Something to Tell You

by Lucy Diamond

  It was late Saturday morning and Paula was lying on a massage table, cocooned in towels and anointed with rosemary-scented oil like a great big pink leg of lamb. A tense leg of lamb. Truth be told, she felt about as relaxed and limp as a tree trunk. She was here for her friend Nicky’s birthday treat – girls’ day in the spa! – but was finding it impossible to ‘let herself go’, despite the massaging woman’s exhortations.

  And breathe in . . .’ Pummel, pummel, grind, grind. It felt as if the woman was digging her elbows into Paula’s knotted shoulders. ‘And out. All the way out, that’s it. Release the pressure. Release the tension.’

  I’ll give you pressure and tension in a minute, if you don’t pipe down, Paula felt like saying. She’d been hoping that this forty-five-minute ‘Back, Neck and Shoulder Miracle’ might be conducted in silence, so that she could at least zone out for a while and stop worrying about her parents, but that now seemed unlikely. Should she pretend to be asleep? Maybe let out a little snore? She gave a deep, long sigh instead, and that seemed to please the massage woman.

  ‘Good. Lovely. There we go,’ she said tenderly, swishing her oiled hands up and down Paula’s back. ‘Much better.’

  If only it were that simple, Paula thought to herself, face pressed into the towel-clad hole of the massage table. Because back in the real world, there had still been no word from her mum, other than the hotel’s polite messages of rebuff. She and her dad were hoping that Jeanie might be on the return flight from Madeira tomorrow and that they could reconcile their differences, but . . . Well, Paula wasn’t going to bet the house on it, put it that way.

  Seeing how quickly your parents’ marriage could go from apparent fifty-year bliss to hitting the buffers didn’t half focus the mind on your own relationship, she found herself thinking worriedly. Could something similar ever happen to her and Matt? Were they strong enough to withstand a stress-test? She loved Matt with all her heart and was fairly sure the feeling was mutual, but with work and teenage sons and day-to-day domestic dramas, she sometimes felt they didn’t make time for one another. They took each other for granted and muddled along through the weeks, without stopping to appreciate their marriage on the way. When was the last time they’d gone out on a date, for instance? When was the last time she’d thought to do anything romantic, act spontaneously? A relationship could drift into the sidelines if you didn’t pay it enough attention. What if Matt was starting to feel stuck in a too-small world, as Harry had done?

  ‘Now you’re tensing up again,’ the masseuse scolded her just then. ‘Relax. Relax!’

  Later on, after the back-pummeller had signalled the end of the session by clapping two tiny prayer bells together with a small ting (what was all that about, anyway?), Paula rolled her swimming costume back up and put on her complimentary towelling robe and slippers again, before shuffling out of the dimly lit room to meet her friends for lunch. Paula had been at secondary school with Nicky, as had two of the other friends, Emma and Fliss, and then there were Nicky’s two sisters, Amy and Louise, which made them a table of six. They’d all just had treatments and so everyone was a bit slow-moving and dreamy as they sat down to eat.

  Perhaps it was the ‘Miracle’ massage leaving her a bit light-headed, perhaps it was the sneaky glass of wine that Nicky insisted on them all having with their food, or perhaps it was seeing Nicky and her sisters looking so alike, with their spiralling red curls and their identical mannerisms. Something, anyway, prompted Paula to tell them her bombshell family news. ‘Guess what: I found out the other week that I’ve got a sister,’ she blurted out during a lull in conversation. ‘A half-sister, rather. And none of us even knew she existed, not even my dad.’

  That certainly got a reaction from her blissed-out friends, their glazed eyes snapping into focus at once. ‘Wow! Bloody hell,’ cried Nicky, spluttering on her drink in shock.

  ‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Amy, clapping her hands together.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Does she live round here?’

  To a woman, they were all so thrilled for her, leaning in, twittering excitedly. A new sister! How lovely – tell us everything!

  ‘Well . . .’ And then Paula felt slightly shamefaced for making her announcement in the first place, when there wasn’t even that much to tell. ‘Unfortunately we’ve sort of lost her again. She turned up at Mum and Dad’s party and then vanished, and we don’t know how to find her. To be honest, we don’t really know anything much about her at all.’

