‘But you are, though,’ he said, staring right into my eyes. ‘Talking to me.’
We held the gaze for what seemed like forever – one of those heartfelt movie moments where you just know what’s going to happen. Except it didn’t. Not then.
‘Right, I’d better go,’ I said, giving him a nod, a last look, a mumbled thank you, before turning and walking down the street in completely the wrong direction.
Are you still living with her? I text back with shaking hands, ignoring his message about meeting tomorrow morning. Within moments, my phone pings again. I switch it to silent, so no one hears.
It’s not what you think.
I squeeze my phone, wanting to fling it across the room. If I reply, it just prolongs the agony. If I don’t… well, that’s agony too. My phone vibrates again.
You know she’s just my lodger. Meet me tomorrow.
Typo? Lover, you mean. Then I write No and hit send.
I can see within a few seconds that he’s read my message, but he doesn’t reply. ‘Fuck,’ I say, throwing my phone down on the sofa beside me. I wait. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing. I begin typing another message but delete it. Mark calls up to me, asking if I want a cup of tea.
‘No, thanks,’ I shout back from the top of the stairs. Loud music suddenly booms below me in Jack’s room as I begin typing another message, hoping to see the little bubbles of Andrew typing back meantime. But there’s nothing. I don’t send mine.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I say under my breath, pacing around the attic room. I lean my forehead against the slope of the ceiling, catching sight of a couple of stars through the Velux window. Then that time on the houseboat is on my mind, how he rented it just for a night through Airbnb. We lay on rugs on the deck drinking champagne, watching the few stars visible in the London sky. All such a cliché. Except it was beautiful and romantic. Temporarily perfect.
I’d pretended to Mark that I’d gone away on a work conference, almost believing it myself so I didn’t feel quite so wretched. By this time, I excused my behaviour to myself as a disease or a mental health issue, as though I simply couldn’t help what I was doing. Plenty of people have told me about their affairs in therapy. And I was only human too, I convinced myself.
Hear from that guy yet? I text to Cath, partly to stop me texting something to him that I’ll regret, and partly to check if she really did block him. Not knowing what he’s doing is killing me, yet knowing anything about him is killing me too. Ten months of no contact, ten months of being clean, being off my drug, was the only way I got through. A tight, ordered existence with no room for intrusive thoughts. Now I’ve fallen off the wagon.
Lol no, I deleted him, remember? Cath replies quickly.
Oh yeah, I text. His loss. How’re things? I add, to sound vaguely normal.
Then she gives me a rundown of her day over several messages and, as I’m about to reply, Andrew texts again. Meet me tomorrow. Please. He’s not giving up.
I sit on the couch, staring blindly at the desk opposite me – the desk with my laptop on it. It’s then I know what I have to do.
After a few more minutes battling with myself, my mind’s made up. I can’t help it that I dash downstairs, apologising to Mark that I have some urgent work notes to write up for tomorrow, that he’d better go ahead and watch the Netflix series without me. Can’t help it at all that on the way back up to the study, I tell Freya that she can skip her bath if she wants, that she should just put her pyjamas on and get into bed.
And I completely can’t help it that, back at my desk, I open up my laptop and go straight to the Double Take website. I can’t help anything any more.
Chapter Nineteen
Lorna
My fingers hover over the keys as I stare at the pink and yellow website. I take a sip of the neat whisky I brought back up with me in the hope it will slow my heart, ease my guilt. Surely just looking at it for a few minutes can’t hurt?
Can it?
That’s all I’m going to do.
‘Log in’ or ‘Register’, it says in the top right corner of the screen. My eyes flick over the collage of photographs of paired-off, exceptionally good-looking men and women in the centre of the page – a collection of individuals unlikely to be on this website if the examples on Cath’s phone app were anything to go by. I hover the mouse over them but there’s no link, no search button anywhere on the home screen. Just happy, shiny couples. The FAQs tell me I have to register to view members.
