The Secrets Sisters Keep: A heartwarming, funny and emotional novel (The Devlin Sisters Book 2)

by Sinéad Moriarty

  I knew I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to admit it, because I was embarrassed, but I’d approached three other newspapers, all of whom had turned me down. My confidence was shot. I wasn’t a journalist. I was just a mum who wrote little stories about her kids. I knew now that I’d never get another job like it. My writing life was over.

  ‘It’s fine – it was just a hobby. It’s no big deal,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, you certainly don’t need the money now. So, tell me, have you met your new neighbours? I hope none of them is going to take my place as your best mate!’

  I took a sip of coffee – the brandy was actually very soothing. ‘I called over to the people on the left, the right and opposite. To be honest, they weren’t that friendly. They were polite but distant. No inviting me in for coffee, no suggestion of playdates or a glass of wine some evening. None of them was like you. I was very lucky to find you. I knew the first time I called over to you that we’d be friends. I recognized a kindred spirit when I saw one and we were in the same predicament.’

  ‘Knee deep in shitty nappies and trying to live on tiny budgets,’ Marian said.

  I nodded. ‘Exactly. You got me through those baby years.’

  ‘Right back at you. I’d have gone mad without your support.’

  ‘I miss living here,’ I admitted. ‘I miss having you next door to pop into any time, day or night.’

  Marian glared at me. ‘Are you mentally unstable? Are you seriously telling me you miss having to count every penny, being stuck in a small house with four boys running wild and a washing-machine that’s always on the blink? Come on, Julie, enjoy your good luck. I’d give anything to move into a bigger house with a boiler that didn’t pack up every two months.’

  ‘Look, I’m not complaining. It is lovely not to have to worry constantly about bills, but I miss having you next door.’

  ‘So go shopping, have massages – go to yoga classes and do all the things you dreamt of doing when you were broke. I can tell you, if I ever come into money, I’ll be at the beautician’s morning, noon and night. I’d have all the fat sucked out of my thighs, I’d have an eye lift and hair extensions and designer clothes – and I’d dump Greg and the kids and run off into the sunset with Don Draper.’

  ‘You do know that Don isn’t real? He’s a character in a TV series.’

  ‘Don’t ruin my buzz. Besides, Don is real to me. In the last year I’ve spent far more time with him than I have with my husband. Speaking of husbands, how’s Harry getting on at that posh new golf club?’

  I paused. ‘I hardly see him. He spends half of his life there getting tons of lessons and playing with all of these high-flying businessmen. He’s certainly enjoying having a nicer lifestyle.’

  ‘You can’t blame him for that.’

  ‘True. But when he’s not playing golf he’s with lawyers or fund managers … He seems to worry more about money now that we have some than he ever did before. He’s obsessed with investments and long-term returns and pension schemes. He keeps saying, “Look at Jack and Sophie. We have to plan for our future.”’

  ‘To Hell with that. Jack sounds like he was a greedy idiot. Money is there to be enjoyed. Spend it.’

  She was right. We should have been enjoying it more, but it was all we seemed to talk about now. We’d hardly ever discussed money when we had none. Now it was a constant source of arguments. Harry was worried that it would run out. He was spending half his days researching the best way to manage it. I just wanted to enjoy it and stop talking about it. But Harry was different. He kept meeting people at the golf club who told him about this investment and that fund, and he was so impressed by their success that he was listening to every word they said and tying himself up in knots. But I didn’t want to bore Marian with all that. She was still struggling financially and the last thing she needed was me droning on about how our sudden money seemed to be causing Harry more worry than happiness.

  ‘On a completely different note, what do you give your kids for lunch? The boys will only eat ham sandwiches. I want to try to give them healthier options.’

  Marian snorted. ‘Beef Wellington! Julie, you know me. I give them whatever’s in the house. Yesterday I went to make sandwiches and the bread looked like it had been attacked by green aliens. Mould everywhere. So Brian had a tin of sweetcorn and a bag of popcorn, Oscar had half a packet of Tuc crackers, Molly had a slice of cold pizza and Ben had a yoghurt that was only one day out of date and a knackered banana. A ham sandwich is a bloody Cordon Bleu meal in this house.’

