Tell Me A Secret

by Samantha Hayes

  OK, I reply before deleting all his messages, including those I’ve sent.

  I go back to my laptop, adding butter, juice, toilet paper and cat food to my shopping basket, not bothering to hunt around for the special offers or look out for the three-for-twos as I usually do. I mindlessly shove some chicken, two packs of minced beef, a load of our usual vegetables and salad into my basket, along with snacks and cereal, tea, coffee, milk and wine. I skim down the list of my usual purchases, clicking furiously, the mundanity of it making me want to scream.

  ‘Shampoo for Freya,’ I say to myself, suddenly remembering, seeking out the brand that doesn’t make her head itch. I think about what she said about my mum. She’s probably been dwelling on it for a while, chewing it over in her mind, wondering why her nana is different to her friends’ grandparents. Kids pick up on things, even if husbands don’t.

  I quickly add the satay chicken skewers that Mark wanted and head to the checkout. One hundred and twenty-three pounds eighty-seven pence. Just as I’m confirming the delivery time, another text comes in.

  Looking forward to it.

  Me too, I fire back, unable to help myself, wondering how the hell I will get out of work to meet him. But I daren’t risk upsetting him. Since he turned up at the clinic, it’s as though the detonator of a hand grenade has been pulled. It’s not if it explodes, it’s when.

  Once the grocery order is confirmed, I open up a new browser tab and go to the Double Take site, logging in. The usual raft of notifications and inane comments are waiting – at least twenty messages – but I don’t bother to read them. I keep scrolling down the list, stopping suddenly as I see a familiar profile picture no bigger than a postage stamp.

  It’s him.

  Andy_jag has finally replied to Abbi74.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I whisper, my finger barely able to move on the mouse pad.

  I creep out into the hallway, listening up the stairs. There’s the tinny beat of Jack’s music, turned down low so he doesn’t wake Freya, and a sliver of light flickering out from underneath his door. Freya’s door is still set just how she likes it – about six inches open with the landing lamp on in case she wakes up in the night. She’s never liked the dark.

  Back in the kitchen, I pour myself a shot of cooking brandy for courage. Mark won’t notice the level; I keep the bottle in the cupboard next to the stove. I take a slug, enjoying the warmth of it searing down my throat. Then I open the message, hoovering it up in one greedy gulp.

  Yes, they are my paintings – and thank you. How are you finding this site? Having much luck? I’m not. (PS your photos are stunning.)

  I read it at least twenty times – each time trying to work a new meaning into it. Analysing each syllable, every punctuation mark. Then Cath’s in my head, about overthinking everything, how I see things that don’t really exist apart from in my own tortuous mind.

  He thinks my profile photos are stunning. Andrew likes the face and body of a random woman I plucked off the internet and named Abbi. I feel pathetic. But I still click in the box to reply.

  You’re very talented, I type. Are the paintings of anyone in particular? He never admitted to that – whose gentle curves, angular features, swathes of hair he’d spent hours and hours brush-stroking into wild and disturbing representations of women’s bodies. I’d tried to find out, of course, wondering if any were of her, the lodger, if she’d sat for him, nude, while he studied the intricacies of her shape. But he’d never given me a straight answer, always deflecting with something else, implying I was in no position to be jealous or questioning.

  And thanks for the compliment, I add, feeling sick. What are you looking for here? Ditto about having no luck, I say, thinking at least that’s true. I sip more brandy, wondering what else I can type that will elicit information, unravel the man I once loved.

  ‘Love,’ I whisper, hating myself.

  Then a little green dot suddenly appears beside his profile photo, showing Andy_jag is online. It’s as though he’s right here in my kitchen.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ I say, knowing he’ll see I’m online too. I quickly finish typing my message – Hope to hear back from you soon – and click send, trying to convince myself that I’m not breaking any laws, that I’m just trying to get deeper inside his mind. ‘As any good therapist would,’ I whisper, knocking back the rest of my drink.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lorna’s Journal

  While I’m alone, I get out the journal again, picking up where I left off, filling my head with the past, trying to reconcile it with the now. Trying to make sense of it, figure out what I should do. I feel numb reading it, as if I don’t even know the person it’s written about, as if she was someone else entirely, like I never knew her. And it makes me not want to know her any more. But then, that’s the point of a therapist’s journal – to grow, to become self-aware, to reflect.

