Three Secrets

by Clare Boyd

  ‘This will probably do the trick.’ She sniffed, popping out two more of the fast-action Nurofen I had just taken.

  Clutching the washbag under her arm, she poured me a glass of water and watched me swallow two – more – pills.

  ‘See you downstairs,’ she said, and she turned to the right, along the corridor to her bedroom.

  I wanted to run after her, to ask her why she had kept those pills and why she looked like she had seen a ghost; but the atmosphere that trailed after her was malevolent and intimidating.

  I sloped downstairs. My cheeks were smarting like I’d been slapped. A punishment for being in denial perhaps; a sickening recognition of foul play. My past with Robert was twisting in and out of focus. All the unasked questions about why Robert had jumped came at me like pellets.

  For the first time since his suicide, I wanted answers from the family. I wanted to pound on the secret doors in this house, and slam my fists into the false panels; to wind and duck through the hidden stairways of their inner sanctum and walk the secret passageways that they had kept so securely locked.

  For too long, I had been scared of Camilla, who jangled the keys.

  For too long, I had been scared of their ghosts.

  Chapter Four

  John

  A hundred daffodils sat in a vase at the centre of the long table. Ten iron chairs, covered in pristine white cushions, tied with bows, were filled with nine Tennant family members. The spare seat was not for Robert, but for John’s Uncle Ralph, who had cancelled at the last minute. This absence neither surprised nor offended the family, who had become used to making allowances for Uncle Ralph’s unpredictable behaviour.

  The bright, white chair remained empty. It seemed to radiate with Robert’s spirit. In death, he was still with them. An unsettled presence, with unfinished business.

  ‘Fran was telling us all about her new job at Aspect!’ Patrick boomed from the head of the table, dropping his sunglasses from his head to his nose.

  ‘It gets me out of the flat in the mornings,’ Fran said, half-heartedly.

  ‘Robert would be very proud of you, Francesca,’ his mother added.

  Terrified of giving something away, John nodded, vaguely, and looked down at his plate, making hard work of his chewy lamb.

  ‘Is the lamb dry, John, darling?’ Camilla sniffed, eyeing Dilys, who had been late to the table with Harry, their fourteen year old, after a game of tennis. ‘I had to keep it warm in the oven for longer than expected,’ she added, smoothing a wrinkle in her flawless linen tablecloth.

  Dilys put her knife and fork together on her full plate. ‘It is a bit dry, actually.’

  Camilla pursed her lips, and looked to Patrick, who dutifully said, ‘I prefer it bien cuit. I simply can’t bear all that pink meat. No harm done at all. Marvellous.’

  ‘“A little water clears us of this deed”,’ his mother said, quoting Lady Macbeth, with a superior smile.

  There was a pause. John held his breath. He felt powerless and torn, with loyalties to both women, and scared of both.

  ‘Isn’t it such a shame that Aspect won’t be able to make any more Play for the Day Shakespeares? They were Robert’s pet project, weren’t they, John?’ Dilys asked, loudly, always a few decibels higher than everyone else.

  John glared at his wife. She pushed her blonde hair tightly back into a ponytail. The coarse strands pulled at the skin on her forehead. She looked angular and bad tempered. When he had first met her, he had thought she was as beautiful as a film star; a little how his mother had looked in her twenties, captured in the black and white photographs of her treading the boards in Shakespearean garb as an aspiring actress.

  ‘That’s not true,’ Francesca replied. ‘Waheed has just started casting for The Merchant of Venice.’

  Dilys pressed her fingertips to her lips. ‘Oh, gosh, John, haven’t you told them?’

  John’s pulse quickened. He imagined Robert looking down the table from that empty chair, reading each of their thoughts, probably roaring with laughter. Good luck with that shit-storm, bro!

  ‘I was going to tell everyone…’ John began, engaging with Francesca specifically, as though there were no others around them. Francesca’s big brown eyes were on him, hypnotic as they blinked, a thick fan of lashes all the way round, opening her up like a book. They made him feel weak, and guilty.

