Three Secrets

by Clare Boyd

  ‘We’ve got Assam.’

  ‘Is that the strong one?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have that, thanks,’ I said, relieved.

  ‘Two of those,’ John said.

  This café, and this awkwardness with John, gave me the urge to run screaming back to London and rent a bedsit with a view of the North Circular and forget about Letworth, the pills and the Tennants.

  ‘So, are you excited about the move?’ John asked.

  ‘I didn’t think I would be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suppose I wanted to hate the idea.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘I don’t know. When I was looking around today, before you came, I was surprised… I felt…’ I paused, trying to find the word to describe how liberating it had felt to seek out new possibilities, beyond the claustrophobic four walls of the flat, to have found the courage to break up my dependence on its sadness, and begin the process of finding out why Robert had taken his own life. ‘I think I felt… new. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I think I’ve been using the flat to hide away.’

  ‘A lot went on there,’ John said, picking at a crust of food on the table, avoiding eye contact.

  The silence lingered, but then the tea arrived. In square teapots, with cups with square handles.

  John stared at the tea set. His expression suggested he was looking at slime in rusty tin cans.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, not as quietly as I would have liked. ‘This is bloody awful. Come on,’ he said, standing up. ‘Follow me in the car.’

  Happy to get out of that café, I followed his battered white vintage Porsche as it pootled through the lanes. It made me laugh that he was driving so slowly. Only John would drive a Porsche at 30 mph. I remembered when he had bought it with his first big pay check.

  We wound through the woods in convoy until we came to a farm track that led to a tree in full, pink-blossom bloom, next to which stood a small wooden barn. Through its open doors I could see it was filled with tables covered with colourful tablecloths and flowers. It was buzzing with other people. Walking in, I could see large coffee walnut, lemon drizzle and Victoria sponge cakes sitting on stands underneath glass lids on the counter at the back. The blackboard had a list of simple food like egg baps and sausage sandwiches.

  I chuckled. ‘Now you’re talking.’

  Settling down into the worn sofa in the corner, I felt easier. I could hear the woman behind the counter cackle at something John had said as he ordered for us.

  I watched the small groups of women, mostly my age, chatting at the tables around me, and I wondered if I could imagine any of them becoming my friends. There was one woman who was wearing a pair of black, Japanese-style dungarees and bright red nail polish, and I thought she looked arty and interesting.

  John said hello to another woman – who looked less friendly in her black Lycra – as he dodged a few dogs and dog bowls to return with a tray.

  ‘One slice of Victoria sponge, one slice of coffee walnut cake and a pot of tea for two,’ he said, which he poured into two satisfyingly round cups and saucers.

  A gust of wind blew through the barn, ruffling a chunk of hair into his eyes. He pushed it back, glancing at me, raising the hairs on my arms, reminding me of our past.

  ‘Robert would have hated the cottage,’ I said, knowing it was a dangerous thing to say. I wanted to get down to business.

  ‘Yup.’ He shrugged. He bent forward, cradling his cup without the saucer, two elbows on two knees.

  ‘And there’s the threat of tea with your nutty Uncle Ralph.’

  ‘A rite of passage.’

  ‘But it’ll be good to be closer to the family.’

  I wiped a smear of strawberry jam from my plate and licked it, letting it sweeten my tongue.

  He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Yes.’

  The brief, intense eye contact caused a discomforting rise in my chest, as though he had nudged my heart upwards a little.

  ‘Your mum will drive me mad, of course.’

  ‘No question.’

  ‘She doesn’t see me as a charity case, does she?’

  ‘No. She loves you.’

  ‘I know that. I think.’

  ‘She has a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘She’s been so brave about Robert.’

  ‘She toughs it out.’

  I paused, wondering how to say what I wanted to say. I began stirring my tea, until the grating metal of the teaspoon hurt my ears. The night of Robert’s death uncurled in the back of my mind, dragging me back to my grief, sending a searing pain through my soul, but focusing my mind.