  We both laughed. Marian always made me feel better about my parenting. It was another of the things I loved about her. You never felt judged or bad about yourself around Marian.

  Marian looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry about this but I have to get a couple of hours’ work in before I pick up the kids.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.’ I stood and picked up my bag.

  Marian had gone back to work when Ben started at playschool last year. She worked from home, doing telesales for an insurance company, and was good at it – she was very hard to say no to. The basic salary was low, but the commission was good and she was focused on getting high sales figures.

  ‘You know I could talk to you all day, Julie. But this job is vital for my sanity, and for the extra cash. Hopefully, we’ll be out of debt and able to breathe financially by the end of the year, with the two salaries coming in.’

  I hugged her. ‘That’s great. Good for you.’

  ‘I’ll call you later. We’ll do coffee again soon.’

  ‘I’d love that.’

  Outside, I got into my car and looked at the clock. Nine forty-five. I didn’t have to pick Tom up until one and the triplets at three. What would I do? I decided to kill an hour grocery shopping, then maybe I’d go for a walk.

  Sod the walk. I’d go home and finish my book. It was strange: I usually read two books a week, but lately I’d been struggling to get through one in a month. For some reason I just couldn’t concentrate, my mind kept wandering. I worried constantly about everything, much more now than I had when we were broke.

  My phone rang. The screen said ‘Principal’. It was the headmaster from Castle Academy. My heart sank.

  In his fake English accent, Mr Henderson said, ‘I’m afraid there has been an incident.’ I put my head against the steering-wheel in despair, already sure I wouldn’t like what he was about to tell me. ‘Liam, Luke and Leo hung Sebastian Carter-Mills by his underpants from a clothes hook in the changing rooms. He was there for quite some time before one of the teachers heard him shouting.’

  Oh, God! Why did it have to be Sebastian? I took a deep breath. ‘That’s terrible. Did they say why they did it?’

  ‘They claim to have been provoked.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked.

  Mr Henderson cleared his throat. ‘Apparently Sebastian called them “scumbag lottery winners”.’

  I went from ashamed to raging in a split second. How dare the little brat say that to my boys? No wonder they’d hung him up.

  ‘That’s obnoxious,’ I said.

  ‘If it’s true, it certainly is rude,’ admitted Mr Henderson, ‘but regardless of what Sebastian said, we cannot allow boys to retaliate with violence.’

  ‘It’s not exactly violent, though, is it?’ For once I was going to defend my triplets.

  ‘Sebastian was very upset. Mrs Carter-Mills is traumatized, and I have to inform you she was pushing for the boys to be expelled.’

  ‘What?’ How dare that cow try to get my kids kicked out of the school? ‘But that’s ridiculous. It was just a prank that Sebastian provoked in the first place.’

  ‘I understand, Mrs Hayes, but the boys did cause Sebastian physical and emotional distress.’

  ‘What about my sons’ distress at being called horrible names?’

  ‘I can assure you that Sebastian will be spoken to about his unpleasant behaviour. But I’ve had to give your sons an official warning. They must
learn to control their tempers. We cannot allow students to lash out at each other.’

  ‘What does an official warning mean?’

  ‘If a boy gets three warnings, he is asked to leave the school.’

  Oh, God, they’d been there only three weeks. I knew how much Harry wanted them to be in the school. I just wanted them to settle down and learn something. I decided not to say anything else. I was angry and emotional: I didn’t want to get into an argument with the headmaster and make things worse. ‘I’ll speak to the boys when I pick them up,’ I said.

  ‘That would be wise,’ Mr Henderson said.

  I drove home, fuming. There was nothing I’d like more right now than to hang Victoria Carter-bloody-Mills up by her La Perla G-string.

  I collected the boys five minutes early and was rushing them towards the car, hoping to escape without bumping into anyone, when I heard a loud voice.

  ‘You there. Sophie’s sister. Stop.’

