Tell Me A Secret

by Samantha Hayes

  Her phone pings again, but Annie grabs it first, laughing. ‘You must have been swiping hard today, hon. Another match.’

  ‘Let me see,’ Cath says, lunging for her phone but knocking over her wine instead. While she’s fetching a cloth, Annie checks it out.

  ‘He’s not great,’ I say, peering over her shoulder, actually beginning to enjoy myself, to forget. ‘Looks a bit boring. She can do way better.’

  ‘Do better than what?’ Cath says, mopping up the spillage.

  ‘Him,’ Annie says, flashing her a quick look.

  Cath pulls a face. ‘I don’t even remember swiping on him,’ she says, going back to the kitchen. ‘Check out the other dating app I have on there and see what you think,’ she calls out. ‘You can actually search for interests and stuff. It’s one of the most popular apps now.’

  ‘We should delete all her apps, more like,’ I say, wishing I could fill the gaping hole in Cath’s heart. She tries to cover it up with humour, act like she doesn’t care, but I know she does. Since Matt left a couple of years ago, it’s been tough for her. Especially when she found out he’d married the woman he ran off with. She was crushed. And it doesn’t help that all her friends are in happy relationships.

  ‘OK, look, here it is,’ Annie says. ‘Double Take. She’s shown us this one a hundred times already,’ she says, rolling her eyes and thumbing through various lists.

  I peer over her shoulder, hoping we’ll find Mr Right for Cath here and now, get it sorted once and for all. But I know that’s not how love happens – that sometimes it hits in the most random of ways and for the most unlikely reasons. And sometimes for no reason. I hug my arms around myself, refusing to think about it. Refusing to think about him.

  ‘These are the people she’s already contacted,’ I say. ‘And these are the guys who’ve messaged her. Some of them look OK.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Annie says. ‘I’ll do a search and see if there’s anyone decent in the area. Best we take control here, eh girls?’

  Cath comes back and sits down again. ‘Go for it, you lot. You can personally vet them all for me. Remember that guy I met last week? Turns out he had some kind of live porn channel and wanted me to be on it. He was basically using the dating site as a perverted employment agency.’ She laughs, but I can still see the look in her eyes. ‘It was annoying as he was actually really nice. Great-looking, fun to be with, we had loads in common—’

  ‘Except he wanted to be your pimp,’ Annie says. ‘Leave this to us, Cath.’ She rubs her hands together.

  ‘Then there was the one who wasn’t over his ex,’ Cath goes on, cradling her wine and talking to no one in particular. ‘Unknown to me, he got me to have my hair done the same way as hers, saying it would suit me, even convincing me to wear the same style clothes as her. I truly thought he was “the one” until I found a picture of his ex. She looked just like me, and he was still sending her hundreds of messages a day.’ She scowls, trying to appear defiant even though I know she’s not. ‘And don’t get me started on the guy who wanted us to be exclusive but then replied to other Tinder messages while we were together. Or the one who asked if I’d date him until someone better came along. And not forgetting the guy who wanted a fuck-buddy. He came armed with a contract, paragraph two clearly stating he refused to use condoms. Plus, there were at least three who were married or in relationships, a couple who were looking for naughty fun, and then there are all the scammers from—’

  ‘Cath, love,’ Annie says, touching a finger to her lips. ‘Hush, sweetie. We’re going to sort this.’

  ‘Even if you find Brad bloody Pitt on there, he’ll turn out to be a twat.’ She pours more wine, but secretly I can tell she’s glad we’re trying to help. Book club nights are always like this – not so much to do with books but rather us muddling through our lives, helping each other however we can, whether it’s to do with work or kids or love or health. We’ve all got a listening ear, can all offer advice, somehow turning our worries into a laugh. It’s the opposite of therapy, but therapy nonetheless.

  But I can never tell them about him.

  ‘Right,’ Annie says, scrolling through a list of mug shots and ages. ‘No, no, no, yuk, Christ no, hmm maybe…’ She clicks a link but then sees he’s only five foot three. ‘No way,’ she says, going back to the list and scrolling through at least another thirty or so profiles.

