The Secrets Women Keep

by Fanny Blake

  After her first meeting, she was ready for lunch. She had spent the morning reassuring Nan French, one of her most talented illustrators, that the agency had been in a period of brief transition as May found her feet, but that now it was business as usual. When she revealed her plan for submitting her as a potential illustrator for a new edition of Alice in Wonderland, Nan had been both grateful and excited, confident her agent was batting for her.

  The taxi dropped Eve at the door of the modest French brasserie that Susie Shepherd had picked for lunch. Susie was at the table, talking on her phone, when Eve joined her. The two women had been friends for years, ever since they had started in the same agency, although their paths had diverged. Eve had thrived on representing the interests of authors, whereas Susie had chosen to take the publishing path to be closer to those decisions. She now ran her own highly regarded and prestigious list. She was petite enough almost to pass as a child herself. But her Cleopatra bob, coloured the blue-black of a raven’s wing, and her sharp dress sense lent her the necessary authority. Her black Tibetan terrier snoozed under the table by her Mulberry bag.

  Susie stood as Eve arrived and they air-kissed without her pausing for breath in her conversation. She made a winding motion with her hand as if hurrying the speaker up, then indicated that Eve should look at the menu.

  At last Susie extricated herself and hung up. ‘So sorry. I had to talk to the bloody woman. All to do with licensing agreements for that picturebook series we publish, the Bobcats – you don’t want to know.’ She picked up her glass of water.

  Actually Eve did want to know but understood that Susie was only demonstrating her own importance by dangling such a snippet of information. She had no intention of telling her more.

  Before she had a chance to speak, Susie was off again. ‘I haven’t seen you for months. What’s been happening?’ She picked up the menu. ‘Actually, let’s order first. I’ve had such a morning, I’m famished. The jugged hare looks good, or the turbot, but . . . I think I’m going for the steak frites. What about you?’

  Eve was relieved. She’d had lunch with Susie recently when they’d toyed with a lettuce leaf or two and she’d left the restaurant starving. She’d have what Susie was having and set herself up for the afternoon. ‘It’s good of you to give me lunch when half my clients are about to bugger off.’

  ‘Forget it. I want to hear what’s happened. Eve?’ Susie indicated she should order first.

  ‘Steak for me, please. Medium rare.’ Eve was looking forward to this, wondering whether she dared a small glass of red. Then, remembering that Susie never drank, she decided against.

  The waitress scribbled on her pad, then looked enquiringly at Susie, who was running her French-polished fingernail up and down the menu. Eventually she looked up and said, ‘You know what? I think I’ll have a tomato and mozzarella salad after all. The starter portion. Yup, that’s it. I’ve been eating way too much recently.’

  With a neat piece of one-upmanship, Susie had finessed Eve to emerge as the one with epic self-control, while Eve was left to face a meal she suddenly no longer really wanted.

  Susie sailed on regardless, glass of sparkling water in hand. She leant forward confidentially. ‘Now, tell me all about the Amy Fraser Agency. She’s quite a number, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, obviously I’ve never had to deal with her in the way you have.’ Eve was deliberately circumspect. She knew that whatever she said would be taken and shared with the wider world of children’s publishing. The one thing she had to keep in the forefront of her mind was the reason for this lunch. She wanted to leave it having persuaded Susie to contract Jim Palliser’s four backlist titles now that there was TV interest in two of them. She would get even with Amy not by gossiping about her but by behaving better.

  Susie talked on regardless. ‘She came in to see me a couple of weeks ago. Thought I’d never get rid of her.’

  ‘Well, she’s got Rufus now, of course.’ Eve just dropped the information casually, but it got her Susie’s attention.

  ‘No! She never said. How did that happen? You must be furious.’

  ‘Not furious, more disappointed.’ Much as she longed to join in the dismemberment of Amy, being seen to have a public falling-out with her was not in Eve’s professional interests. Far better to play things down and let Amy hang herself. She gave a judiciously abbreviated account of what had happened.

