All Your Secrets: A taut psychological thriller with a NAILBITING finale

by Jane Holland

  But maybe it’s time I was a fool again. Where Robin is concerned, at least. I’m sick of being sensible and well-behaved. I’m sick of being bored.

  Robin is the polar opposite of boring.

  And he makes me happy.

  Tamsin looks shocked when I tell her I’m going away for a couple of days. But to my surprise, she does not argue. Perhaps my presence is beginning to grate on her nerves.

  ‘Who are you going with, darling?’ she asks, sitting with a box of Emily’s things on her lap – birth certificate, old school reports, a few photos of the two of them on a film set together in Egypt. She has been trying to remember details of her own and her daughter’s lives, details that are gradually becoming eroded or lost forever as her dementia takes hold.

  ‘A friend,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘Which friend?’

  I dislike lying, but equally can’t admit that I’m going away with Robin. That would only upset Aunt Tamsin, and I have no wish to hurt her feelings. She’s suffered enough as it is.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I tell her instead, and silently apologise for misleading the poor woman. ‘A shopping expedition along the coast.’

  ‘Charlotte?’

  Gently, I remind her. Charlotte was one of the rich kids Emily and I used to hang out with on the beach, the daughter of a banker. I caught a glimpse of her at the funeral – now a tall, rather languid blonde with two young children in tow – but did not get a chance to speak to her. We were never particular friends, but Tamsin won’t remember that.

  Her face lightens. ‘Oh, yes, Charlotte. That sounds like fun. Perhaps I should come too.’ She looks up and sees my expression. Her smile is wistful, even a little sad. ‘Don’t worry, I was only joking. I know you don’t want to drag your old aunty round the shops.’

  ‘Hardly old,’ I say, feeling awful now. She won’t accept the invitation, of course, but I have to offer. Or she’ll be suspicious. ‘And you know Charlotte would be delighted to see you again. The glamorous Tamsin!’

  ‘Not when a photographer pops up out of nowhere and she gets her face splashed across some celebrity rag,’ she says drily.

  ‘Yes, that is a drawback.’

  ‘Fame has its price, darling.’ To my relief, she’s already waving her hand, shooing me away. ‘No, you go off with your old chum. Have a lovely time, both of you. I’ll be fine here. Anyway, Lucille is going to bake me one of her wonderful chocolate cakes. She’s famous for them on the Riviera, you know. So delicious.’

  ‘I remember her cakes.’

  ‘Don’t forget to bring me back a present,’ she calls after me, a teasing note in her voice. ‘Un petit cadeau. Surprise me.’

  That afternoon, I tidy my room and make my bed, not wanting to leave any mess for Lucille to clear up in my absence. The heat is oppressive and I’m soon sweating as I pack one of Emily’s old rucksacks with a change of clothes and some toiletries, according to Robin’s instructions. As an afterthought, I take out the crumpled photograph I found and study it again.

  Just looking at the photograph with its menacing row of red crosses makes me shudder. But I want to know what Robin makes of it. Perhaps I should have shown it to Lucille, asked why it was hidden away at the back of one of the kitchen cupboards.

  But in all honesty, Lucille makes me uncomfortable. The woman is hiding something, I’m convinced of it.

  But what?

  I stare out at the gorgeous blue Mediterranean.

  A swim is what I need in this heat. Not in Tamsin’s beautiful but rather small pool here at the chateau, but in the sea.

  I’ve barely had a chance to dip a toe in the Med since I got here, apart from that quick dip with Pierre off his yacht. And it’s so hot today.

  I’m sure Tamsin won’t mind if I nip down to her private beach. I have the key code for the lower gate. So why not?

  Hurriedly, I strip off and pull on my string bikini instead. Lucille has left a neat stack of clean towels stacked on top of the chest of drawers, so I roll one up and shove it into my bag with my phone. I’ll only be an hour or so, but I don’t like going anywhere without my phone. Not that I’m expecting Robin to ring, but he might want to change the time and place of our rendezvous tomorrow.

  I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops suitable for the beach, and eye myself in the small mirror without much appreciation. My arms and shoulders may slowly be darkening to bronze, but the rest of me has that pale gold Cornish tan which might as well be milk-bottle-white on the Riviera.

