The Secrets Women Keep

by Fanny Blake

  Terry. Whenever she had thought of him in the last few days, she had been rocked by sadness and regret. Once she had helped him through his current problems, and completed sorting out their finances, she would be free to leave the marriage. The sale of the Arthur was going through as planned, and with Rufus’s unpredicted return to the fold, her own business prospects had improved. Terry had to stay on the straight and narrow. Knowing how much depended on it, he was doing his best. She admired him for that. But the more she tried to picture a life without her husband, the harder it became. There seemed so many obstacles in the way of a life without him. Despite his faults, he loved her and would do anything for her. Many women weren’t as lucky with their husbands. And she could hardly claim to be fault-free. He put up with a lot.

  The financial crisis his gambling had provoked had driven home to Eve how much her family meant to her and how unbearable it would be to leave the nest in which she had invested so much time and love. They had brought up the children there; Millie had even been born in their bedroom, and the place was imbued with family history. She wouldn’t find that anywhere else. Nor would she find anyone, least of all Will, who would share her interest in her children’s lives. As far as she could tell, he found it hard enough to muster enough attention for his own kids. That was something she couldn’t understand about him.

  She, not Terry, would have to be the one to leave. Their mutual friends were bound to take sides. And the children? Would they suffer? Even though adults now, their parents splitting up was bound to affect them in some way or other, especially Millie, the baby of them all. Would they take sides? Especially when they knew who she’d left their father for. How would they be able to celebrate individual achievements as a family without things being awkward between them? Millie’s graduation, for instance. Marriages. Grandchildren. For a fleeting moment, she pictured Rose carrying Dylan up to bed, his arms around her neck, his soft cheek pressed against hers, Daniel proudly looking up after them. She envied her that. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without their long-established family rituals. And the summer? Would she ever be able to visit Casa Rosa again? And of course Terry – she would miss all the little things that irritated, amused or made her love him, all the things they had in common. Her mind kept racing with lists of the losses and possibilities that were in her gift. And Terry would even get custody of the chickens!

  But equally, when she was with Will, she couldn’t imagine a future without him. He understood her, flattered her, made her feel all things were possible, that life could be exciting and unpredictable. He made her feel like a different woman. Terry may have once done the same – it was hard to remember – but those feelings had been buried a long time ago in the mundane routine and the stresses involved in trying to have it all. Was that what she was doing again now? She wasn’t so sure that she liked this different woman Will had unearthed, whose overriding concerns were shallow and selfish. But the way she felt when she was with him was incomparable. She couldn’t let that go.

  She walked from the station to the hotel, an elegant Georgian building. She put her bag on the pavement under the iron and glass porch and stood for a second gazing up at the honey-coloured stone and the multi-paned sash windows. One night with Will, without any of the pressures of her everyday life. Twenty-four hours of uninterrupted pleasure and room service. Perhaps they’d emerge for dinner in the evening, and a stroll around the town. If it really was going to be their last meeting, better make it a memorable one. She shut her eyes in the most pleasurable anticipation, only to open them to the clearing of a throat.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A uniformed doorman was half bent over her case.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m just checking in.’ Her stomach fluttered with excitement.

  They went in together and straight to the reception desk. Will had expected to arrive about half an hour before her, unless his meeting overran.

  After glancing at her computer, the receptionist looked up with a warm smile. ‘In fact Mr Jessop hasn’t checked in yet. Would you like to go ahead to the room?’

  Minutes later, Eve was sitting on the edge of a four-poster bed swagged in the palest of blue and grey. The almost matching toile wallpaper featured plump cherubs surrounded by garlands of flowers. She was flattered that Will hadn’t skimped on the expense. In Terry’s hands, they would have occupied the most modest of rooms. Once, he had even economised by choosing the one without an en suite. In the middle of those nights, Eve could be found trailing along the chilly corridors in search of a loo, wrapped in a thin faded kimono provided expressly for the purpose.

  She lay back, feeling the give of the mattress, letting herself relax, smelling the clean white bedlinen. Then she sat up swiftly. Will might be late, but that gave her time to get ready for him. She unpacked her bag, stashing it away in the bottom of the wardrobe, hanging up the dress she’d brought for the evening – just in case they ventured out of the room – putting her new satin and lace underwear in a drawer. Then she undressed, putting on one of the thick white towelling robes before taking her sponge bag into the bathroom. Examining herself closely in the mirror, she took her tweezers and plucked out a rogue hair from her chin, sure that it hadn’t been there when she last looked. Just another of the pleasures that came with hormonal change, designed as reminders of time passing. Other than that, with a little minor titivating, she looked as good as she was ever going to. Lastly, she unwrapped the loo paper from the bracelet Will had given her and used it to wrap Terry’s. Then she slipped Will’s gift on to her wrist. Satisfied, she returned to the bedroom, pulled back the sheets and slid between them, careful not to disturb her hair or make-up. That would happen later.