  Susie was unforgiving. ‘You’re well rid of her if you ask me. None of us can stand her, you know. She’s hell to deal with, so demanding. I was going to warn you last year, when we had Mary Mackenzie’s new book on offer from her, but you had so much on your plate.’

  This was music to Eve’s ears, although she disliked having driven home how badly she’d misjudged her ex-colleague. However, she was careful to remain neutral while she listened to Susie chatter on. Despite the talk, Susie’s plate was completely clean and Eve was still eating when she finally got the chance to bring the conversation round to the real reason for the meeting. She refused to be shamed by her appetite, especially since she was enjoying the food now she’d got it, so she took her time, ignoring Susie’s pointed glances at her watch.

  By the time they left the restaurant, Eve was up to speed on all the latest industry news and gossip, essential to her job, and Susie had agreed to buy Jim’s backlist. Eve had even persuaded her to take another look at Mary Mackenzie’s novel for nine- to twelve-year-olds. So: one lunch down and a satisfactory result.

  As Eve headed towards St Martin’s Lane for her next appointment, she was on cloud nine. Perhaps nothing was quite as bad as she’d thought. If the other publishers were like Susie, in the long run Amy might be less of a threat than she’d imagined. But right now she must continue to concentrate on salvaging the immediate damage to her client list and reputation.

  Lunch had been so brief that she was left with over half an hour in hand. Killing time, she wandered along the road through a jam of taxis to the National Portrait Gallery. She had last been here many years earlier, when she had visited with Will. In London for a long, and as it turned out very wet weekend, they had taken shelter here during a sudden downpour. Now she walked through the entrance area and automatically took the escalator to the first floor to meander through the galleries. Gazing at the portrait of the Brontë sisters, she remembered how she and Will had once stood here together, hands clasped tight, her head on his shoulder. Those were golden days. What would have happened if he hadn’t gone back to Martha? she wondered. How would their lives be different? Would they still be together today? But then the memory of her children stopped her. Nothing would make her turn back the clock and be without them. In fact she wouldn’t turn back the clock at all, not even for the younger Terry. He wasn’t really so bad now, just slow to readjust to the recent upheaval in his life. She could be too intolerant, too wrapped up in the business. But if that was what she felt about him, why couldn’t she let the idea of Will go?

  As one thought gave way to another, Eve became aware of someone else entering the room and standing a little way along from her. She glanced sideways for a second, at the exact moment he turned to look at her. A middle-aged man, quite handsome, in an open-necked shirt, untied striped scarf and dark cashmere coat. Then she looked again, realising to her astonishment that she recognised him.

  Will!

  Surprise registered on his face before a broad smile spread across it. Eve couldn’t speak. All the breath was knocked out of her. Coincidences like this didn’t happen. It was as if she’d conjured him up from nowhere. As she struggled to regain her composure, words continued to fail her.

  ‘Eve? What are you doing here? You look terrific.’ As he took a couple of steps towards her, holding out both arms as if to embrace her, she took a couple of quick steps backwards.

  She was readjusting again to that weathered face, the slight stoop and the closely shaved head that had replaced the dark mane of before. But behind the glasses, the eyes were the same.

 
‘Just wasting time before my next meeting.’ She looked at her watch, pleased with herself for sounding suitably nonchalant. ‘I should probably go.’ But her legs were refusing to co-operate and she found herself rooted to the spot.

  ‘I came to see the Freud exhibition, and then I remembered that we once came here together. Have you forgotten?’ That smile again. ‘Do you remember, the time we ran in out of the rain? Oh Evie! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since last week.’ The words burst out of him.

  ‘I . . . no . . . I . . .’ This couldn’t be happening. They didn’t like each other. They were virtually strangers now. And yet they weren’t. She turned back to the portrait of the three sisters, who returned her gaze, inscrutable. Perhaps if she stared at them for long enough, Will would dematerialise or spontaneously combust. Anything.

  Now he was standing inches away from her, side by side, looking straight ahead with her. In the neighbouring rooms were footsteps, voices. But for now, they were completely alone, with only the steady eyes of the sisters on them. Neither of them moved.