  Still, it is what it is.

  A text message pings on my phone just as I’m about to leave the room. I stop to read it, and frown.

  Hope you’re okay over there. Give me a call sometime. No hurry. Dad x

  My heart sinks.

  No hurry.

  That’s practically Dad-code for ‘Help.’

  Swamped with guilt at having neglected him since Emily’s funeral, I sit on my bed and call him back at once. He answers on the third ring, which is unusually fast and worries me even more.

  ‘Hey, Dad? It’s me.’

  ‘Hello, Caitlin.’ There’s a deep pleasure in his voice. No clue as to what’s bothering him. But then, he’s always been good at hiding his emotions. ‘It’s good to hear from you at last. I suppose you must have been having a great time there.’

  ‘Sorry, I got side-tracked. So many things happening here.’

  He sounds interested. ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘It’s complicated. I’ll tell you when I get home.’ I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about Robin yet. I like him being my little secret. Though at some point, I’ll have to mention his name to Dad at least. Otherwise it will feel too much like deception. ‘Look, what’s up?’

  ‘Why would anything be up, as you so delicately put it?’

  ‘You texted me, Dad. You never text.’

  ‘I text.’ He hesitates. ‘Now and then. When it’s … necessary.’

  The note in his voice turns me cold.

  ‘Necessary?’ I lie back on my narrow bed and stare up at the ceiling. ‘Come on, this is me. You can be honest. What’s wrong?’

  He’s reluctant to tell me, but eventually admits that he’s been having what he calls ‘minor problems’ again. ‘It’s my chest. They want me to go back into hospital for more chemo.’

  ‘So, agree to have more chemo. I’ll be back soon, honest. I’ll help you through it. Just like last time, right?’

  ‘They want me to go in the day after tomorrow.’

  I close my eyes. ‘Right.’ So much for my two-day break with Robin. ‘Okay, don’t worry about anything. I’ll explain to Aunt Tamsin that you … you need me back home immediately. Then I’ll jump on a plane tomorrow morning. Be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Caitlin, wait.’ He hesitates. ‘I told the hospital no.’

  I sit up. ‘Sorry, you did what?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided that I don’t want any more treatment. No more of that foul chemotherapy.’

  I’m stunned. ‘But you need it.’

  ‘In what sense? To keep me ticking over a few more weeks?’

  ‘To keep you alive.’

  ‘The chemo is awful, sweetheart, you know that. You’ve seen me afterwards. It leaves me barely able to function. What quality of life is that?’

  ‘But, Dad …’

  ‘I know,’ he says softly into the phone. ‘And I’m sorry, sweetheart. Truly, I am. I’d do anything to spare you what lies ahead. But I’ve made my decision.’ He pauses. ‘It’s time to give up. Or rather, give in. Let the inevitable happen.’

  I’m crying now, tears running silently down my cheeks. Brilliant. Chemotherapy is the only thing that’s been keeping him from going under completely. There’s no curing his cancer. Before we even realised there was anything wrong behind a bad cough and a little breathlessness, it had already spread rapidly and virulently from his lungs to invade the rest of his body. The oncologist told me they couldn’t put a date on how long he’d l
ast, but what they could offer my father was life-prolonging treatment and palliative care.

  Everything had been going well before I left Cornwall. His overall health had improved and he’d been talking tentatively about the future again. Planning more than a few days ahead.

  Now apparently he’s ready to give up and die.

  ‘I should never have gone away.’ I dry my cheeks with the back of my hand, trying not to let him hear how upset I am. ‘I shouldn’t have left you to cope alone. It was selfish of me. This is my fault.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s true though. You were fine when I left.’

  ‘I was not fine, Caitlin. I was in a holding pattern,’ he says, then makes a terrible, strangled noise under his breath that turns into a coughing fit.

  ‘Dad?’

  But he can only cough, choking violently, turning away from the phone while he gets his breath back. I wait for him to speak again, smothering my sobs with my hand.