  I’m sitting on the floor in Freya’s room with about twenty minutes before the front door bursts open, everyone coming home. But I’m ready. Ready to stash it away again in the secret hiding place. Ready to pretend none of it ever happened. To carry on as normal. For how long I can do that, I’m not sure.

  17 February 2017

  I’m only going to write about the kiss, then I’m going to tear this up. Destroy it. Burn the paper before swallowing the ashes. Get rid of my shame. Now I’m imagining myself doing that – forking up the remains of my deepest, most secret thoughts, shoving them down my throat. Choking. But then they mutate and spread throughout my body so that every time I speak, all that comes out of my mouth are charred lies.

  It was cold. So cold that I’m shivering even remembering it, my hand shaking, making it hard to write fast. I’d hoped yesterday’s chill would keep the park empty. I’d not seen many people about, just the most hardened dog walkers. And I’d checked a thousand times that no one was close or hidden behind a bush watching. He’d told me not to be silly, so paranoid, that two people who had feelings for each other were allowed to kiss in the park. No one knew who we were, he tried to convince me, while I tried to convince myself that I didn’t have feelings for him. And that if I did, they weren’t normal feelings. Not like those I have for Mark or the kids. It was all so very wrong.

  ‘It’s not that simple, Andrew,’ I told him. Then the shudder, running the full length of my spine, as though someone’s eyes were on me. Always feeling watched. Though it was probably my own conscience keeping tabs.

  ‘What is that cologne you wear?’ I asked him, managing a smile, beating my gloved hands together – a muffled, slow clap – as though Mark was applauding my stupidity.

  Bravo, Lorna! Encore! he’d say. It sounds the same as my guilt.

  I screwed up my eyes then, drinking in that pervasive scent – the zesty notes of sandalwood, spices and something else that set me alight. I tried to unravel the puzzle, almost as if it were mathematical, but I wasn’t coming up with answers. Answers – it’s always about answers and logic with me, formulating and figuring people out.

  Except with him, I couldn’t.

  Perhaps that was part of the intrigue, the allure. The reason I craved him more than anything else in the world, as if he was the missing piece to an ancient puzzle.

  If we were caught or spotted, I planned on saying it was eco-therapy, that I was counselling in a natural setting to help unlock some powerful issues my client seemed unable to talk about indoors. I know a therapist who works like that. All part of the service, I’d say, even though it wasn’t.

  So I breathed him in deeply again, unable to decide if I loved the smell or hated it. All I knew was that it did something to me. Took me to a place I’d not been in a long time, as though I’d been transported somewhere long forgotten. Was it the start of me loving him?

  He drew me close again, edging me backwards towards the tree, my body stiff and resisting as he pulled me closer. That was when I felt as though I was floating, watching those two lone figures, the river snaking its way past in the
background, flashes of sunlight glinting a warning off its surface.

  He pulled off my left glove then, slowly, seductively, a finger at a time, as if he were slipping off all my clothes. Unzipping, unbuttoning – gently at first, but then resorting to ripping and grappling, desperate to get to my skin.

  He took hold of my bare hand, stroking my fourth finger, sliding off my ring.

  ‘You’re not married now,’ he said, keeping hold of my hand.

  ‘Don’t, Andrew…’ I said, putting it on again. ‘Mark and I have been together a long time, we have a daughter. And I have a stepson—’ I was about to say that I loved Mark, but stopped. It didn’t seem right bringing him between us. Anyway, he took off his scarf then, wrapping it gently around my neck. The drunk feeling got worse.

  ‘Keep it,’ he’d said, pulling me even closer. ‘To remind you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I replied, wanting nothing more. There would be no explaining away a man’s scarf.