‘Damn,’ I whisper, tapping my fingernails on my glass. All I wanted was a quick look, a glimpse of his profile to see what it says, to see his other pictures. He’s already lied about being on there; doesn’t know that I know.
I click on ‘Register’ and a basic form pops up. Username, email address, male or female, date of birth, what gender I’m looking for… ‘Damn again,’ I say again, allowing the whisky to burn down my throat. What would happen if I were to quickly register, just take a peek, then never look again? But I can hardly use my work email address because they’re monitored, and Mark and I have access to each other’s home email addresses – we always have done, trusting each other implicitly. It was his idea, and I’ve always loved how open and honest he is about stuff like that. Changing my password would arouse suspicion. My stomach knots at the thought.
I’m hardly aware of opening another tab, going to Gmail, clicking on ‘create account’ and speeding through the form, quickly making up a name formed from the first and last names of several of my current clients – Abbi Foster. Within a couple of minutes, I have a fresh new email account. Back on the dating site, I enter the details and think up a username … nothing he would ever connect with me, but something I can remember too. I settle on Abbi74 – the year of my birth and also the number of our house. I fill out the other boxes, click enter and then I’m faced with a raft of questions about my likes and dislikes, my hobbies, my education. I go through them all at speed, not thinking much about the answers.
‘Enter a description of yourself… oh God,’ I say, trying to bypass this bit. But it won’t let me. I’ve come this far, so I quickly make up a blurb about Abbi Foster, the woman who is not me.
Kind, good listener, spirited but easy-going, I’m a professional lady looking for a decent guy. If you love walks along the river, drinking wine by candlelight and kissing in the rain, then send me a message… What could possibly go wrong?
It’ll do, I think, figuring it’s generic and trite enough to look genuine, but with a bit of humour thrown in. I click ‘next’, only to be faced with a photo upload screen. ‘Great,’ I mutter. I can hardly use a picture of myself. Then I hear a noise. ‘Freya, love, is that you?’ Nothing. I go to the top of the stairs. ‘Frey-frey?’
‘What, Mummy?’ comes my daughter’s reply from her room.
‘Nothing, sweet—’
‘It was me, love,’ Mark says. ‘Just getting something.’ I see him on the landing below, the book he’s reading tucked under his arm. ‘You nearly done up there?’ he asks, pausing, leaning on the banister, looking up at me.
‘I… well, I’ve got a fair bit to do yet,’ I say. ‘Joe needs these reports first thing. Sorry,’ I add, making a pained face. My stomach churns – warning me, reminding me – but I ignore it.
Mark gives me an understanding nod and goes back downstairs.
‘I’ll try to be quick,’ I call out, feeling a surge of guilt. Back at my desk, I wonder what to do about a photograph. It’s not as if I’m going to contact him.
Is it?
My guts twist in knots as I do a Google image search for pictures of women about my age. Halfway down the page, there’s a photo of a woman who’s very attractive, yet not brash or obvious about it. Her hair is much lighter than mine, her figure curvier. I don’t want anyone vaguely resembling me. I click on it, ending up on some fashion blog in the States. There are plenty more pictures of her here.
I right-click on a few of them, saving them to a locked work folder on my laptop
– somewhere Mark would never look, even if he borrowed my computer. He respects how confidential my client files are.
‘OK, OK…’ I say, uploading three photos of the unsuspecting American woman. My hands are shaking and my breathing erratic. ‘It’s fine,’ I tell myself. ‘She’ll never see them… I’ll be deleting the account in ten minutes anyway.’
Congratulations! pops up on my screen. You’re now ready to start searching for love!
I take a deep breath, ignoring how wrong this all is.
‘Right, let’s do this…’ I whisper, filling out a few search criteria to help locate my ‘dream man’, as the site suggests.
To help find him.