  ‘Look, I was always dying,’ my father continues, his voice hoarse now, his breathing spasmodic. ‘The cancer’s terminal, no possible hope of a cure. We both knew that. We already discussed the details, prepared ourselves for what comes next. I’m just dying a little faster now, that’s all.’

  For God’s sake …

  ‘I’m coming home. Tonight, if I can get a flight. Tomorrow at the latest. Please don’t make any decisions until then, okay?’

  I stand up and stare out of my balcony window at the dazzling blue sparkle of the Mediterranean. It will be a wrench to leave this place so precipitously for a second time. To leave Robin too. We had only just begun to know each other again, to dream about a possible future together. But my father has to come first. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.

  ‘Now listen –’

  ‘I’ll call you when I’ve got a flight arrival time. Promise me you won’t do anything until I get there.’

  ‘Caitlin, I’ve already refused the treatment. It’s done, it’s a fait accompli. And besides, darling,’ he adds gently, ‘it’s not your decision to make. It’s mine.’

  My hand clenches on the phone. ‘I can’t lose you,’ I whisper. ‘Please, Dad, just wait … One more day, that’s all.’

  He hesitates, then sighs. ‘Very well,’ he agrees heavily, and I can hear the reluctance in his voice. ‘I’ll tell the doctor I may have changed my mind. But now that I’ve cancelled, he made it clear I wouldn’t be offered another chemo session until the end of the week at the earliest.’

  ‘The end of the week?’

  ‘Yes, so there’s no need to come scampering back here tomorrow to hold my hand. Is that understood?’ He laughs, and then has to suppress another coughing fit. ‘I have some old friends coming to stay. To say goodbye. You will be decidedly in the way if you turn up now.’

  ‘Old friends?’

  ‘A lady vicar and her girlfriend,’ he says drily. ‘Sherry drinkers. Lapsed evangelicals. Given to the giggles when tipsy. You know the sort.’

  I smile through my tears. ‘In other words, you don’t want me home until they’ve gone.’

  ‘Three days, tops. Don’t worry, they’ll look after your old dad. Breakfast in bed. That’s what I’ve been promised.’

  ‘As long as it’s only breakfast,’ I mutter, and hear him laugh again.

  ‘Okay, farewell.’ He blows a kiss down the phone. ‘Speak soon, darling. Take care of yourself. And give my love to your aunt.’

  ‘Dad, you need to tell her.’

  ‘About my Sapphic friends? Oh, I don’t imagine my dear sister would ever wish to be made privy to that kind of salacious titbit. Especially not with her history. I mean, all those naked pool parties of her youth, celebrity orgies more suited to Ancient Rome than Hollywood. I wouldn’t want to undermine her in that regard.’ I hear the smile in his voice. ‘Tamsin’s always prided herself on being far more wicked than her older brother.’

  I grin, despite the seriousness of the situation. ‘Aunt Tamsin needs to be told about your condition, as you know perfectly well.’

  ‘My condition. How delicately you put it.’

  ‘Dad, please.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Message received and understood.’ My father hesitates. ‘But let me do it. I’ve got her number. I’ll call her myself in … in a day or two. I’m a bit of a coward, you see. Need to work up to it first. Maybe knock back a few large sherries.’

  ‘With your lady vicar friend.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  I end the call with a cheeriness that I’m far from feeling, and then stand in silence for a while, staring at nothing.

  Three days, then.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  By the time I’ve dried my eyes and feel able to take myself downstairs, Lucille is nowhere to be seen. I head into the kitchen again. The table is strewn with the aftermath of baking. A batch of brioche loaves, by the delicious smell, and the broken egg shells still lying beside a white sprinkling of flour over the table top. But there’s nothing in the ticking, cooling oven, so I’m guessing she’s already covered the brioches and stored them in one of the side pantries.

  I leave the chateau by the back door. The gardens are hot and silent, except for the relentless chi-chi-chi of cicadas and the chirruping of birds.

  I keep thinking of Dad.

  It hurts so bad, I have to focus on other things or I start sobbing again.

  I take the steep path that leads eventually down towards my aunt’s private beach. Past the gate, which creaks as I open and close it behind me, low wrought-iron creeping with ivy, and into what Emily used to call ‘the maze.’

