Tell Me A Secret

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Jack?’ Mark says, his voice deep and serious. ‘Sit down and finish your food.’ He rarely loses his temper – never needs to, as though everyone instinctively knows how to keep the peace.

  ‘What you gonna do if I don’t?’ Jack says, pushing back his shoulders.

  ‘Jack, please sit down and finish your food,’ I say, my eyes flicking between him and his father. I’ve never seen him quite this agitated before.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he says, standing his ground. Though I can tell by his face that a part of him wants to sit down and talk, even if the other part wants to storm out and slam the front door.

  ‘You seem really upset…’

  ‘I’m just sick of this fucking family and—’

  Freya squeals, covering her ears and screwing up her eyes.

  ‘Jack—’

  ‘I’m just sick of no one ever telling the truth, yeah?’ he says, his voice on the brink of cracking. He swipes up his plate and glass and takes them to the kitchen, dumping them on the draining board.

  ‘Jack, come back,’ Mark demands, swinging round in his chair. ‘What are you talking about?’ He glances at me, putting a hand on my leg under the table. I pray my cheeks don’t show the flush that’s burning from the inside out.

  Jack returns, standing there, looking so much like Mark but with something else mixed in – his mother. I know she was very beautiful, with her long blond curls and Monroe-esque figure – the perfect match for Mark, whose classic good looks show no sign of fading.

  ‘You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’ he says, staring at his father. The skin under his eyes twitches, while his lips try to form words he can’t seem to get out. Then he turns to me, his hands resting on the edge of the table, his body leaning forward. ‘You think I don’t see what’s gone on. What’s still going on?’ He can barely contain his anger.

  My cheeks burn scarlet. Oh my God, he knows… Did he see my phone on the kitchen table last night, somehow manage to read my texts and messages? Or perhaps he’s hacked into my computer and seen my online activity? He’s a technology whizz and I’d never know if he’d done something like that.

  ‘Jack, look… Calm down, love,’ I say, flicking a look at Freya so he gets the hint. ‘You seem really upset. We can talk about this, but not right now.’

  He glares at me. I have no idea what he’s thinking, why the look in his eyes shows hate and confusion. Even if I was his real mother, I still wouldn’t know what to say.

  ‘We can talk about this somewhere else, Jack. Just me and you, somewhere quiet.’ I need to get him away from Mark. ‘I’m a good listener.’ I have to find out what he knows, reason with him, if possible. Bribe him if I have to. Anything but have him screw things up now I’m so close to sorting it.

  ‘It’s nothing I can’t say in front of Dad,’ he says. ‘In fact, it’s Dad who needs to hear it.’

  Shit.

  ‘I understand, Jack, really I do,’ I say, stumbling over my words. My heart is pounding, my mouth dry. ‘Though getting facts right first might be helpful. In case you’ve misunderstood something.’ I give him a nervous smile, hoping he’ll catch on.

  ‘What, so you can twist my mind? I know what I know, Lorna, and I’m sticking to it. I’m not blind any more and I’m not stupid.’ He makes a raging sound, covering his face to hide the tears. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jack cry.

  ‘Enough,’ Mark says, laying his hands flat on the table, half standing up. ‘This is a family weekend, and I won’t have it ruined. We’ll go for that walk as we planned. It’ll do us all good to get out in the fresh air. I’ll hear no more of this, understand?’

  Jack stares at him, with a look way more pitying than the one he gave me. He nods slowly, grabbing his phone off the table before leaving the room. The thud of his footsteps on the stairs drums into my head.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Nikki

  There’s nothing like a fun family walk. All rugged up against the chill with their cosy boots, coats and gloves. Woolly hats and happy smiles, cheek-to-cheek selfies, flattering filters and cute tags for Instagram. Pretending everything’s perfect, pretending it’s not all about to fall apart: #perfectcouple #lovemyman #family.

  I watch them from a safe distance as they amble along, arm in arm, pulling in close, laughing, smiling, chatting. I wonder if her husband knows what she’s up to? Well, I do. I know exactly what she’s doing behind his back. #youdontfoolme #allfake #youllgetwhatyoudeserve #lyingbitch

  I bite my lip, savouring the taste of blood.