  ‘Slim pickings when you narrow it down,’ I say, reaching for my wine, grateful for the distraction. Grateful I have Mark. Megan is peering over our shoulders now, while Cath feigns indifference.

  ‘It’s always the same old faces,’ she says. ‘I’m sick of it. You can delete them all for all I care. I’m going to join a nunnery.’

  ‘Oh wow!’ Annie suddenly says, her mouth dropping open. ‘Take a look at him.’ She halts her scrolling, tapping on a profile. ‘Let’s not be too hasty here.’ She gives Cath a wink, nodding as she goes through his pictures. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I lean in to take a proper look.

  And that’s when my world falls apart for the second time in a week.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nikki

  It’s raining. A fine drizzle that’s not enough for an umbrella – if I even owned one – but enough to wet my lashes and cheeks, stick my hair to my head. But I don’t care what I look like. No one will see me. Not today. The hedge is tall and good cover to lurk behind. There’s a convenient gap to peer through – just wide enough to get a view of the clinic door yet not big enough for her to spot me. And even if she did, it doesn’t matter. She wouldn’t know my pale, unmade-up features, my gaunt look. Though it strikes me that she might recognise the pain etched on my face.

  I retreat back into the small green area at the centre of the crescent – woven with geometric paths and low box greenery, a cluster of twiggy, pruned roses in the centre bed. There are four wooden benches – one at each edge of the square – with several trees also forming a boundary along with the hedge. I sit back down on my usual bench. She rarely leaves before 5 p.m.

  ‘Got a light, love?’

  I swing round. A man looms over me, but I don’t feel scared. He looks the same as me – broken, lost, waiting for something though he’s not sure what.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, fishing in my pocket. I’ve seen him a couple of times before, sleeping on one of the benches, his clothes filthy and his head resting on his backpack. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘You ain’t got a fag too, have ya?’ He fidgets from one foot to the other, glancing around nervously. He’s not wearing any socks, his thin white ankles showing between the hem of his frayed jeans and battered trainers.

  ‘Take these,’ I say, handing him the packet. I have another one in my bag. ‘I’ll have my lighter back, though.’ I laugh, the first time I’ve heard myself do that in a while.

  ‘You sure, missus?’ He opens the pack, looking incredulous.

  ‘Certain,’ I say. ‘And it’s not missus.’

  He nods, lighting the cigarette and handing me back my lighter. He goes to the bench opposite, pulling a large plastic bottle of cider from his backpack, swigging from it. He leans forward on his elbows, the bottle propped between his feet and the cigarette dangling from his hand. Every so often, he takes a drag or a swig, his eyes still focused on the ground. He breathes out in long, heavy sighs.

  I light a cigarette myself, checking my watch again before going back behind the hedge, just in case. Her office lights are still on. Rain or shine, she always has those lamps on – one by the window, another over near where she sits. A warm glow spills out of the Georgian sash window, making the street scene look autumnal even though it’s early spring.

  ‘What you looking at?’ His voice makes me jump again.

  ‘Oh…’ Cigarette man is standing close. I can smell his breath. ‘I’m just waiting for someone.’ I kick myself for explaining when I don’t need to. It’s reminiscent. Making excuses that weren’t needed. I shudder.

  ‘Who you waiting for?’ he says, com
ing closer. I press my shoulder bag against my body, stepping back. The hedge is right behind me.

  ‘A friend,’ I say, glancing nervously behind him.

  ‘So why you hiding here, then?’ His face relaxes into a smile, his expression earnest.

  ‘Who says I’m hiding?’

  ‘Cos I know the signs. And you’re doing them.’ He laughs, exposing rotting and missing teeth.

  ‘Well, you’re wrong.’ But I can’t help wondering if he’s got a point. Perhaps the very act of hiding is making me more conspicuous. What if she’s already spotted me on one of the countless afternoons I’ve been here? What if she calls the police? Does she sense me watching when she comes down the steps of her office, tracking her towards the main road if it’s a bus day, or the other way if she’s heading to the car park? I always hang back a few seconds before following.

  Cigarette man nods. ‘I seen you round here a few times. You wanna be less obvious. So go on, then, who you hiding from?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m just waiting for a friend.’ I sidestep him and go back to the bench, dropping my cigarette to the ground, squashing it with my foot.