  Then, ‘I’m sorry.’ He said it so quietly, she almost didn’t hear.

  ‘For taking your pillow?’ Why did she say that? What a stupid thing. But she didn’t look for his reaction, just kept staring forward, not knowing where this should be going, wondering how she should be reacting.

  ‘For hurting you.’ He sounded sincere. Perhaps he was. Perhaps his marriage had taught him about other people and tamed him.

  Their hands brushed together. She started, then quickly sidestepped to the next picture, not even taking in its subject. Startled by the intensity of her response, she struggled to recover herself, used to taking control of a situation. ‘Well, it’s in the past now.’ She surprised herself. That wasn’t what she had meant to say at all. But Will hadn’t finished.

  ‘I haven’t got an excuse for the way I behaved, apart from being too young to know better. I thought a quick, clean break was the right thing for both of us.’ He was so matter-of-fact, as if he was talking about someone else. And perhaps he was. All that pain belonged to so long ago. Now that they were standing together, Eve was finding it hard to identify with the young woman she had been whom he had hurt so badly.

  This time she didn’t move away.

  ‘How could you ever think leaving me for your ex-girlfriend was excusable?’ But she found herself asking more in curiosity than in anger.

  ‘I did love her,’ he said quietly, as if this was justification enough for causing Eve such heartbreak. Then he added a little too quickly, ‘But I loved you too.’

  Before she could say anything, her BlackBerry buzzed for her attention. Thankful for the interruption, she rescued the phone from her bag. Terry.

  One of chickens taken by fox. Chased it, couldn’t catch. Luke rang. Will be home at weekend. Bringing girlfriend!

  The message brought her up short. How was it that she and Terry could communicate so easily when they were apart? These days, when they were together, disagreement was never far away. The smallest behavioural tics had become sources of the greatest irritation. She didn’t understand how they had arrived at this state of affairs.

  ‘It’s Terry,’ she said, overbrightly. ‘Luke, one of our twins, is bringing his new girlfriend for the weekend. Must be serious.’

  ‘Mmph.’ Will released a noise resembling a little laugh. ‘I never imagined you with children.’

  ‘You said,’ she reminded him, brisk, irritated that he’d forgotten. ‘Well, we’ve got four.’ She couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice.

  ‘And married to Rose’s brother! I’d never have imagined that either. Keeping it in the family.’

  Immediately her hackles rose. There was something in his tone she didn’t like. She or Terry might question their marriage, but she was damned if she would listen to Will, or anyone else, putting it down. ‘You’re hardly one to talk. Martha was your school sweetheart, I seem to remember. Sweet sixteen. At least I moved forward.’

  This time he laughed properly: a deep chuckle that kept her rooted to the spot. ‘Still the same old Eve, fighting like a tiger. And I did move forward in the end.’

  There was an awkward pause. Embarrassed, she checked her watch. ‘Christ! I really have got to go.’ This time her legs obliged. Will accompanied her to the escalator, Eve unsure how they were going to leave things between them.

  He didn’t step on to the escalator with her. When she realised she was alone, she looked backwards to see him standing thoughtful at the top. Her insides did a little quickstep as he raised a hand in farewell.

  ‘Can I call you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she found herself saying. ‘Yes, do.’ She could still feel the beat of her heart, the relief of getting away. And yet in among all that, there was regret too. She dismissed it abruptly. In the Ladies’, she stared at her reflection, smoothed her skirt, and straightened her jacket before putting on her coat. Her mind was racing. What had just happened? Her life was complicated enough without adding Will into the mix. She calmed herself, knotted her scarf. He wouldn’t call. His question was just a knee-jerk way of concluding their encounter. Of course he didn’t mean it.

  She checked her BlackBerry. She had ten minutes in which to get to her appointment with the MD of Flying Mango Books, ten minutes in which to focus on what she wanted to achieve from the meeting. That was what was important now. She readjusted the shoulder strap of her bag, tightened her grasp on the handle of her briefcase and made her way to the exit and out across the busy junction, dodging taxis, towards the Strand.