I tap in his specific age – nothing more, nothing less – as well as his exact height, eye colour and all the other minutiae that will lead me to him, while also keeping one ear open for anyone coming upstairs. My heart is thumping. It feels as though I’m creeping up the front path of his house – the house he never let me visit because of her – and peeking through his front window, watching him, spying on him. Maybe even seeing them together.
A long list of profiles flashes onto my screen, ordered by ‘last online’. I scroll down, scanning all the dark-haired men who are six foot one, not recognising any of them. A couple of alerts suddenly pop up – Your profile has just been viewed by KingKong72… Prairie_dog1 likes your profile… chatty_guyw12 wants to meet you…
‘Meet me?’ I whisper incredulously. ‘But you don’t even know me.’ It suddenly feels as though I’m standing naked in a noisy bar, surrounded by lecherous guys all closing in on me. But none of them are him. It feels dangerous, as if I’ve stepped into a fantasy world as Abbi74. I’m half expecting to be sniffed out at any moment, as if a message might pop up saying ‘Lorna, fancy seeing you here! Does Mark know you’re on a dating site?’
It’s all in my head, I tell myself, sipping more whisky. No one knows… Even he won’t know.
I keep scrolling down the list, about to give up when I stop suddenly, almost choking on my drink.
It’s him.
It’s Andrew.
His profile stands out from the rest like a punch in the face. I stifle a gasp, as if I’ve been caught red-handed peeking through his window.
‘Hi,’ I say softly, touching his image on the screen with a shaking finger, stroking his hair, tracing the line of his jaw. Judging by the notifications I’m getting in the corner of my screen, if I click on his profile he’s going to get an alert showing that I viewed him.
I take a deep breath and do it anyway.
Clicked. Done.
It’s as if I’m actually inside his living room now.
‘He won’t know it’s you,’ I tell myself over and over as my eyes greedily soak up all the information on his profile. His pictures fill the top left corner of the screen, then it shows his likes, interests, marital status and what he’s seeking listed below.
One by one, I scroll through the pictures he’s put up – pictures I know only too well. Him at an art gallery opening, another shot of him that was in the local papers when he was commissioned by someone famous, another one of him from a school’s website showing him mentoring A level art students. I cover my face again, unable to help the sob. Seeing all these details about him – his love for fine wines, for cooking, for art, for river walks, for old books and rummaging through flea markets… it’s killing me.
Why not send Andy_jag a message? the box says, the cursor blinking at me, tempting me.
‘Why not?’ I whisper, my head filling up with a thousand reasons why not. But I still click in the blank space, still begin typing words that don’t seem to be coming from me, as if my hands have been taken over by someone else. I stare at what I’ve typed, my mouth dry, my eye sockets aching, my heart on fire.
Hi Andy, are those your paintings behind you in the photo? Exquisite…
I know they are his. It’s the word I used to describe his work the first time I saw his pictures – an array of nudes in bright, unnatural colours displayed on a slate grey wall. He’d played with the female form in a way I’d never seen before – making their bodies seem both beautiful and grotesque. It made me love him all the more.
‘I’ll paint you one day,’ he once told me.
Someone is coming up the stairs.
‘Shall I tuck Freya into bed, Lorn?’ Mark says from halfway up. ‘It’s getting late.’
I freeze, my mouth hanging open. Then, without thinking, without considering the consequences, I click send. My message flies off the screen with a congratulatory pop-up window telling me that I’m on my way to finding true love.
‘Sure. Thanks, love,’ I call back. ‘I’ll be down in a moment.’
Then, knocking back the rest of my whisky, I log out of the site and close my laptop. I sit with my head in my hands for the next few minutes before going down to Freya’s room to give her a kiss. I pick her crumpled school skirt up off the floor, then stop, staring out of the window, trying to work out why I’m hell-bent on destroying everything I hold dear.