  ‘Do you think she ever blames herself?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Why should she?’

  I felt my heart slow. ‘Guilt is a mother’s prerogative.’ I backtracked, regretting coming in so strong.

  His expression softened and he shrugged. ‘She probably takes some responsibility for the fact that he was depressed.’

  ‘But she never admitted he was depressed while he was alive.’

  He gave me a brief, sad smile, and said, ‘The Tennants don’t do depression, remember.’

  I inhaled deeply, readying myself.

  ‘On Easter day, I was looking in your mum’s medicine cabinet for some headache pills and I found a bottle of Robert’s sleeping pills. His Zopiclone.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Your mum was really odd when she saw me with them.’

  ‘It was no secret he took those pills, Fran.’

  ‘Did he ever talk to you about them?’

  John poured more tea. ‘Dr Baqri prescribed them, didn’t he?’

  I replaced my teacup in the saucer too heavily, almost breaking the delicate china. ‘No. He got them from our GP.’

  He looked up sharply. ‘He told me Dr Baqri prescribed them.’

  ‘Who is Dr Baqri?’

  ‘He’s been the family doctor for decades.’

  ‘“Dr T Rose” is written on the label.’

  ‘Strange. I’m sure I remember him telling me he was seeing Dr Baqri about his insomnia.’

  ‘Is Dr Baqri still around?’

  ‘Very much so. My parents still see him. He’s expensive. Harley Street.’ John picked up crumbs from his plate and then, after a long pause, he added, quietly: ‘The toxicology reports never mentioned any drugs in his bloodstream, Fran.’

  ‘Which is why we never questioned those pills at the time, but now I want to make sure that they were what he said they were.’

  ‘Of course they were.’

  ‘The label is really worn out. It was always worn out. I don’t ever remember it looking new.’

  ‘You think he was reusing the bottle?’

  ‘I never looked inside.’

  ‘Why would you have?’

  ‘I want to look now.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d see lots of little Zopiclones if you did.’

  ‘Will you ask your mum about them for me?’

  He rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You know how she gets.’

  ‘That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? None of us ever talks about this stuff. We’re all too scared to go there.’

  He hung his head, and pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘Talking about it won’t bring him back.’

  I shook my head, disappointed in him. ‘You sound just like her.’

  ‘Mum loved my brother, more than anyone. Those pills have nothing to do with his death.’

  ‘But I got the sense that she was hiding something, John.’

  He blinked, slowly, over his grey eyes. ‘Aren’t we all?’

  I gathered my bag, leaving my tea half-drunk, fighting back tears. ‘I’d better get going.’

  We peeled off to our cars, but I was trembling too hard to start up the ignition.

  I watched his Porsche disappear with the urge to run after him shaking my fist. I was throw
n by John’s misplaced loyalty to his mother, infuriated by his family’s predictable stonewalling.

  I had to find another way in.

  Dr Baqri’s Harley Street practice seemed like a good place to start.

  Chapter Eleven

  16 years ago

  ‘Film it. Come on!’ Robert cried.

  Francesca followed Robert around the whitewashed loft space of his new production company offices, zooming the phone down the length of his navy-blue macintosh and jeans to focus on his battered Nike trainers. Then back up again, to the back of his head, where his hair was birdnested from his restless night’s sleep. He walked quickly ahead of her, energetically, his head cocked to the side, as if he were shy, which he wasn’t, in the slightest.

  ‘This will be where my beautiful young assistant will make my coffee,’ he said, deadpan – she groaned and laughed from behind the camera – ‘and these shelves will be where we’ll put all my BAFTAs, and this desk is just perfect for taking you on right now.’

  She yelped as he pulled the phone out of her hand. Her filming froze on his face – his strong jaw, his untamed eyebrows, his piercing eyes alight in the moment.