  It’s not a real maze, of course. Merely a winding, near zigzag path shaded with tall hedges.

  It does feel narrow and enclosed though, and the constant winding of the path creates the eerie sensation of being in a maze, never quite sure where you’re going. Except that I catch occasional bright flashes of sea whenever the path dips, which help remind me that I’m not lost. At every corner too, there’s some rough attempt at a garden feature, so you know how far you’ve gone: a rustic log bench on the first bend, a statue of some nude goddess at the second, and a small pond for the frogs and insects at the third, its murky waters thick with irises and bulrushes.

  I pass these by with a haunting sense of deja-vu, recalling dark, fragrant evenings when we sat on that bench to smoke marijuana, or afternoons spent fishing for ‘sea-monsters’ in the pond with long sticks, Robin even falling in once, to our general hilarity, and climbing out with dripping clothes and weed in his hair.

  But at the next turn of the path I stop, surprised.

  Deep on the fourth bend, at the point furthest from the track, a small, dome-shaped stone has been set into the earth. It’s partially overgrown with grass and a tangle of some low-growing herb, plunged into shadow by lush, overhanging shrubs. But I can see what it’s meant to be.

  A headstone.

  There’s something written on the stone.

  A name?

  I step through the tangled undergrowth, trying not to think about Dad’s impending death, and the too-horrible reality of having to organise his headstone soon, with his name on it.

  Crouching down, I push aside the foliage and try to read what it says on the old headstone. The lettering is unevenly spaced and illegible. I guess it must have been scratched into the stone with a knife blade, not properly chiselled. Years ago too, judging by the greenish tinge. But after my holiday at Chateau Tamsin. I don’t recall a headstone here before.

  There’s no sign of an actual grave. No mounded earth or outline. Just rough ground, grassy and pitted with stones, like the rest of the slope.

  And a sprig of bougainvillea is lying before the stone, the flowers wilted on the bough now but cut recently enough. Maybe a week old.

  So somebody made the effort to put a headstone here, and carve out a name on its surface, however imperfectly. And the fragrant spray of bougainvillea didn’t appear on their own. Somebody care
s.

  Curious and perplexed, I ran my fingers over the top of the lichened stone, and peer at the lettering again. Is that an ‘o’ I can pick out?

  Suddenly, my ears detect an almost imperceptible sound on the sloping path above me. Like a stone being dislodged by someone descending.

  I turn, listening.

  Someone is definitely coming down the zigzag path towards the beach.

  But who?

  The hairs rise on the back of my neck.

  Hopping out of the shade and back onto the sunlit track, I pick up my bag, which I’d dropped, and swing it over my shoulder again. I recall Tamsin warning me once about incursions by the paparazzi, who occasionally manage to get in over the walls, and stiffen, looking round for a hiding place. I’m abruptly aware that I’m wearing nothing but a string bikini and flip-flops, and have a premonition of spotting my picture in Hello magazine, snapped in some deeply unflattering pose.

  A figure rounds the bend before I can find somewhere to hide.

  To my relief, it’s not a photographer but Jacques.

  The gardener pauses mid-stride as he catches sight of me standing in the middle of the path. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, although I’m convinced he knew perfectly well I was here. Then he continues on towards me, smiling. He’s bare-chested and in his cut-off denim shorts again, this time carrying a large, red-handled spade over one shoulder. Its immaculate blade glints in the sun as though brand-new.

  ‘Hello again,’ he says in French. His gaze lingers on my body, all but naked in the skimpy bikini and no doubt milk-bottle-white to his eyes. ‘On your way to the beach?’

  My heart is beating fast. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a gate down there. With a key pad.’

  ‘It’s okay, I know the code.’

  ‘Good.’ His gaze flickers past me to the low, shady gravestone half-hidden in foliage.

  ‘Jacques,’ I say impulsively, ‘whose grave is this? Do you know? I don’t remember it being here last time I visited.’

  He lowers the spade to the ground. Leaning on the handle in the hot sunlight, he studies the gravestone first, then my face. There’s perspiration on his forehead.

  ‘Before my time, I’m afraid.’ His gaze flicks back to the stone. ‘There’s a name on it.’