  After five minutes, when Will still hadn’t appeared, she got out and padded over the shag-pile carpet to retrieve her bag. Having resolved not to spend any moment of her time in Bath on her BlackBerry – she had allowed herself twenty-four hours to be devoted exclusively to pleasure, not work – she took out her Kindle and found her place in the thriller she had started on the train. Back in bed, she lay reading, time flicking past in big red numbers on the bedside clock. But aware that Will might arrive at any moment, she couldn’t concentrate. The plot had too many twists and turns for her to follow. At any other time she’d have been gripped by its complexities, but not today.

  After another ten minutes, she got up and made herself a cup of coffee. Instead of bog-standard instant, there was a tin of freshly ground Colombian and a cafetière. By the time she’d finished, the supposedly seductive scent of her perfume was lost under the haze of coffee that filled the room. After a debate with herself about where to drink it, she climbed back into bed, aware that she had already spoiled the inviting newness of the sheets. She picked up her Kindle to try again, this time immersing herself more successfully.

  When the coffee was finished, she got up and forced open the paint-stuck window with a bash of her fist to get rid of the smell. Instantly, the unmistakable aroma of frying onions wafted up from somewhere below. Their room must be directly above a kitchen vent. She slammed shut the window immediately, but too late. The atmosphere had transformed from boudoir to bistro in a stroke. She rubbed her bruised hand. Perhaps it was as well Will was delayed. There was time for the room to return to normal if she upped to arctic for a little while the aircon that she’d spotted too late.

  Feeling suddenly and inexplicably nervous, she opened the minibar. A bottle of white wine winked at her. What harm? She poured herself a large glass and took it back to bed with her. Besides, the sun was inching towards the yardarm. Picking up her thriller, she scrolled back a few pages to reread what she had just read and already forgotten, forcing her way back into the plot despite herself. Eventually she lay back against the down-soft pillows and sighed, closing her eyes as she looked forward to Will’s imminent arrival. However long his meeting overran, he must be due to get away soon.

  When she next opened her eyes, she found she had rolled half on to her side. The white pillow
was peachy with rubbed-off foundation and powder. A little pool of dribble had accumulated under her right cheek, soaking attractively into the pillow. Momentarily dazed by sleep, Eve couldn’t remember where she was. Then reality struck home. She sat up, noticing first the empty wine glass, then the clock. The numbers were quite clear: 18:30. Now 18:31. She rubbed her eyes, remembering too late the mascara she’d lashed on in preparation for her role as femme fatale. There must be some mistake. She picked up the clock and shook it, pressed the buttons. No mistake: 18:32; 18:33. Will’s meeting must have finished ages ago. Something must have happened to him.

  She picked up the phone and dialled reception. ‘Have any messages been left for room twenty-five.’

  There was a silence as the woman looked. Everything would be clear in a second.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She swung her legs out of bed, despite the temptation to bury herself between the sheets.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve double-checked.’

  As she put the phone done, Eve had an overwhelming and extremely unwelcome sense of déjà vu. Refusing to consider it, she abandoned the sleep-tossed bed and went to the mirror by the door. A gorgon looked back at her. The combination of sleep and products had stood her hair on end. Her right cheek was creased where she’d lain on the crumpled pillow. Her smudged mascara had given her panda eyes above cheekbones that perhaps, now she looked at them in this light, were after all a bit too gaunt for a woman her age. Tears began to well in her eyes. Don’t do this, she reprimanded herself. You are not nineteen. All the same, she snatched a handful of tissues from the box. After blowing her nose and repairing the damage so that she looked presentable again, she poured herself another glass of wine.

  She’d been in the room for over two hours. No one, not even Will, could be this late. Could he have had an accident of some sort? How would she find him in a city she didn’t know? Unless he was lying injured in hospital somewhere. She didn’t even know where his meeting had been. In desperation, she cast away her resolution for a virtually tech-free couple of days, found her BlackBerry and switched it on.

  As soon as it came to life, she saw she had a number of emails waiting for her. She scrolled down them and found one, just one, from Will. Sent at three fifteen, when she had already been on the train from Paddington, phone off, her mind exclusively on the excitements of the twenty-four hours ahead of her. With trepidation and incipient anger, she opened it.

  Evie babe, SO sorry but not going to be able to make Bath after all. Meeting cancelled and something came up last minute in London that I have to attend to. I’ll make it up to you.

  She stared at the words in disbelief, then read them again. And then again, as all the stuffing leaked out of her. He wasn’t coming. She had travelled all the way here for nothing. He’d known she was catching the three o’clock train and had sent the email after she was on board – and that was all he could say. He was too busy even to bother to phone the hotel to speak to her. As she lay back against the pillow for a final time to let the impact of what had happened sink in, she couldn’t avoid the memory of another pillow. Even though it was over twenty-five years ago, she could envisage it exactly, complete with its special anti-allergy pillowcase, jammed into the back window ledge of Will’s car next to his dog-eared set of National Geographics. The bastard!