  He sits down beside me. ‘Look, I ain’t gonna tell no one or nothing.’

  I give a little nod, glancing sideways at him, trying not to catch his eye. His hair was probably once a vibrant red, but now it looks weathered and dull, more a flat, rusty tone as if he’s been outside too long. His skin is ruddy and freckled, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth. I suspect he’s only early twenties but looks much older. Maybe telling him everything would help.

  ‘You ain’t a spy, is you?’

  ‘No,’ I laugh, thinking that’s not so far from the truth.

  ‘You got a place to live?’

  For a second I’m not sure what he means, but then I realise why he’s asking. My hair isn’t in much better condition than his and my skin is sallow and dull. My clothes, all from charity shops, never quite fit, and my one pair of shoes are scuffed and old-fashioned – chunky brown loafers with one of the tassels missing. I hate them.

  ‘Have you got a place to live?’ I ask, avoiding his question. Next thing he’ll be wanting somewhere to stay.

  Cigarette man shrugs. ‘Not no more.’

  ‘So where do you sleep?’

  He points at the bench. ‘Sometimes here. Sometimes the shelter.’ He wipes his hand across his nose, pinching the tip with his fingers. ‘I’m hoping to get my own flat again soon.’

  ‘That’s tough,’ I say, as we each light another cigarette. He offers me the bottle of cider. Stringy, milky stuff is floating in it. ‘I’m OK, thanks.’

  ‘I used to have a home,’ he goes on. ‘A nice home.’ He jiggles his skinny leg, leaning forward on his knees. The cider sloshes in time with his movements.

  ‘What happened?’ Talking to him helps pass the time, though my attention is focused beyond the hedge, waiting for her to come out of the office, to trit-trot down the stone steps in her court shoes, stepping out onto the street. Oblivious.

  Cigarette man shrugs. ‘Had a job in a warehouse picking orders a couple of years ago. Then the girlfriend got sick, so I had to take time off to look after her. We had a right nice flat, like with a washing machine and everything. I earned good money and she had a job before she got ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I ended up losing my job, losing the flat. Losing my girl.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘She didn’t die or nuffing. Just like we got in each other’s faces and that, so I moved out. Stayed on mates’ sofas for a while. Got in with the wrong crowd, you know. But I ain’t no bludger.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not,’ I say, distracted, wondering if I should check the clinic again.

  ‘I had to sleep rough for a few nights, and then it became kind of a habit.’

  I nod, half listening to him, one eye on my watch. Not long to go.

  ‘You don’t see it coming. You really don’t,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I got a kid too, but they won’t let me see him.’

  I stare at him, suddenly wishing he’d go away. I stand up, slipping back behind the hedge, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. ‘That’s… that’s really tough,’ I say, hesitating, feeling bad for him even so. But Cigarette Man is gathering up his pack from the bench opposite and doesn’t hear me.

  When I look through the gap, I see someone standing outside the clinic, slightly out of view. A man. Tall, wearing a jacket and jeans, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle, hands in his front pockets, his cap pulled low. I’m not sure if he’s just come out, if he’s going in, or is simply waiting. I can’t see his face.

  Then the main door opens, and she comes out – a little earlier than usual. I hold my breath. She’s wearing a navy dress today, slightly above the knee with black leather boots, a dark jacket on top, a red scarf wound around her neck. Her hair is swept up in a messy but stylish knot. To begin with, her face is calm, neutral, not giving anything away as she swings out of the big black-painted door, hitching her bag on her shoulder, flicking back a strand of stray hair.

  But then she freezes on the top step, stopping in her tracks when she sees him – one foot poised to go down, pointed like a ballerina.

  Her expression changes.

  He seems to say something to her then, but I can’t be sure as his face is still hidden from view. She looks back towards the door, as if she wants to run back inside again. She touches her forehead, frowning, as if she doesn’t know which way to turn or what to do. She looks afraid. Then he says something else, gesturing with his arms, and, for a moment, she half smiles, narrows her eyes as if she can’t help herself. But then she shakes her head, comes down the remaining steps and slips quickly past him, striding off down the street. He goes after her, his collar up, his back still turned to me as they head off.