  I ignored her and pushed the boys into the car. But as I went around to climb into the driver’s seat, a thin hand clamped my arm. ‘I’m talking to you,’ a furious Victoria snapped.

  ‘Really? I didn’t hear my name.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t remember it.’

  ‘It’s Julie.’

  ‘It’s really not important. Do you know what your brutish boys did to Sebastian today?’

  I stared into her perfectly made-up eyes. ‘I heard that Sebastian said something incredibly rude to them and that they reacted.’

  She dug a bony index finger into my chest. ‘Your children are wild animals. They traumatized my son today. They’re nothing but common bullies and I will do everything in my power to have them removed from this school.’

  Rage fuelled me. Shaking, I grabbed her finger and pushed it away. ‘Your son needs to wash his mouth out with soap. If he ever speaks to my boys like that again, he’ll end up with a lot worse than a wedgie!’

  ‘How dare you –’

  This time I did the poking. ‘No! How dare you try to intimidate me with your bullshit threats? Why don’t you just go home and paint your nails?’

  I pushed her aside and climbed into the car. Turning to the boys, I said, ‘If Sebastian ever calls you horrible names again, you have my full permission to thump him.’

  5

  Louise

  Christelle came in and took off her coat. ‘Bonjour, Clara, ça va? Tu as mangé le petit déjeuner?’

  I had insisted she speak French to Clara. I wanted Clara to be stimulated at all times. She was also doing Mandarin, piano, violin and chess. My sisters thought I was over the top, but I remembered being bored as a child because I wasn’t challenged enough in school.

  Clara showed Christelle her empty bowl.

  ‘Thanks for coming in early,’ I said, putting the dirty bowls in the dishwasher. ‘I’ll be home by six.’

  ‘No problem. The guy in the flat next door was up at six blaring his music, so I was awake anyway.’

  I put on my coat. ‘Maybe you should reconsider Julie and Harry’s offer to live with them. They have plenty of room in the new house.’

  Christelle grinned. ‘Much as I love my dad, Julie and my little brothers, the house is like a zoo. I’d never get any study done.’

  ‘Fair point.’ I bent down to hug Clara.

  ‘Harder, Mummy,’ she urged me.

  I squeezed her tight. ‘I’ll see you later, sweetheart.’

  ‘Bye-bye, Mummy, have a good day at the office,’ Clara said.

  Christelle took her by the hand. ‘Viens, chérie, on va t’habiller.’

  I was on my way to a meeting when my phone rang.

  It was Gavin. ‘Hey, sis, I need some advice.’

  No surprise there, Gavin always needed advice. We three sisters had been supporting him, funding him, giving him shelter and advice since the day he was born. I felt more like a mother to him than a sister. With a nineteen-year age gap between us, I could have been his mother. Poor Mum thought she was getting the menopause when she discovered she was pregnant with Gavin – it had almost killed her. With the big age gap between him and us girls, he had been raised like an only child and spoilt rotten. The upshot of this was that he was very immature.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘After three interviews, Stars and Stripes have finally offered me a job.’

  ‘What kind of a job?’

  ‘It’s a Manager in Training programme. But I have to start off by working in the shop so they can see I’m not a total gimp.’

  Here we go again, I thought. Since leaving college Gavin had done the eco-warrior thing, when he lived up a tree in our parents’ golf club for a few weeks; a stint with the National Wildlife Federation in Washington; set up his own company selling fake designer watches from China, which told the time backwards, then a sandwich business from Mum’s kitchen. I got him a contract to sell his wares in my office block. There were 120 employees at the Price Jackson law firm and Gavin had done well selling sandwiches to them … until someone found mould in their bread.

  ‘What are the terms of the programme?’ I asked, glancing at my watch.

  I heard a rustling of paper and then Gavin began reading: ‘It says here, “The Manager in Training (MIT) programme is a ten-week course that immerses a manager in all aspects of running a successful business for Stars and Stripes. Training takes place in our store locations, blah-blah-blah.” And then it says, “The MIT must successfully complete the training programme to be moved into an Assistant Manager role.” And then it says that the vice president of the company, who earns, like, a billion dollars a year, started out doing the MIT programme.’