  ‘What is going on, John?’ his mother asked.

  He could feel the fear spread throughout the party. A twitch of Dilys’ eyebrow suggested she wasn’t feeling as bold as she had been a moment or two before.

  ‘John, pray tell us why Dilys seems to think Aspect is not going to make “Merchant” this month?’ his father asked, resting his elbows on the table and pushing the bridge of his glasses up.

  The bone-dry hunk of meat was tough and inedible in John’s mouth. He swallowed hard. ‘I’m afraid Aspect is in dire straits, financially,’ he said, pushing his chair back a little from the table, as if to create some kind of safe distance.

  There would have been a time, once, when he might have taken a shabby pleasure in delivering news to his parents that would push the halo on his big brother’s head ever so slightly askew. Not today.

  ‘Are you just being Noddy Negative again, darling?’ Camilla sighed.

  ‘What kind of dire straits?’ Francesca asked urgently.

  Hundreds of hair-tips pressed up against John’s shirtsleeves as he looked at her pale face. She pushed a dark chunk of hair behind one ear, which bent forward a little under the weight.

  ‘Waheed is afraid that Aspect will go into receivership if they don’t get the next series of Billy Stupid commissioned, which he thinks is highly unlikely since it’d be a seventh series and the ratings are abysmal.’

  ‘Why the hell hasn’t Waheed called me about this?’ Patrick boomed.

  Camilla flattened her hand over her heart. ‘Aspect Films was everything to Robert.’

  In spite of how insensitive it was to say so, John silently agreed. Robert’s manic energy had been channelled into his film company as though it was a living, breathing being that would die without his attention. It had taken precedence over Francesca, and even Alice.

  Olivia filled the stunned silence. ‘Alice, did you know your daddy’s television company is going to shut?’ Her well-projected glee echoed across the garden.

  ‘Olivia!’ John scolded. Olivia’s cheeks pinked, and she looked at Harry, who raised his eyebrows at his little sister, lifting himself out of his teenage dispassion for a rare moment of engagement.

  ‘That’s okay, Mumma,’ Alice said. ‘The big blue shop shuts at nine-past-thirteen and then it is open soon.’

  ‘That’s right. Just like Tesco’s.’ Francesca laughed, trying to reassure her little girl, pulling her onto her knee, holding her close.

  ‘Yes, exactly, darling,’ Camilla said, gathering herself with her characteristic strength. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Now, come on, kids, eat up and you can start the Easter egg hunt.’

  Everyone’s eyes were on Francesca. John wanted to scream at Dilys, who stood up, abruptly, a plate in each hand.

  Following her lead, everyone quietly cleared the table. John’s three children ran off, escaping the tension. The two girls scurried in front of Harry, who sloped aimlessly around the lawn after his two little sisters as they filled the egg baskets that Valentina had given them.

  Alice slid from Francesca’s lap to follow the others, and John’s attention returned to Francesca. Kindness radiated from those brown eyes – a tonic for anyone lucky enough to capture their gaze. She did not deserve this second aftershock, and neither did Alice. This little unit of two, for whom the whole family felt responsible since Robert’s death, was in turmoil once again.

  John knew that the business meant more to Francesca than financial security. It represented Robert’s life, and his lasting memory. He felt he had stamped on her and kicked her out into the wilderness, again.

  ‘At least your flat
will be worth quite a bit. If you need to sell it now, I mean,’ Dilys said, perhaps keen to deliver some good financial news.

  John corrected her. ‘He remortgaged it a few times to finance Aspect.’

  Francesca nodded, her eyes wide.

  ‘Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to view that house for sale in the—’ Patrick began.

  Francesca shot out of her chair, knocking a glass from the table. It shattered on the flagstones.

  ‘Oh!’ Camilla cried, leaping up, staring at the mess. ‘Robert gave us—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ John said quickly, shooting a dirty look at his mother. ‘I’ll get the dustpan and brush.’