  The sex had been quick and fun and filled her with confusion about ending their relationship. Everything was moving so fast. There hadn’t been a moment since that strange evening at the pub with John, several months before, when it had felt right to talk to Robert about her doubts. Robert was all-encompassing. When she was with him, she couldn’t see beyond him.

  Today, he was showing her his new production company.

  ‘Get dressed, you hussy. I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Robert declared.

  ‘Please god, no.’ She hated surprises.

  ‘It’ll be fun. I promise.’

  They jumped in the car and drove up through Kentish Town, through the residential streets of Waterlowe Park and up Swain’s Lane, across Hornsey Bridge and down into Whitehall Park. He parked in a street called Cheverton Road.

  Instead of ringing the bell at number two, he pulled out some keys and walked right in.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Francesca whispered, as they walked up the narrow staircase to the third floor in the old Victorian terrace. An old pram and a Hoover sat in the corner of the small landing, where there was a front door, which he unlocked.

  The flat was a dilapidated nightmare, squashed into the eves.

  In the sitting room, ‘I heart Fran’ was scrawled in white paint across the broken floorboards.

  She laughed and he grabbed both her hands and led her to the skylight window.

  ‘See? We can see the roof of Aspect Films from here.’

  ‘Aspect Films?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to call the production company.’

  ‘And this place?’

  ‘I’ve bought it. New flat. New company. New live-in lover.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you move in with me?’

  She looked around. There were holes in the plasterboard, a broken sink, filthy skylights. But she didn’t hate the flat or the idea of moving in with Robert. In fact, a calm came over her. She immediately imagined her life there, a simple life: few complications, minimal stress, streamlined happiness.

  She realised she would be mad to leave Robert. He loved her. He was offering her a good life. John was a figment of her imagination. An aberration. He’d had his chances, and he’d blown them. Robert was real, and he was offering her a real life.

  * * *

  With no money to do it up, Francesca had slowly added new bits of colour to their little home in the eves. Like a bird finding pretty twigs for its nest, she had found Eastern patchwork tiles in blues, ochres and greens for the kitchen, salvaged from a skip; stacked piles of pastel crockery onto the oak shelves to hide the cracks; draped the plain round table next to the sofa with a brightly printed scarf; knitted – she was in a knitting phase – a striped cushion-cover to match, in an unmatchy sort of way. From market stalls she collected a series of multicoloured glass bottles, thin, short, tall and bulbous, to line the high dormer windowsill. They refracted a jewelled light onto the walls. For the boring white bathroom she had found an aquamarine shower curtain, patterned with humming birds, and she had lugged a big green fern in an earthenware pot back from the local nursery to place by the bath.

  Every day that she wasn’t working, she added to her nest, while Robert worked all hours with Waheed to start up Aspect Films down the road. Every day she felt more and more at home, and more and more convinced that she had made the right decision to stay with Robert.

  She firmly believed that everyone could have a good life as long as they had the right attitude to it. And Robert was going to be the one to share it with her.

  Chapter Twelve

  John

  Dilys pulled off her high heels and bent at the waist, sighing, pressing her forehead into her suit skirt. ‘What a day.’

  ‘Supper’s on the table,’ he said, hanging her coat up.

  John was on autopilot, leading a double life. While his body carried out routine actions at home for Dilys, his brain was heavy with thoughts of Francesca and their disagreement about his mother and Robert’s pills. It had triggered a nasty, low-lying, gnawing feeling in his gut that he couldn’t shift.

  Dilys padded into the kitchen, barely registering his presence, plonking herself at the kitchen table in front of the knife and fork John had laid for her.

  ‘Are they all asleep?’

  ‘The girls are. Harry’s reading.’

  John poured her a glass of wine, which she gulped at, throwing her head back afterwards. ‘God, I needed that.’

  ‘Bad day at work?’

  ‘Could I have the proper fork?’

  By mistake, he had laid the smaller salad fork. ‘Sorry,’ he said, rapidly replacing it with the one she preferred.