  Lost her? Vanished? The drama! The intrigue! Paula found herself blinking at their delight and wonder, their eager stream of questions. It occurred to her that this was the first time anyone had actually expressed a positive opinion about Frankie’s existence, rather than it being this dirty little secret, a puncture wound to the Mortimer collective. She started explaining how badly her mum had taken the news, how the family had been rocked by the revelation, and how her dad had hit a brick wall in trying to track her down. Even nosy neighbour Lynne hadn’t been able to help.

  ‘Oh my God! This is so exciting. What a mystery! You’ve got to find her. There must be a way,’ Nicky and the others cried out, lunches forgotten.

  ‘Have you got a photo?’ asked Emma, who still had towel-marks on her forehead, like a pinprick rash, from where she’d been pressed down into her massage table.

  ‘Yeah, does she look like you?’ Amy asked, before rolling her eyes at her so-similar sisters and adding, ‘Because that is a curse and a blessing, believe me. Especially if everyone thinks you’re, like, the oldest one when you’re not.’

  ‘She does look like me,’ Paula replied, describing to them how she’d mistakenly thought Frankie was her, in the background of a photograph. ‘In fact,’ she added, reaching into the pocket of her robe and pulling out her phone, ‘I can show you.’ She pressed a few buttons. ‘Here,’ she said, passing it to Nicky.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ said Nicky, and then they were all crowding around to see, peering at the tiny lit screen and commenting, Gosh, yes, she did look like Paula. And yes, you could definitely tell they were sisters. What a surprise! What a bonus!

  ‘I know,’ Paula said, feeling rather overcome by their enthusiasm and excitement. ‘It’s so weird! After growing up with three brothers as well.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Fliss, peering in for a closer look. Then she frowned. ‘I’ve seen her somewhere before,’ she said, forehead crinkling as she stared. She turned the phone slightly so that she could inspect the picture in a better light and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. Definitely. Now let me think. Where have I seen her before?’

  A gasp went up around the table. ‘Seriously?’ asked Paula, leaning forward.

  ‘Think, Fliss,’ Nicky urged. ‘Where have you seen her?’

  Still frowning, Fliss shook her head. ‘I can’t put my finger on it,’ she said, frustrated, and they all groaned. ‘But I’ve got a good memory for a face,’ she added. ‘And I’m telling you: I’ve seen her. It’ll come back to me.’

  ‘I’m just off to meet Dave for a round of golf. I’ll be back later, probably sometime this afternoon, unless we stop for a pint,’ John said after lunch on Saturday, halfway out of the door.

  ‘Right,’ Robyn said tonelessly. Not that he noticed her lack of enthusiasm, or the fact that she hadn’t called out to pass on her love to Dave, as she usually would. He was already gone, heaving his golf clubs into the boot of the car as if that was enough to convince anyone, before reversing out of the drive, then speeding away. Here we go again, she thought to herself. Going to play golf with Dave, indeed. Did Dave know about this, she wondered? Or would he, like Stephen, unwittingly blow John’s cover by turning up at the door later on, his alibi unprepared?

  Well, bugger it. If John wanted to sneak around, then so could she. In fact, she’d already started. After the other night, when she’d known full well he had lied about going out with Stephen, Robyn had taken the liberty of installing a tracking app on h
er phone and had linked it to John’s. He had no idea that, any time she wanted, she could open the app and find out where he was. Like now, for instance, when, funnily enough, he didn’t appear to be heading in the direction of the golf course at all. In fact, according to the little map on the screen of Robyn’s phone, he was travelling in the opposite direction: up Fulford Road towards the city centre.

  ‘Harry, would you mind keeping an eye on the kids for a while? I’m just popping out to the supermarket,’ she called through to her father-in-law. Two can play at this game, John, she thought, grabbing her car keys. ‘Kids, be good for your grandpa, okay? Text me if there are any problems. I won’t be long.’

  It was actually quite exciting starting up her engine and glancing down at the map to track John’s progress. Follow that car! Well, okay, so perhaps ‘exciting’ was the wrong word, she corrected herself. Setting off in pursuit of her lying husband, in the hope of catching him out, was more what you’d call nerve-racking than exciting. Did she really want to know John’s secrets?