The figure standing on the pavement in the shadows makes me catch my breath – someone across the street is staring up at me in the cold, dank evening. Their hood and collar shield their face and the drizzle snaking down the panes makes it impossible to tell if it’s a man or a woman. Within seconds, they disappear into the darkness.
‘Was that you?’ I whisper softly, fogging the glass with my breath. ‘Andrew…?’ I write an X in the mist, hating myself even more, before pulling the curtains closed.
Chapter Twenty
Nikki
I hate her, though I shouldn’t. It’s hardly her fault, after all. She doesn’t know anything.
Yet.
I stare at her house – middle class and perfect with its two bay trees in pots guarding either side of the front door. The black railings, the brass door knocker, the stylish wooden shutters in the window giving me sliver-sized glimpses of her happy life, her happy husband, happy children.
It’s a far cry from my childhood home – dirty and unwelcoming after my father died. My mother blamed me, punishing me by transforming our once joyous domain into a wasteland of blame, fags and alcohol. Or perhaps she was punishing herself.
It’s cold and dark out here on the street, but also where I feel most comfortable, lurking in the shadows – my hood up, the collar of my coat turned against the wind. With my hands in my pockets, my face down, I steal furtive glances at the lit-up, three-storey brick terrace. Worth what around here now – one and a half million? I shake my head, pacing about and glancing at my watch whenever anyone walks past, making it look as if I’m waiting for someone.
I cross the road and go up to number seventy-four, trailing my hand along the cold railings, sending tremors up my fingers, along my arm and straight into my heart. Reigniting it, as if I’m slowly recharging.
When I reach the end of the street, I turn around and walk back again. This time, when I reach her house, I dare to go up the front path – lit up by a coach lamp above the door. I pull the little spray of spring flowers from my pocket. I picked them earlier in the park. They’re a bit wilted and crumpled now, but still pretty. I breathe in their scent, before laying them down on the front doorstep. Leaving my mark.
Flowers on a grave.
I cross the street again, standing in the shadows. There’s a broken flower head in my pocket so I crush it between my fingers, grinding off the petals one by one. And that’s when I see her at the upstairs window, staring out, looking down on me.
I dart backwards, wondering if she saw me, if she’s even aware I exist. I doubt she knows anything about me – the lodger who fits all her worldly possessions into a single holdall, who works in a greasy burger van for cash in hand. He won’t have told her anything about me. He’s good at keeping secrets.
I turn to leave, taking one last glance at the upstairs window. Her forehead is resting against the glass before she touches it with her finger. Then she snaps the curtains c
losed.
Shutting me out.
My hand shakes as I put the key in the lock, letting myself into the place I call home. It’s where I’ve been the longest these last few years. I saw the advert in a shop window a couple of years ago, handwritten in the most beautiful, artistic writing – cursive, unselfconscious pen strokes and such heartfelt words:
I don’t want a lodger, I want a friend. Come and share my home, my food, my wine and good company. There’s a garden for you to sunbathe or smoke in. A log fire for you to keep warm by. Rental terms flexible for the right person.
Flexible, I thought, wondering what that meant, writing down the phone number. There were a couple of grainy photographs attached – it was old-fashioned but looked like a real home, with everything from clutter on the shelves to a fridge with curious photographs stuck to the front. I could see immediately that it had soul. And, most of all, it was in the right location. He sounded like the sort of landlord who wouldn’t mind taking cash, who wouldn’t ask questions. Who’d do me a deal.
‘Hi,’ he calls out from the kitchen as I creep past the door. I’m not in the mood for talking, for pretending everything’s OK. And not in the mood for anything else either. ‘Want some food?’
I halt, one foot on the bottom of the stairs. ‘Sorry, I’m not really hungry,’ I say, hoping that will be enough.
‘Plenty here. Come on, Nikki,’ he replies, coming into the hallway. ‘You’ve not been yourself recently. What’s going on?’ He draws up close beside me as I stand frozen on the first step.
Tell Me A Secret Page 11