  She sat up, filled with a rage unlike anything she had felt before. How dare he treat her like this? If he thought she was going to roll over and accept it, he could think again. If their relationship was going to work at all, a few things needed to be said. And there was no time like right now, while she was boiling with fury. She called up his number and waited. She didn’t need time to think what she was going to say, if he answered at all. If he didn’t, she would make sure they saw each other the next day to have it out. He wouldn’t get away with this. The ringing tone went on and on. Just as she was about to give up, he answered.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ She didn’t give him a chance to speak, proud that she kept her voice under control. Low, firm but extremely forceful.

  ‘Bill, sweetie. It’s your phone.’ The voice she heard was distant; the phone was obviously being held out to Will. But there was no question that it belonged to a woman: a young, softly spoken woman who might be Welsh. Eve stared straight ahead of her, motionless. She didn’t need to hear any more. She didn’t need an explanation. Whatever he said would be a pack of self-justifying crap. She cut off the call before Will reached the phone.

  She didn’t know how long she sat staring into the distance, replaying the story of their recent relationship. Of course she had been married and he was single, free to do whatever he wanted, but she had never imagined that he was capable of repeating history in such a callous and humiliating way. Did he imagine she’d never find out he was seeing someone else? Or perhaps that was why he let the other woman answer the phone. He wanted her to know and was too cowardly to tell her. He had let her jeopardise her marriage with no reason. All right, that was her fault. She had allowed herself to be put in that position, had welcomed it even, but in the wrongheaded belief that what they had rediscovered between them would be worth it. This time there was no going back for either of them. Her anger was directed at herself for having been so gullible, believing that he was a different person when he hadn’t changed at all. She stared at the BlackBerry in her hand. Slowly she called up Rose’s number and lifted the phone to her ear.

  Rose heard Eve out without interrupting. Eventually she ran out of things to say, aware that she was going round in circles. More than anything, she was grateful to Rose for not saying ‘I told you so’, for not even sounding as if that was what she thought. When Rose eventually spoke, she was clear, confident that her advice was what Eve needed to hear.

  ‘Come back to London, Eve. You can stay the night here. I’ll wait up for you. And then tomorrow, you know what you need to do.’

  ‘What?’ asked Eve, although she knew the answer.

  ‘Go home,’ Rose said. ‘Go home.’

  July – One Year Later

  32

  The Stansted departure lounge was heaving with people. Eve was fuming. Her children having long ago left school, she’d forgotten the hell of school holiday travel, when every family in the land criss-crossed the world in search of the sun and a stress-free fortnight. People crowded the cafés, caroused in the bars, browsed in the shops, queued at the money exchanges, wandered aimlessly. Everyone was shouting at everyone else. Excitement or stress, it didn’t matter. Here and there a child cried or endured a bollocking for running off as tempers frayed under the pressure.

  She gazed across the sea of bodies to find a pair of seats. Nothing. She should have known better than to leave the flight arrangements to Terry. But pressure of work meant that she had leaped at his offer to make them, despite the fiasco of their last journey to Italy. She could endure all this, she told herself, if they could relax once they got to Casa Rosa.

  Amid the seated masses, a tattooed, shaven-headed man with a can of lager got to his feet. Such an unflattering look, she reflected, particularly with his T-shirt stretched tight over that beer gut and a swastika above his right ear. ‘Terry,’ she hissed. ‘Over there. You take it. And watch out for Anna. I’ll be back in a sec.’

  Terry obliged, negotiating his way over legs, bags and children, and sank down on to the seat, their hand luggage at his feet. He pulled out the distinctive pink pages of the Financial Times, a certain escape for him. He was used to travelling with Eve and was resigned to what she was about to do.

  In WHSmith, Eve homed in on the children’s section of the bookshelves. The books were in some chaos already, but that was what she had come for: to restore order . . . and to promote her authors. An agent never sleeps. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the shop assistants were busy elsewhere, she moved quickly, shunting the stock along the shelves so there was room for her to display her authors’ books face-out. All’s fair when i
t comes to sales, she told herself, as she moved Rufus’s latest book from the shelf to the table, successfully hiding a pile belonging to another agent’s author. Having completed her task, one author after another, also noting which of them weren’t there at all, she walked as swiftly as she could to the other branch, where she repeated the process. Job done, she returned to Terry to find the seat beside him empty. She took a tissue and dabbed at a coffee stain before sitting down, perching on the edge in case her skirt got marked.

  While he read the paper, apparently unperturbed by the chaos of their surroundings, she concentrated on keeping calm, breathing deeply. She wasn’t afraid of flying. What she loathed was the whole experience of budget travel, of being herded cattle-like into a container only to fight for neighbouring non-reclining seats with minimal leg-room, paying over the odds for any kind of refreshment, and most likely being kicked in the back by an overexcited child or deafened by the baby crying in front – and all with no respite for at least two hours. While no one could blame the child or the baby, it was a bit too up-close and intimate for her.

  By the time their flight was finally called, she had lulled herself into a state of mind where she was feeling a certain warmth towards her fellow human beings. After all, she kept reminding herself, they were the ones who bought her authors’ books and kept her in business. And what were they doing but having a holiday, enjoying themselves, just as she was? Who was she to be so Scrooge-like in her quite unreasonable condemnation of them?