  Not particularly, she conceded, driving grimly out of their cul-de-sac. But she had reached the point where she couldn’t not know any more. She was so desperate to have her suspicions proved wrong that stalking her husband this way had come to seem acceptable, rather than weird or creepy. Needs must. There would almost certainly be a good reason for John’s subterfuge anyway, right? A perfectly normal, plausible reason. And she’d find this out by following him, and could then breathe a sigh of relief, chastise herself for letting her imagination run away with her and go home again. That was the plan. Who knew, they might even end up laughing about this one day!

  According to her phone screen, John was still heading towards town. The app had promised discretion – The one you are watching need never know you can see them! its description had declared – and it reminded her of playing a spy game as a child, cat-and-mouse. He was parking in the Peel Street car park, she saw and hung back, circling the block a few times, waiting for him to leave again before she went in. I’m onto you, John. I’m right behind you.

  His marker was now moving more slowly along Piccadilly towards the main shopping area, she saw. Having parked herself, a safe distance from his car, she broke into a jog to keep up with him, trotting over the river and getting caught up in the crowds of Saturday shoppers. John, where are you going? she thought as he cut down side streets and turned corners. Then the marker stopped again, this time on Stonegate. Had he gone into a shop? she wondered, hurrying that way. A café? A pub? Was he buying something nice for her as a surprise? Going for a job interview, even?

  Her adrenalin was really racing as she scuttled up the road. She remembered playing ‘Hunt the Thimble’ at Brownies, where those in the know would call out to let you know how near or far you were from the hidden thimble. Getting warmer . . . Warmer still . . . Cold again. Freezing! Ah . . . getting warmer again now. Warm. Hot! Really hot! Boiling boiling hot!

  The chant went up in her head as she drew closer and closer. Warmer. Warmer still! There was the marker flashing encouragingly on her screen in its same spot. Hot. Hot! She was almost there, one building away from him. She could hardly breathe with the anticipation. What was he doing? What was he doing?

  The next building along was the Plant Café, a trendy vegetarian bistro, full of students and young people usually. Definitely not the sort of place where John ‘Meat-and-Two-Veg’ Mortimer would normally hang out. Definitely not the sort of place he’d be applying for a job, either. Boiling boiling hot, she thought grimly. This was it, the moment of revelation. Did she really want to know after all?

  All right, deep breath. She had come this far, she had to at least look, she told herself, and edged gingerly towards the café window to peer inside.

  Shit, there he was, taking a seat at a table, and she dodged back hurriedly so that he wouldn’t see her. Okay, it was all right, he had his back to her, she saw, peeping around again. And there sitting opposite him was . . .

  Her heart seemed to seize in panic. A groan of anguish escaped her lips. Oh, why had she come here, why had she looked? When she had known deep down, all along, that this was what she might discover? Of course he wasn’t going for a job interview on a Saturday afternoon. Of course he wasn’t out buying her surprise presents! ‘You absolute shit,’ she muttered under her breath, fists clenching by her side.

  Because opposite John at the café table was a girl. A young woman, rather. A woman with pale, creamy skin and a long coppery plait and a piercing in her nose. She must have been half John’s age, thought Robyn in dismay as the woman laughed at something John said, then leaned across the table to kiss him.

  She swung her head away immediately – don’t look, don’t look – and walked blindly in the other direction, gulping for breath, a shot of adrenalin making her feel like she wanted to throw up; all her worst suspicions confirmed.

  What a cliché. What a cheesy, naff old cliché – and yet it still hurt so badly. Oh, John, she thought in desolation, her heart shattering into tiny shocked pieces. Tell me she isn’t one of your students. Tell me that isn’t why you got sacked!

  She broke into a run back towards the car park, her breath rasping. Playing golf with Dave, he’d said to her, bold as brass, but there he was with another woman, in public, in daylight, for the whole world to see. He’d lied and lied again. What other secrets was he keeping from her?