  I wait thirty seconds before leaving the little square, following in her wake. A couple of blocks up ahead, she crosses over the high street and lingers outside the florist’s shop, browsing the metal buckets stuffed with bouquets, glancing back over her shoulder. There’s no sign of the man now – he veered off a few streets back without me getting a proper look at him, but she still looks nervous, somehow disappointed that he’s gone.

  She picks out several bunches of daffodils and white tulips and goes inside to pay, glancing over her shoulder again. She emerges a couple of minutes later with an expectant look on her face, scanning around until her expression falls flat. Then she half walks, half runs to the bus stop a short way down the street. A double-decker is just pulling up, and I watch as she gets on, taking a window seat downstairs.

  My heart thumps as I edge closer to the road, closer to the bus as it pulls away, driving towards me. As it passes, it’s the nearest I’ve ever been to her, and I swear she catches my eye through the window, swear I see a tear rolling down her cheek.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lorna

  I cradle the flowers on my knee as the bus leaves the stop. I’m tempted to pick off all the tulip petals one by one… He loves me, he loves me not. The cold drizzle has given me a headache, though it could be from the wine last night at Cath’s place.

  As often happens, we all drank a bit too much – especially me after seeing his profile on that Double Take app.

  ‘Bloody hell, Cath,’ Annie had said, holding out the phone. ‘Take a look at him.’ Cath was unable to hide the gasp, making her silly selfie pout face as she looked at his photos. I’d already glimpsed his picture, of course, was still in shock; couldn’t unsee it.

  ‘I’d be punching there,’ Cath said. ‘He’s way out of my league.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Annie said, grabbing the phone back. ‘I’m going to message him for you. What do you normally say in these things?’

  Cath was laughing nervously, clearly excited, going along with Annie’s recklessness. I hadn’t seen all his photos but just the one was enough to know. Enough to feel the crushing weight beari
ng down on me, twisting my insides when it had no right to.

  Megan was also looking, peering at the phone, giggling, egging Annie on. ‘Artist seeks muse,’ she read out in a silly voice. ‘Loyal, kind, honest to the core, I’m looking for a woman to challenge me in every way. Not satisfied with normal, I’m seeking someone adventurous, quirky, spontaneous and creative. Join me on my journey and let’s make new memories together.’

  ‘He sounds a bit conceited, if you ask me,’ I said, feeling sick. My voice was a croak, my throat tight. I couldn’t stand to look again.

  ‘You serious?’ Annie said, rolling her eyes. She shoved the phone up close to my face. ‘Just look at him! He’s bloody well worth cheating on Ed for.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s pretty,’ I said, turning away while trying to appear normal. I didn’t want to see.

  ‘Says he’s never been married, has no kids. Perfect!’ Annie went on.

  ‘Those are red flags, if you ask me,’ I said. The others stared at me, raising their eyebrows. ‘Commitment-phobic,’ I added, but they ignored me.

  ‘So, what shall I type?’ Annie asked, finger poised.

  ‘How about “Hi, how are you?”’ Cath said.

  ‘It’s no wonder you’re single if that’s your best chat-up line,’ Annie replied, typing something. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, then carried on tapping. ‘How about this? “Hi, it’s your loyal muse here… I’m Cath, an interior designer. Quirky is my middle name. Would love to connect to see if we can challenge each other… in a good way.” Oh, and I added a winky-face emoji too. Might as well.’ She looked to Cath for approval but then decided not to wait. ‘Too slow. It’s sent.’ She reached for her wine. ‘To Cath’s new love,’ she said, clinking everyone’s glasses. ‘And a future wedding, girls.’

  The bus slows again, pulling to a stop. A few people get off, some more get on. I’m still shaking from the encounter just now outside the office, praying Sandy didn’t see or hear any of it, even though I know that from her desk it’s impossible to view the street. And I’m pretty sure the door had swung closed by the time I’d spotted him. But Sandy has a way of knowing everything that’s going on at the clinic, a sixth sense that perhaps comes from working in a therapists’ office for so long.