  Their little girl is on a scooter, whizzing up ahead of them until they call out, making her circle back round again. She scoots behind them, coming right up close to me so I can see how soft and fluffy her pink bobble hat is, even see the curl of her eyelashes.

  Lorna looks back, not giving me a second glance as she sings out her daughter’s name – Frey-yaaa. She doesn’t notice me tagging along behind in my black beanie pulled down low, my thick grey scarf from Age Concern wound round and round my neck, covering half my face. My old coat hangs down low and my soft-soled shoes don’t make a sound.

  She’s having an affair… I want to scream out. I imagine them both slowly turning, the shock on his face as it sinks in.

  I saw her in a different park yesterday. The Therapist and the Lover. I laugh to myself – they sound like a pair of cards from a tarot deck. If she knew about me, I wonder what she’d call me – the Stalker, the Other Woman, the Lodger, perhaps?

  Of course she didn’t spot me there either, and neither did he, but I came close to giving myself away when I let out a shocked cry as she fainted. She hit the ground hard, making me clap my hand over my mouth, stifling the noise. I watched as he took her head gently in his hands, stroking her cheek, coaxing to her to wake up, talking to her. But she was out cold.

  Something began to boil inside me. It’s still simmering now.

  Is that what real love looks like?

  I hate them both.

  She lay on the ground for a while, her head turned sideways, her body unmoving as he stared at her from above, not knowing what to do. But then he shocked me. He took his phone from his pocket and snapped pictures of her from all angles, quickly putting it away again when she began to stir. I was transfixed, trying to work it out, but had to rush off to get to the bus stop, or I’d be late for work. I’d splashed out on a taxi to follow her there in the first place and couldn’t afford another one back.

  Lorna and her family walk on, winding through the park. I hear a peal of laughter from her – sounding fake and put on, as if she’s trying too hard. Mark winds his arm around her waist, and she flicks her long hair back over her shoulder. When she glances round again to check where her daughter is, I see she’s got huge owly sunglasses on, even though it’s not that bright. Perhaps to conceal the shame.

  ‘Mummy, look – boats!’ the kid squeals. She’s jumping up and down next to Jack, who’s got his earphones shoved in. She tugs on Jack’s sleeve, making him hold her scooter while she runs off. Up ahead there’s a small pond – just a shallow one with little slot-machine motor boats bobbing about.

  I feel my feet start to drag, watching as they veer off towards their daughter.

  ‘Can I have a go?’ she calls out, clapping her mittened hands together.

  My vision blurs as the tears come, but I can still make out Mark fishing about for some change, still see Freya’s delighted face as she takes the coin. Then Lorna whips out her phone, snapping photos as Freya chooses which colour boat she wants.

  But it’s not the motor boats that make my hands tingle and my lips go numb. It’s the other kid, what he’s doing by the pond. My eyes are drawn to him.

  I just need to get to the bench the other side of the water. Just need to sit down.

  I watch, transfixed, as the boy walks round and round the pond, dragging his toy, his father standing nearby. My breathing quickens – short and sharp, burning my throat. I pull my scarf up further over my mouth to stifle it
. I can’t risk a panic attack.

  I close my eyes, leaning back on the bench.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe…

  A sudden scream makes me jump, makes me grip on to the wooden slats as if I’m about to be hurled to the ground… but it’s just Freya whooping in delight as her motorboat chugs off across the pond, her fingers frantically twiddling the knobs on the control panel.

  ‘Oh-ohh, it’s stopped already,’ she says in a whiny voice a few minutes later as her boat docks itself. But Daddy to the rescue as he pumps in another coin.

  I clamp my arms around myself as the panic subsides, rocking gently for comfort.

  When the second coin runs out, the family continue with their walk. Jack lags behind, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his feet scuffing the ground. He’s the last one in sight as they disappear down the track. I don’t feel steady enough to follow them further.

  * * *

  ‘Hi,’ I say, trying to sound cheerful. The kitchen is warm and steamy, the air filled with the rich smell of something bubbling on the stove.

  ‘Soup,’ he says, winking. ‘It’s mushroom.’

