legs on the verge of giving way.

  ‘Can I . . . can I ask why?’ Robyn whimpered after a moment. John, sacked. Yes, actually, Robyn. She still couldn’t believe it. He was so good! He was so clever and competent! His students had done really well in their exams, he’d been positively jubilant when the results were posted. This didn’t make sense!

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ Gabrielle replied after an awkward pause. ‘Listen, I’ve got calls backing up here. Do you want me to transfer you to anybody else or . . . ?’

  ‘No,’ Robyn said, gulping back a sob. ‘No. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Goodbye.’ She clicked off the call and stayed frozen there, in the middle of her lovely kitchen, surrounded by their wedding crockery and nicest wine glasses, and the cookery books on the shelf. They’d built this life together, she and John, ever since that first fortuitous meeting in a lecture theatre. But what was the next line in their story? Where did they go from here?

  She shut her eyes, scared and worried. Alarmed by the fact that John hadn’t told her the truth, that he had been keeping secret upon secret from her. And then she remembered Beth Broadwood’s face – that look of pity as she spoke to Robyn in the playground. Pity because of the redundancy, she’d thought before. But now she couldn’t help wondering what, exactly, the other woman knew.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘May I fetch you some lunch?’

  ‘Would you like me to move the parasol?’

  ‘Please – an aperitif, on the house, Miss Jeanie. Enjoy!’

  Enjoy? Oh my word, she was enjoying herself all right, thought Jeanie, thanking the smart, handsome waiter and accepting the orange-pink Negroni, which clinked pleasingly with ice cubes. (Daisy would love that little cocktail umbrella, she noted, removing it from the glass and putting it on the side to keep for her.) What was not to enjoy? The hotel staff had been positively delighted when she’d ventured down to the polished mahogany reception desk in the lobby last Sunday and explained her position: that she was
supposed to be flying back home today, but had come to the conclusion that she would actually much rather stay on here. Would that be possible?

  She was rather embarrassed about asking – after all, there was nothing to be proud of: her ‘being a wuss’, as her grandchildren would say, hiding away at the hotel rather than going home and facing the music. However Bernardo, the manager, had reacted as if she were some kind of hero. ‘But of course!’ he had cried, clicking the mouse energetically so as to shuffle around the allotted bedrooms on the hotel system. He was smartly dressed, with a pristine white shirt and comb-marks visible in his neat dark hair; the sort of man you could tell had been brought up nicely. ‘Do you need me to change your flight? When do you think you will return?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ she’d told him, with a little shrug. ‘I have absolutely no idea. I’m having such a wonderful time, I might never go home again!’

  This last had been a joke, it had come out of nowhere – of course she would go home again at some point – but it was clear that Bernardo loved her reply. He’d actually clapped his hands together with delight. ‘You never want to go home! My dear, then you shall be our guest for as long as you like,’ he declared. ‘We are honoured to have your company.’

  Goodness, Jeanie thought, as she gave him her credit card for the deposit and he suggested that she might like to book a treatment at the spa, with his compliments, and could he do anything else for her? So this was what it felt like to be a daring person, to go about breaking the rules and behaving impulsively. Usually she would be holidaying with Harry, and he would make all the arrangements: signing the two of them in, dealing with keys and bills, organizing the day-trips and nights out. Leave it to me, he would tell her. As a result, she barely received a second glance in places like this; she would stand there by his side, the dutiful wife, and people’s gazes would slide right over her. Nothing to see here, only the little woman. The boring little woman, they probably thought.

  Not any more, though. Now she was the darling of the Hotel Amarilla. The bold, impetuous woman who had turned up alone and defiant, having shucked off her husband like an unwanted jacket at the airport. Not only that, but she’d paid the Amarilla the ultimate compliment by changing her mind about leaving, by prolonging her stay. They could not do enough for her in return, and it was, quite simply, heavenly. Field calls from her family, telling them that she was fine, but didn’t want to talk to any of them right now? Not a problem. Save her favourite sun-lounger for her in the morning until she was ready to take her position there? Absolutely. Shower her with little treats – a cool drink here, a bowl of plump chilled grapes there, a bunch of flowers in her room? Nothing seemed like too much trouble.

  Of course she wasn’t completely made of stone. She did keep panicking about what she had done by postponing her return – and what that might mean for her marriage. When she had turned her phone on, to tell Paula she wasn’t on the plane home, it had buzzed and chirped with so many messages and missed calls that she had panicked and switched it off” again, just as soon as her text was sent. She missed her children and grandchildren terribly, it was killing her not being able to pop round and chat away with them as she usually did, and if she started reading their messages, she might have second thoughts about staying. She missed her friends in the knitting group, too – she loved those women (and their token man) – and despite everything, she found herself missing Harry as well, whenever she forgot to be angry with him, that was. But soon enough she’d remember his betrayal – his other daughter! – and she’d feel her heart frost over and harden towards him once more. No. She wasn’t ready to forgive Harry just yet.