  18

  The knife slipped, slicing into the fleshy tip of Rose’s finger. Her curse was drowned out by the voices of The Pearl Fishers crescendoing around her. Cradling her injured hand, she crossed to the tap and watched the blood run off into the rushing water. Wrapping a bit of kitchen towel around the cut, she went to the cupboard, where she found an Elastoplast. She hadn’t much time. She was teaching her watercolour class at seven, and at Jess’s insistence, Simon Connelly was due at five thirty. An hour should be more than enough for him to explain what he and Jess had dreamed up for Trevarrick.

  She went back to slicing and quartering the cucumber, then put it in a bowl with sugar, salt and rice vinegar, hissing in pain as the vinegar seeped through the plaster into the cut. Then she did the same thing again with half a red onion and another bowl. She found the precision demanded by chopping, slicing and dicing therapeutic. At first there had seemed little point in cooking for one, but as the months went by, she had begun to enjoy the exercise. No longer having to cater for Daniel’s likes and dislikes, she was free to experiment as she pleased. Not having his interference when she tried something new was in fact liberating, though she felt bad admitting that to herself. If he walked in this very minute, the first thing he would do would be to turn the music off.

  She hummed along as she slid the swordfish steak into the plastic bag to marinade in squeezed lime, olive oil, and seasoning. There. When she returned exhausted from her class, everything would be ready. She liked to be on her mettle when she was teaching, even if these were enthusiastic adults who needed little more than encouragement, and food made her too sluggish.

  At five thirty precisely, the doorbell rang. Simon was standing there, a bunch of white tulips in one hand, a briefcase in the other, and a drawings tube under his arm. She took the flowers, thanking him, and showed him into the kitchen, where they could most easily look at his plans.

  ‘Tea? Or something stronger?’ she asked, lowering the volume so they could hear themselves speak over the overture to Rigoletto.

  ‘Tea would be perfect. Thanks.’ He hung his coat and scarf over the back of a chair while she set about making a pot of Earl Grey and pulled out a tin of shortbread. As she moved around the kitchen, she was aware of him taking in his surroundings. He examined her paintings, considering each one as if they were classical works of art. Although she was used to friends and family looking at them, the scrutiny of
a stranger made her feel too exposed.

  ‘How are you?’ He had moved over to the bookshelves, and was studying the photos of her family.

  Disconcerted by his close interest, she hesitated, watching as he bent closer to Dan’s business photo that she’d placed at the back with the one of them skiing. He stared at it without speaking.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, not wanting to elaborate on the bewildering difficulties of being alone. ‘It’s been hard, but the family’s been wonderful.’ She immediately thought of Jess and Anna and how she must mend the bridges between them.

  He came to the table, clearing his throat. ‘I like your paintings. They’re very evocative. Italy and Cornwall, I’m guessing.’ As she brought over the tea, he took the papers from the tube and unrolled them, then rolled them in the opposite direction so they would lie flat.

  ‘Thanks. That’s right.’ As he took his cup and saucer, he smiled, glancing at her for the first time. She was struck by how washed-out he looked. His face was thinner than she remembered, his skin grey with fatigue, shadows underlining red-rimmed eyes. She recognised in him a deep private sadness that echoed her own. Jess had mentioned the death of his father. Obviously that was taking its toll.

  ‘So you’ve been helping Jess with plans for Trevarrick.’ She came round the table to stand beside him to look at the drawings.

  ‘Yes, well, both of them. Daniel took me down there to see the place last August.’

  ‘I’d no idea he was thinking of renovating.’ Nor did she remember his mentioning taking anyone to see the hotel, but perhaps it had been forgotten in the flurry of their getting ready to go to Italy. Everything surrounding that holiday had blurred and distorted in her mind.

  ‘I don’t know that he was really. I’d seen the photos of Trevarrick in the brochure and suggested a couple of improvements he might consider. He invited me to have a look.’