  ‘Smells delicious,’ I say, bending over the pan and lifting the lid. He’s always creating something, one way or another. ‘May I?’ I hold up the wooden spoon.

  ‘Don’t burn your lips,’ he says, giving me a look that tells me he wouldn’t mind if I did, that he’d have an excuse to kiss them better. I slurp some down, along with my thoughts. These days, I do what I have to do – to get by, to keep the peace, to keep a roof over my head.

  ‘Delicious,’ I say.

  He flicks off the radio. ‘Do you want some wine?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. His house is eclectic, like him. The walls of every room are covered in paintings, most of the floors littered with tatty rugs. It’s what endeared me to the place when I viewed it – all the battered furniture, the mishmash of items collected over the years, nothing matching, most things worn out. It feels like a home – not my home – but the closest I’ve known to it since… I think back to when I was a child, before my father died. But I can’t dwell on that. Trauma keeps me safe from the past. Everything locked up.

  I dump my shopping bag on the floor, pushing it under the table. I picked up a couple of things on the way home from the park.

  ‘Ah good, you got cling film,’ he says, spotting it as the bag topples over. ‘Well remembered.’ I slide it further out of sight, taking the wine.

  ‘You trying to get me drunk?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he says, winking. ‘Where did you go off to so early this morning?’

  ‘Just for a walk. Makes a change from working.’

  ‘You’re better than just flipping burgers.’ He gives me a look, one that says I should get a proper job, one that pays more. Perhaps he wants me gone.

  ‘It’s that or I get a job as a stripper,’ I say, laughing. ‘Anyway, it’s brass in pocket.’ I pat my thigh.

  ‘My stripper,’ he says, dragging his eyes over me as he ladles out soup into two chunky pottery bowls, handing me a spoon. We eat in silence, the ticking of the clock above the cooker keeping time with my heart. ‘Upstairs with you now,’ he says, after we’ve finished, tucking his hands under my arms, pulling me up. ‘You can give me my Easter present early.’ He pulls at my sweater, exposing my neck, biting down on my skin.

  ‘Of course,’ I say quietly, knowing exactly what I have to do as he leads me upstairs by the hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lorna’s Journal

  The others are downstairs watching something mindless on TV, something I can’t be bothered with. I said I needed to catch up on some work, that I have to go over some papers for a practice meeting. No one batted an eyelid. Joining in with family life almost seems like a chore now, as if I’m not a part of it. Secrets have a way of doing that, of dividing and separating.

  I ease open the door to Freya’s room, the sound of the TV audible below. I slide the toy box out and pull up the carpet in the corner of the room. As ever, it comes up easily. I glace back over my shoulder to check there’s no one watching as I prise up the end piece of floorboard. Underneath is the perfect hiding place. I’ve made a note of where the others are stashed in case I ever forget. Heaven forbid I should lose one.

  I put the board, carpet and toy box back and creep upstairs to the study, praying I won’t be disturbed. I flick on the desk lamp and start up my laptop, pulling up some work files to make myself look busy. Then, half hidden under the desk, I open the tatty notebook – a present the last-but-one Christmas ago.

  27 February 2017

  What have I done? Dear God, please help me. I know it’s wrong and deceitful, so why does it feel so right?

  My career is at risk, my marriage is at risk, my family, my home… my entire life is under threat. So why am I compelled to carry on doing this? Please let me find the answers as I write this down.

  So. Yesterday. There was nothing romantic about checking into that cheap motel, Andrew signing us in as the equivalent of Mr & Mrs Smith, paying in cash, not meeting the receptionist’s eye as she handed over the key card. Yet it felt as though I’d been flown to Paris in a private jet, wined and dined, proposed to by the Seine before making love in a five-star hotel on the Champs-Élysées.

  Of course, before we went, I made all the usual protest noises that we couldn’t, we shouldn’t, I mustn’t – but every time I made an excuse, it seemed to lose its power, as if the protestations themselves were wearing down my resolve. And I barely had any time. I couldn’t be late fetching Freya.