  Then the warmth of Andrew’s mouth – no, the heat of his mouth – as his lips pressed down on mine. Silencing me. Filling me with something I’d not experienced in… well, forever. I can recall every tiny detail – how his lips felt unfamiliar, a different shape and taste to what I’m used to, yet somehow I instinctively knew the geography of them, the layout of his mouth.

  I was completely helpless as he consumed me, as though he was in my blood, flowing through my veins. He’d unlocked something, and it already felt addictive.

  Finally, he pulled back, holding me at arm’s length, inspecting his work, what he’d done to me. He saw it simmering in my eyes – the way I stared at him with a drugged look. He knew he’d got to me.

  ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ he whispered, cupping my face in his hands as he drew me in again. I had absolutely no chance of escaping, even if I’d wanted to. No chance of doing the right thing, running away and never looking back. He’d got inside my mind, my psyche, when, really, it was my job to get inside his.

  Now burn this. Burn it!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nikki

  It’s cold tonight. She’s already gone out, but the others are inside still – Mark, Freya. Jack. A lot can be gleaned from going through someone’s rubbish. Old bills, junk mail, food wrappers and cartons, doodles the little kid has scrawled on the backs of envelopes, on scraps of paper, practising writing her name, making up little poems. I’ve seen it all, feel as though I know them well.

  I pace up and down, sucking on a cigarette. I have two choices – stay here, snatching glances of the cosy scene inside their living room, perhaps sneak around the back of the house, down the alley at the bottom of their garden. If I stand on the wooden crate behind the wall, I can see into their kitchen. Or, I can head off to her friend’s house and check out what’s going on there instead. She seems to alternate between different friends’ places every Wednesday. It’ll be Annie’s tonight. Another name discovered in a dustbin. They have some kind of meeting each week – wine and chatter, like women do.

  Women like them.

  I chuck the cigarette in the gutter, making my decision. It’s only a short bus ride to Annie’s house and I’m feeling bolder. Anyway, I always have excuses at the ready: ‘Have you seen my little cat? She’s been missing for three days now…’ Or ‘Is this George’s house? No? Oh, I’m so sorry…’ People believe what you tell them.

  But, just as I turn to leave, the front door of number seventy-four opens and Jack comes out, banging it closed behind him. My heart pounds, making a whooshing sound in my ears as he stops at the front gate. He fishes around in his bomber jacket pockets, one side then the other before patting down his jeans. His shoulders drop as he makes an annoyed face, going back up the path and checking under a flowerpot, nodding at what he finds there, dropping it down again.

  Keys.

  He heads off, stopping at the end of the front path to tap something on his phone, before pulling a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. The flare of the lighter gives me an eerie glimpse of him – a light covering of youthful stubble and a frown too old for his young face. He shoves his hands in his pockets, the cigarette dangling from his lips, and walks off, shoulders hunched, his back to me. I decide to follow him instead.

  Keeping a good way back, I keep pace until he reaches a small park – dark and secluded at this time of the evening. He turns in through the gate, looking up and down the street.

  I stay close to the railings and the cover of the bushes as he heads down to the small play area where there are some other lads about his age waiting, sitting on the swings, their trainers scuffing the ground. They exchange brief greetings – fists knocking, bumping, clenching – before one of the other boys pulls something from his pocket and gives it to Jack. A swift and barely noticeable transaction before it gets stuffed in Jack’s pocket, but I still catch sight of the little bag, the cash handed back in exchange.

  I drop my head for a second, sighing – a proxy reaction for Lorna, worried on her behalf, even though she’s oblivious. Then the anger bubbles up – where is his father, why isn’t he keeping tabs on his son? It’s hardly my place to question.

  But it makes me do something stupid.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, heading down to the lads. They all look up at once, falling silent, probably thinking I’m homeless from the state of me. ‘Know where I can get a smoke?’