  Patrick briefly put his arm around Camilla, and then offered Francesca more wine in a new glass. She shook her head, refusing any more wine, sitting back down.

  ‘Where the hell is Valentina?’ Camilla barked.

  ‘What house were you talking about?’ John asked, when he returned outside with the broom and dustpan.

  Camilla recovered instantly, and explained. ‘Number seventeen, on the green, is up for sale. It needs work but the price reflects it.’

  Patrick added, ‘And we’d sub her if she wanted to buy it, especially now that—’

  Francesca stopped their talk. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, my headache has got worse. It’s all come as a bit of a shock. I think I’m going to scoop Alice up and head home.’

  There were the token protests, but they let her go.

  As Francesca stood up from the long table, John found a way to look her in the eye. She visibly recoiled from him, as though she knew more about him now than she ever had. In a paranoid moment, he imagined that, somehow, she had figured out what he had been withholding about the night Robert had jumped. Her brown eyes closed for a long second, shutting him out, perhaps also telling him that she did not want to know.

  When Francesca was gone, John’s father took a sip of wine and said, ‘She’d be a damn fool to refuse to buy that cottage.’

  ‘It’s unlike her to be so stubborn,’ Camilla mused, handing Valentina an empty bowl as she cleared up around the family.

  John picked up a large fragment of the broken glass, which was hidden under the table near Alice’s chair, and said, through gritted teeth, ‘Fran’s not ready to sell that flat.’

  He didn’t feel he had to spell out what was so bloody obvious: leaving that flat was going to be like losing Robert all over again.

  Dilys addressed him forcefully. ‘Love, she doesn’t have much choice now, really. She’s broke.’

  ‘It won’t be that easy to sell. It’s small, and up three flights.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? On that street? In Whitehall Park? If she clears out all that junk, she’ll sell it in a week.’

  He gripped the broom. His knuckles whitened. ‘It’s not junk.’

  ‘It’ll be good for her to move down here. A fresh start,’ his mother said, the oracle.

  Everyone nodded and murmured their agreement.

  The chips and splinters rattled as John gathered them into the dustpan. Like the glass, their sadness was fractured, split apart, unresolved. A delicate, intricate confusion existed between them all, which undercut every moment of these family days, where they pretended to be a normal family who had worked through their grief.

  When he imagined Francesca’s move to the village, he was hit by a rush of fear. He sensed it would somehow challenge the togetherness and functionality of his family; but his parents were more intent on marshalling their troops than noting the nuances of a potential threat.

  Chapter Five

  16 years ago

  When Francesca had first seen John on set, her heart had galloped until she had felt sick. She didn’t think she had ever found anyone so attractive before. Then again, every woman on that film set behaved idiotically around him. All of them had decided that he was wasted as a runner, that he should have been an actor. He had been talked about quite a lot. There were rumours that the up-and-coming actress with the tiny waist, who was a body-double on Unit Two, had been out on a date with him.

  But then John had brought Francesca – with the wonky fringe and fingerless gloves – a cup of tea.

  ‘Thought you might need one of these,’ John said, handing her the cup.

  She was bowled over, imagining that the bright key lights of the film had been turned away from the leading actress and onto them. The flecks of rain around them were illuminated like gold dust. The lightness of his grey, flecked eyes, under his blond brow, radiated pure innocence. He had an elegant, vulnerable beauty. Once she looked, it was hard for her to look away, as though she saw a neglected child who needed her attention. His diffident charm had an almost magical power to it.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the tea. Her long hair had dangled into her paint, picking up pink ends that dabbled more paint onto her shapeless, all-in-one overalls. Her fingertips were splattered, and luminous with cold in the dull light of a drizzly day. ‘Haven’t you got one for yourself?’

  ‘They didn’t have any left.’

  ‘No tea on a film set? That’s a first.’

  He ruffled his blond hair, awkwardly, ‘No plastic cups. The caterers were just getting them from the other unit, and I didn’t have time to wait.’