  In the meantime, there were plenty of other things with which to distract herself. Was it naughty of her to include a certain member of staff as one of them? Luis, his name was: softly spoken and broad-shouldered, with soulful chocolate-brown eyes and a smile that revealed perfect white teeth. He worked in the pool bar and she would often find her gaze drifting over admiringly to him, watching from behind her sunglasses as he theatrically mixed cocktails, both hands on the glinting silver shaker, joking with the customers so that their laughter carried across the water to her. Sometimes he would catch her watching and give her a cheeky little salute as if to say I see you, and then she’d blush like a schoolgirl. Jeanie Mortimer, now you just behave, she would scold herself, but really, honestly, if she was thirty years younger and single, she knew she’d be feeling pretty tempted right now. ‘Miss Jeanie’ he called her every time he brought her a drink, and it made her feel girlish again, and a tiny bit trembly, as those dark, melty eyes lingered mischievously on hers for a second too long.

  Heavens! She was starting to sound like Harry’s sister, Penelope, who had already burned through four different husbands and always seemed to have a new boyfriend on the go, even though she was seventy-two years young, in her words. Jeanie had always felt faintly disapproving of Pen’s waywardness, but she was starting to see the attraction of such behaviour. Because being out here on her own was the closest she’d come in decades to feeling carefree and heady again, to feeling young. She had strolled to the beach the other day and picked up a hot pink maxi-dress from one of the boutiques there, along with a pair of matching flip-flops with huge plastic flowers on them, just because. Some people would call them trashy and they were – oh, they were – but that was the point! They were tacky and silly and would probably fall to bits before the week was out, but so what? She was on holiday! She was having the time of her life, and if she wanted to wear naff flip-flops and a dress that was slit all the way up the thigh, then by God she was going to do those things and enjoy every minute.

  She sipped her Negroni appreciatively, enjoying the gentle splashing sounds of the pool nearby, appreciating the smell of the evening buffet that was just starting to waft out from the dining hall. She’d had an aromatherapy massage in the spa earlier and her skin was still soft and fragranced. Afterwards, the charming masseuse had talked her into a special promotion they were running, where you could have a half-price cut and colour done in their salon next door. Jeanie had been feeling so floaty from the massage that she’d promptly booked herself in for tomorrow. A makeover, she kept thinking excitedly, wondering if she should take the plunge and go for some honey-coloured highlights, just to take the edge off all that grey. She’d grown up thinking vanity was frivolity, but maybe she’d been wrong. It was only a bit of fun! And why not reflect the new carefree Jeanie with a new carefree look?

  Another day in paradise, she thought happily, turning the page of her book. She had a cocktail at hand, the sun was still shining and she was blissfully relaxed. Best of all, there’d be a day just the same as this tomorrow. The day after, too. And after that . . . well, who could say?

  ‘Dad,’ Paula began, as they sat opposite one another at the Formica-topped table. She’d suggested lunch in his favourite café in town, the one run by an old teaching pal of his, where the staff called him Hazza and slipped him an extra fried egg with his all-day breakfast. Now that they were here, though, with the coffee machine hissing behind them and the smell of sizzling bacon in the air, the words she wanted to say were surprisingly hard to extricate.

  ‘Yes, love,’ he said, sawing through his jumbo sausage. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I just wanted to know about Frankie, Dad.’ She turned her fork through her gluey orange baked beans, too churned up with anticipation to feel very hungry. ‘If you’ve heard any more from her. And about what happened with her mum.’

  Harry put his cutlery down. ‘Ah,’ he said, the smile sliding from his face. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I haven’t heard from her. She must have my address – Lynne next door said she was knocking at our place the day of the party, before Lynne sent her on to the hall, thinking she was a guest. But I don’t know where she lives. I don’t even know her second name,’ he confessed. ‘Kathy’s surname was Hallows back then, but for all we know, she might have married and changed it, or Frankie could be
married and have changed it herself, of course.’ He speared a fried mushroom-half, looking glum. ‘I feel bad, because I’d like to meet her again – properly, you know. Without your mum breathing down our necks, shooing her away. Because she is my daughter.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Paula said, sipping her stewed tea and wondering if she’d ever get used to hearing her dad say ‘my daughter’ and not meaning her.

  ‘I looked her up online, like you suggested, to see if I could find her,’ he went on. ‘I typed in “Frankie Hallows”, but there was no one with that name who looked like her.’ He slopped brown sauce onto his plate and dipped a chunk of sausage into it. ‘I’ll pop back to our place to see Lynne next door, just in case she picked up any other clue that would help us find her. It’s a long shot, granted, but I’m not sure what else to do.’

  ‘Knowing Lynne, she’s got a secret CCTV camera set up somewhere,’ Paula commented, attempting a joke. ‘She’ll be able to give you Frankie’s car registration plate, her shoe size, her height . . .’

  Harry shot her a worried look. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked. ‘Me looking for her, I mean. It’s just that she went to all the effort of tracking me down, only for me to . . . not push her away, exactly, but, you know. It wasn’t the best moment to chat. So . . .’

  ‘I don’t mind you looking for her,’ Paula told him, and then a knotty silence descended, when they both munched and wondered what to say next. ‘What was Kathy like, then?’ she asked after a moment. ‘How come you and her . . . ?’ Unsure how to finish the question, she left it dangling, and her dad grimaced, his voice gruff when he eventually replied.

  ‘She was fun, Kathy. She was temping in the school office for the summer term one year, bit of a wild one, bit of a daredevil. At the time I was – not dissatisfied with life, exactly, but maybe feeling a bit restless. Feeling as if I was a bit stuck, as if the world had got very small around me, whereas Kathy seemed to represent something different. An escape.’