  None of them say anything. Instead, they glance behind me, checking out who might be watching, worried I’m a cop about to bust them. It’s only because I want the company, I tell myself. Just wanted to speak to someone. Even though I know that’s not entirely true.

  ‘How much you need?’ one of the lads says. The one who dealt with Jack.

  ‘Just a quick smoke,’ I say, knowing he’ll want to sell me more. ‘I don’t have much money.’

  The boy rolls his eyes, giving a throaty laugh. ‘You can finish this, if you like,’ he says, passing me his nearly burnt-out joint. ‘On the house.’

  I look at him for a moment, making eye contact with each of the others in turn, ending up on Jack, holding his gaze for way longer than I should. My heart is thumping, my mouth dry.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘What you lads up to?’

  ‘What you up to?’ dealer boy says. ‘Creeping about. I saw you up there.’

  My cheeks burn. I suck on the joint, feeling the wetness of it on my lips. ‘Not much,’ I reply. ‘Just out for a walk.’ They want me to go, I can tell. But I’m not going to. Not yet. ‘You live around here?’

  A couple of them shrug.

  ‘Where do you live?’ dealer boy asks. The leader of the pack, I think, wondering why it’s not Jack. Wondering why he’s silent, kicking at the ground, looking awkward, taking a couple of paces away from the group.

  ‘I’ve lived in all sorts of places,’ I tell them.

  ‘What sort of places?’ Jack says, the sound of his voice making me more light-headed than the weed. I turn to him, taking in his big eyes.

  ‘I lived in Scotland once,’ I tell him with a nervous smile. ‘In a really remote place you won’t have heard of.’

  ‘Cool,’ he says, shrugging. ‘It’s cold up there, innit?’

  ‘Can be,’ I say. ‘You live far away?’

  ‘Look, lady, we’re like, having a private meeting here, yeah?’ dealer boy says, interrupting before Jack can reply.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, pulling my scarf up over my chin and cheeks, wanting nothing more than to hide again, slink back into the shadows where I’m comfortable. ‘Thanks for this,’ I say, holding up the dog-end before dropping it on the ground. I turn to go, tears stinging hot in my eyes.

  ‘Bye,’ Jack calls out as I walk off, his voice following me through the darkness. I don’t look back.

  Twenty minutes later and I’m there, outside, watching, cursing myself, feeling stupid for what I just did.

  I pace about, agitated. Hiding outside Annie’s house isn’t as easy as lurking outsid
e the clinic, with the secluded green opposite, the benches and the cover of the hedge. Or, indeed, Lorna’s house, where the street is darker. But it’s a busy road here, at least, with lots of passers-by, allowing me to blend in. A group of lads come past, taking up the full width of the pavement, forcing me to step back against a wall, making me do a double take in case it’s the boys from the park. But, of course, it’s not.

  A bus pulls up and, when everyone gets on, I sit down at the empty stop. It’s pretty much right opposite Annie’s house. She’s married to Ed, the couple Lorna and Mark see every week or two. Annie is all smiles and soft curves, her hair falling across her face, her skirts long and flowing. She looks like a social worker or nurse. Someone who cares. The man, Ed, has a short beard and isn’t much taller than her. He looks the type to lecture in a university – perhaps maths or astronomy or quantum physics, something clever, something he doesn’t talk about much because no one understands.

  I see them all sitting inside – cosy, chatting, laughing. I imagine that I’m their friend too, that they invite me to their girlie nights to drink wine with them. What stories I could tell them, I think, staring at Annie’s lit-up front window, the curtains wide open. Lorna’s husband doesn’t know about him. Yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lorna

  ‘Calling Lorna… hello?’ Cath says, tucking her legs up on the sofa. ‘Christ’s sake, woman, did you read any of the book?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, looking up from my phone. ‘Yes, yes, of course I did,’ I tell her. ‘I just need to plug in. Is there a power point?’ I scan the skirting board. ‘Actually, no, I didn’t read the book.’ Somehow, being honest about the small things eases my guilt. Helps me breathe.