  ‘Did you think I’d be gone by the time you got here?’

  She swept her arm over her semi-permanent setup in Hampton Court car park; a little bashful about her rickety foldaway table, miles away from the rest of the crew, inadequately sheltered by her car boot door. But she was a little proud of it, too.

  A shy smile twitched at his mouth. ‘You’ve got a good setup here.’

  ‘Come and join me. We can share the tea.’

  Together they sat on the edge of her car boot. There was a spray of drizzle on her face and goosebumps up her arms. They grinned at each other. The turpentine fumes from the bottles heightened her sense of giddiness. She handed him her tea, which he sipped and handed back.

  ‘Why did they want you to paint them?’ he asked her.

  ‘Can’t you see the difference?’

  John squinted at the buckets she was repainting and shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘One is “Berry Smoothie” pink and the other is “Raspberry Bellini” pink.’

  ‘Silly me. Smoothies and bellinis. Night and day.’

  Francesca laughed.

  He continued: ‘D’you think someone’s paid to make up those names?’

  ‘I should be paid to do that job. I’d be brilliant at it.’ Francesca pointed to her brown boots. ‘Dog Shit Brown.’

  John pointed at his yellow sock. ‘Urinal Yellow.’

  Her fingers plucked at a splodge of paint on the knee of her blue overalls. ‘God Damn Green.’

  ‘Motherfucker Mauve,’ John said, getting over-zealous.

  Francesca dropped her smile. ‘Now you’re taking it a bit far,’ she said, straight-faced, but she couldn’t hold back her smile, then a guffaw. And then they both fell about laughing.

  ‘Can’t you just pretend you’ve repainted them all? Nobody’d ever notice.’

  ‘Believe me, the art director would notice,’ she said. ‘And actually I’d notice. It’s like an affliction. Someone told me once that I was “chromatically pitch perfect”.’ She laughed.

  ‘Now that’s a claim to fame.’

  ‘Keep it under your hat.’ She winked and grinned, and they locked eyes.

  Francesca had never in her life wanted to kiss anyone more than she had wanted to kiss John in that moment.

  But she couldn’t imagine that he felt the same about her. It would be too good to be true. There was something about him that she didn’t feel safe with. The shyness, the nerviness, gave her the impression that his interest in her might flit and fly away at any moment.

  And, indeed, it had.

  His walkie-talkie crackled. He stood away from the car and spoke into it.

  ‘The boss wants me.’ He looked apologetic.

  ‘Bye.�
��

  ‘I’ll come back later.’

  Francesca watched his silhouette walking away into the golden rain. His backlit form was like the sad ending to a film, as though she had known that he would never come back to her.

  In the distance, at the entrance to the palace, she could see John approach Robert Tennant, the intimidating producer of the series. Robert Tennant was gesticulating at John. And then John disappeared inside.

  Chapter Six

  Francesca

  ‘He took sleeping pills?’ Lucy asked, bending over my shoulder to peer closer at the property website on the computer screen. At her request, I had pulled up photographs of Number 17 The Green, Letworth village.

  ‘Only when he was filming. When he was stressed.’

  ‘And you think it’s odd they were at his mum’s, because…?’

  ‘He only ever took them when he was filming,’ I said, repeating my point.

  Lucy pointed at the screen. ‘Very pretty. All those roses.’

  I stared at the photographs of the attached flint-stone cottage, on a row of four, facing a village cricket green, across from which was a pub and a small village shop; in the trees behind the pub sat an old church. The flowers in the small front garden seem to sway in the breeze and the little picture windows sparkled, but I couldn’t focus on them.

  I clicked out of the website, forcing Lucy to look at me.

  ‘Honestly, she was totally horrified I’d found them.’

  ‘Or she was pissed off you were snooping.’

  ‘The label was really worn. I could hardly make out our doctor’s name.’

  ‘I guess it’s been in that cabinet for two years, or more.’

  ‘Two years after he died, she still has them. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

  ‘Not really. You should see the crap I keep in mine.’