  ‘I think that’s called talking yourself into it, Lorna,’ he said, laughing, as we sat in his car. The engine was running, and the rain was sheeting against the windscreen. He’d left the wipers off, so we couldn’t see out. But equally, no one could see in as I wavered and hesitated in the car park about what to do. I looked at my watch. He was right. If I hadn’t wanted to, I wouldn’t have got into his car in the first place.

  ‘I’m going to have you one way or another,’ he said, touching my face. ‘It may as well be now.’

  Was it his assertiveness that got to me? His confidence? I don’t think it was quite that, though I liked it, I admit. From the start, he’s known exactly what he wanted. Me.

  ‘We could just go in and have a quick drink,’ I suggested, convincing myself that would be OK. I even gave him a flirty smile.

  ‘You think they have a bar in there?’ And we both laughed, looking at the dismal breeze-block place. It wasn’t far from the M25, the sort of bland hotel grey-suited salesmen might meet up at to discuss the price of widgets or whatever. Or perhaps that was just a foil for their illicit antics too. In my mind, I tried to believe that everyone did it, that having an affair was normal. Denying, distorting… I was throwing everything into the mix to make it seem OK.

  ‘Shall we go in and see?’ I said, my hand poised on the car door. The rain was heavy, and I was ready to run for cover.

  ‘Let’s,’ he said, though he may as well have said ready, steady go because we were both suddenly outside, coats pulled over our heads as we dashed to the cover of the reception area. Inside we were laughing, drenched, my feet soaking in my work shoes.

  ‘Look, it is a fancy place after all,’ he said, pointing to a small bar in the corner. Maroon velour chairs were set out around a handful of varnished tables at one end of the foyer, the only customer a guy sitting alone on a banquette with a beer, reading the paper. ‘Gin and tonic?’ Andrew said, taking hold of my hand. Giving it a squeeze.

  He got the drinks and we sat down, me with my legs crossed as if that might somehow delay things. Just a drink in a hotel was fine, surely? No worse – in fact, better – than kissing in a park, or him coming to therapy and us not doing therapy at all. But we’d not gone there yet. Not had sex. If we didn’t do that, I told myself, then nothing too bad had happened. I could claw my way back to level ground. To normal life. Everyone has aberrations, don
’t they? My job is proof of that every day.

  ‘This isn’t easy, is it?’ I said, uncomfortable with our silence, even though I often sit with clients through theirs – sometimes for an entire session. My glass was slippery in my hand, covered in condensation as I twirled it round. The bitter lemon slice and bubbles from the tonic made me shudder.

  ‘I know,’ he said, reaching out, taking my hand across the table. ‘You’re very lovely,’ he continued. ‘Do you know that?’ His eyes. The way he looked at me. God.

  I turned away then, focusing on the carpet pattern – small grey and red squares repeating over a bottle-green background. I didn’t think I was lovely at all. Lovely women didn’t do this sort of thing. And then she was on my mind again: Maria. Almost as if she was sitting at the table with us, shaking her head, looking disparagingly at me, a warning look in her eyes.

  ‘She was always standing up for the underdog,’ Mark once told me, a fond look about him. It’s still hard to hear, though, even after all this time. ‘She was always a voice for the weak, whether it was issues at Jack’s nursery or unfairness at work.’ I knew Maria had been an engineer and worked in a male-dominated environment, having to fight her way up the career ladder harder than her peers. From what I gather, she was a force to be reckoned with.

  Perhaps that’s why Andrew’s kind comment in the bar did something to me, took the shudder from the bubbles and transformed it into a different feeling I couldn’t place. A feeling of being wanted, perhaps? Needed. Cared for in a way that felt so foreign.

  Of not being second best.

  Anyway, my feelings don’t make sense, given that I know Mark loves me deeply. He’s the best husband. I know exactly where I stand with him, how to behave, the right thing to say, what makes him happy and what, on occasion, might make him upset and silent for a few days. Me and the kids are so attuned to him.

  The guy drinking on his own swigged the last of his pint, folded his paper and got up, walking off, slowing down as he passed us. For a moment, I thought he was going to say something – did he recognise me, was he an old client? – but he didn’t. He just walked on by, a tiny smile curling up the corner of his mouth. As if he knew what we were up to.