  At least it was a job with a good company and not some pie-in-the-sky scheme. I’d looked into Stars and Stripes and they were a solid business. ‘OK. Well, it sounds promising, and with big companies, there’s always the potential for promotion, if you work hard and impress them.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I just wanted to check you hadn’t heard they were about to go bust or something.’

  ‘You can never be sure, but they seem solid. You do realize the hours will be long, Gavin? Retail is a tough industry.’

  ‘Duh, obviously I know that. But it’s a really cool company and I think I’ll totally fit in. I’m ready for a new challenge.’

  ‘All right. Well, call into me at lunchtime with a copy of the employment contract and we can look over it before you sign anything.’

  ‘Cool, I owe you one. I’d love to chat, but I have to go to the gym to buff up. The dudes that work there are very fit.’

  ‘OK – I won’t keep you from your busy schedule.’

  As I walked into my office I wondered if my little brother would ever grow up.

  Nine thirty. She’d better have been run over by a bus or struck down by a heart attack.

  The doors of the lift opened and Wendy came panting down the corridor towards the conference room. ‘Sorry!’ she said.

  I grabbed the file from her and glared at her. ‘The meeting was supposed to begin half an hour ago. I’ve been plying our clients with coffee and pastries waiting for you to turn up with the files. This is inexcusable.’

  She blinked. ‘I’m sorry, Louise, but Freddy was up all night with croup.’

  I held up my hand. ‘It’s not good enough. You’ve been late nine times in the last six weeks. We could lose this account because of you.’

  Her face flushed. ‘It’s not my fault my child has croup.’

  I really didn’t have the time or patience for this. ‘Neither is it mine. Having a child does not give you an excuse to be unprofessional. Five of the senior partners and ten of the junior partners have children and they do not repeatedly arrive late for work.’

  Wendy’s eyes welled. ‘I’m on my own, Louise. Freddy’s dad isn’t around to help out. You know what it’s like being a single mum.’

  I never discussed motherhood in the office and I never used it as an excuse to be late. I certainly wasn’t about
to become her bosom buddy and bond over our shared lot. She could forget that. ‘Lots of career women raise their children alone. It does not excuse your consistent lateness. Sort out your childcare or we’ll have to look at your future here. Now go to the Ladies and freshen up.’

  I turned to walk back into the meeting. ‘Bitch,’ I heard Wendy whisper behind me.

  I pretended not to hear her. She was wrong: I wasn’t a bitch. Before I’d had Clara, I’d been a lot tougher. But having Clara and raising her on my own had forced me to admit how difficult it was for working mothers. I had made a mistake on a huge deal shortly after she was born. It had made me realize that I couldn’t keep going at the same pace and level at Higgins, Cooper and Gray, the firm I’d worked for in London. I’d had to reassess everything and had moved back to Dublin, for Clara’s sake. In career terms I had taken a step back, but not a big one, and I was happy with my set-up in Dublin. I had support so I was able to work full-time and enjoyed my job.

  None of the other partners with children came to work late. Wendy, a junior partner, was not entitled to special treatment because she was a single mother. There were mornings when Clara woke up feeling sick and she would cling to me, begging me not to go to work. At times I had had to peel her off my leg and hand her to the child-minder. I had often fought back tears on the way to work, but I had chosen to work in a demanding profession and I knew that meant sacrifices. On those difficult days I was extra loving to her when I got home. Did I feel guilty? Of course I did. But I had to work to support my child and I also happened to like what I did. I loved the high energy of the corporate world. Having specialized in securitization, I had carved a niche for myself and things were going very well. But there was always a price to be paid for success.

  How could women expect to break glass ceilings if they turned up late for work, complaining about sick children, bringing all their personal issues into the office? Women like Wendy felt the world owed them something. She’d never make it. I had seen lots of Wendys come and go. The stress would get to her and she’d resign or take a less demanding position within the firm.