  Chapter Sixteen

  To say that Alison felt nervous on Saturday night was like saying the sea was wet. It was the first time in . . . well, months, possibly years actually, that she had been out of the house on a Saturday night for starters with make-up and heels on, rather than camping out in her usual spot on the sofa, telly blaring cosily, snacks at hand. As she approached the Old Bell, she couldn’t help feeling a sudden pang as she thought about her Internet group of friends who’d all be watching Casualty without her.

  Not like Alison to miss a show, they’d think. Is she ill? Is she okay? Alison, are you there? they would type in concern.

  No, she was not there, she thought, with another flurry of jitters. She was here, out in the real world, and walking into a pub. She was stumbling a bit on the rarely worn high heels, wondering if she had put on too much eye make-up, wondering if she looked too old, too fat, too frumpy. Trying, nonetheless, to appear confident, yet approachable. Fun without being a maniac. Was such a combination even possible?

  She had succumbed to the lure of the Silver and Single dating site, giving it a second go after her abortive first attempt. Yes, she had ‘put herself out there’, as Robyn liked to say, opened her inbox to a whole hoard of would-be suitors and marvelled at what a varied mix of people humanity had to offer. Tonight, she was meeting what appeared to be the pick of the bunch: Calum McRae, aged sixty-seven and a businessman from Leeds, according to his mini-biography.

  I’m looking for a fun, confident lady who likes a laugh, his description had read and she’d thought at the time – Yep, that’s me. Now, though, she didn’t feel as if she fitted the bill when it came to any of those adjectives. She might be fun, confident and full of laughs at work, or in her own home, but out here, in this pub full of strangers, she felt scared and uncertain, as if she had nothing to say for herself any more. What a fraud she was! Coming here under false pretences! Maybe she should turn round and go home. Maybe her instincts for a quiet, simple life had been right all along.

  He had sounded nice, though, Calum McRae, even if she suspected he might dye his hair, judging by the photo. At least he hadn’t been too prescriptive, like some of the other men on the website, with their ridiculously specific wish-lists of requirements. I’m looking for a lady aged between 62 and 65, must not be taller than 5’ 8”, slim (maximum size 12), clean, young-looking, attractive, financially independent, no plastic surgery, one charmer had written. And to think people said romance was dead, Alison had thought witheringly, scrolling on past at once.

  Having reached the bar, she glanced around in anticipation, won
dering if she would recognize her date amidst all the other men in here. She and Calum had exchanged a few messages in order to arrange tonight’s meeting, providing visual pointers for one another, so that they wouldn’t be left stranded. I’ll be wearing a dark-green dress with a purple brooch, she had written, after some thought. (She hoped that would do. What did one wear for one’s first date in nearly fifty years anyway?)

  Navy shirt and corduroy trousers, he had replied instantly, implying he wasn’t having a similar wardrobe panic. Maybe he was just one of those supremely confident people who didn’t really care about clothes. (Or maybe he was an old fart who bought his clothes from catalogues. Oh dear.)

  It was a cool evening – disappointing for July, everyone had been moaning about it – but even so, she could feel a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades as she continued to gaze about in search of a man matching that description. No. Nobody there. Was he even going to show up? she wondered in horror. She’d forgotten how terrifying it was, going on a first date, how vulnerable you made yourself. Well, never mind, she thought as she tried to catch the barmaid’s eye. She was here now, she would have a drink on her own, if the worst came to the worst.

  The bar was busy, with only one person working there and several customers already waiting. For some reason, Alison found herself thinking back to the very first date she’d ever had – a Saturday night at the pictures with Tom Naylor, back when she was sixteen years old – and wanted to blush as she remembered how they had cuddled experimentally in the darkness. (Gosh, yes! Tom Naylor, with his freckles and that cowlick of hair, and those rather adorable jug-ears. Now he had been a good kisser.) She bit her lip, wondering if there would be any cuddling tonight – and how she might feel if there were. How quickly was a sixty-something woman supposed to move on a date these days anyway?

  ‘Alice! Is that you? Sorry I’m late,’ came a booming voice from behind her, and she jumped, miles away, and turned to see a short, red-faced man with his hair every bit as badly coloured and cut as she’d dreaded from his photo, plus a paunch that threatened to send all the buttons of his shirt pinging off like small bullets. Welcome to Silver and Single, she thought, trying not to look dismayed.