  ‘Seriously, John. It’s not hard to lay the bloody table properly, is it?’

  John became immediately wary, double-checking the green beans were not overdone and that the dill sauce was well salted, hyper-aware that her displeasure could turn nasty. He sensed danger.

  ‘You know that five-storey Edwardian on the corner of Bruton Square?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, opening the oven.

  The salmon steaks were burnt at the edges. He was petrified that she might see. Before he laid it in front of her, he surreptitiously picked off the burnt bits. His hands shook as he performed the task.

  ‘Someone put an offer in two days ago and then they pulled out today after their third viewing with me this morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  She picked at her food. ‘She wanted a lift installed and her planning guy said she couldn’t have one.’

  John guffawed, as he slid into the chair next to hers. ‘Millionaires’ problems.’

  ‘Billionaires.’

  ‘Bastards, the lot of them.’

  Dilys didn’t smile. She pushed her food away from her, casually, as though she was bored by it, and crossed one knee over the other.

  ‘So, Fran moved in today?’ she asked, out of the blue, reading his mind.

  ‘Yup.’

  Dilys clicked her tongue. ‘I really never thought she’d do it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I thought she’d bottle it and rent some pokey dive in Peckham, or somewhere.’

  He focused on sipping his water and then said, ‘Dilys…?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Do you think Mum feels guilty about Robert?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you if it was Harry?’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true though, isn’t it?’

  ‘We were brought up by the same mum and I never had those issues.’

  ‘But you’ve got me.’ She squeezed his knee.

  ‘Francesca was good with him.’

  She exhaled. ‘Permissive, you mean.’

  ‘He wasn’t a teenager.’

  ‘He behaved like one.’

  ‘I was
a bit harsh with Fran today.’

  ‘Didn’t you help her with the bed?’

  ‘The wardrobe.’

  ‘She should be grateful.’

  ‘She was, but at Millfords, we had an argument, sort of…’

  ‘You went to Millfords?’

  ‘We needed some caffeine, believe me.’ He grinned, remembering how much it had hurt to laugh while he had been pinned to the floor by the wardrobe.

  ‘Why didn’t you take her to The Bakery?’

  ‘It was full,’ he lied, standing up to clear the table.

  ‘God, she’s actually going to be living in our village,’ Dilys snorted, handing him her picked-at plate.

  ‘You were all for it before.’

  ‘I didn’t want you bad-mouthing Letworth. You know how superior Fran can be about London.’

  Dilys had often accused Francesca of being smug about the cultural superiority of London. According to Dilys, Francesca spent her whole life swanning about with actresses and film directors and songwriters, talking of books and politics, passing around joints at dinner parties. Perversely, Dilys liked the idea of adopting bohemian aspirations, which were not expressed by their expensive house and her high-powered property career and exclusive private schools for their three children. But she loved buying modern art for their architecturally interesting Round House, and enjoyed being married to a writer. John’s ability to earn a good living from a creative job held a certain cachet within the mix of wealthy hedgefund managers and landowners and parochial solicitors, whom she both courted and was bored by; she slagged off their talk about their wine cellars and ski holidays, but gladly dabbled in the odd line of cocaine that they brought out on special occasions.

  ‘Robert was the one who was superior about London. Not Fran.’

  She swiped her glass from the table. ‘You never agree with anything I say.’ And she stormed out.

  John let out a long sigh. He had tried so hard to make supper perfect for her.

  * * *

  They spent the rest of the evening in separate rooms. Dilys watched a film on her laptop and John read in the study on his lazy-boy chair, which was the only piece of his own furniture that Dilys had allowed him to keep. He liked to sit in it when she was angry with him. It was like a supportive friend. Nevertheless, when he heard Dilys go around the corridor to bed, he followed. He wanted to make things right between them. His mother had always warned him against going to sleep on bad feelings.