‘What have you brought?’
Emily starts unpacking the bags. ‘Pizza, bread, milk, Cadbury’s Caramels. The essentials.’
‘Chocolate is an essential?’
She frowns at me. ‘Sometimes I wonder if one of us is adopted.’
We both grin, but it’s all too brief. This back and forth is who we are. Even now, with everything that’s going on, it’s there.
A second or two later and I remember why Emily’s here with bags full of shopping.
‘No word?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’
She nods towards the front of the house. ‘Do you think we should call the police about that lot?’
‘Are they breaking any laws? They’re on the pavement.’
Emily opens the fridge and starts to unload the shopping. ‘I don’t know. If there’s not a law against it, there should be. Public… hanging around or something.’
‘If hanging around is a crime, then I’d have been in jail before I turned fourteen.’
My sister doesn’t reply, but she continues to unpack the bags until everything is in a cupboard or the fridge. After that, she fills the kettle, flicks it on and then takes a pair of mugs from the rack. She drops a teabag in each – we’re not made of money but we’re not savages either – and then gets her phone out and starts to jab at the screen. I sit through it all, suddenly feeling the exhaustion.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Whatever. Next time I’m in need, you’re doing the Tesco run.’
‘Deal.’
Emily rests against the counter as the kettle starts to hum quietly in the corner. It’s stainless steel, part of a matching set with the toaster, both chosen by Charley because my old plastic ones were ‘too scummy’ for her tastes. Mine too, if I’m honest – but I was too lazy to replace them. Toaster and kettle shopping is what you do when you know you’re in a committed relationship.
‘How was Mum?’ I ask.
Emily glances away from her phone towards me and then back to the device.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Like that.’
‘Yes. Like that.’ She sighs. ‘She thought she’d got married this weekend. Kept wondering where Dad was. She got annoyed with one of the nurses and then started shouting. She thought I was one of the porters.’
I squeeze my eyes closed and listen to the fizz of the kettle. ‘Sorry, Em…’
Emily shakes her head. This is far from the first time something like this has happened and it won’t be the last.
Out of nowhere, Emily slaps her hand on the counter. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Look at this.’ She shunts her phone towards me in disgust. It takes a second or two for me to realise what’s in the photo. It a side-on image of Emily with shopping bags and my house in the background.
‘One of that lot out there must’ve taken it,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe it’s online already. Did you see the caption?’
I scroll up and there it is: ‘Mystery blonde is shoulder to cry on’.
‘This isn’t anything to do with me,’ she says, ‘now some dickhead thinks I’m shagging my own brother – and he’s told the world.’
I scroll up and down the page, but there’s no way round it. It’s only on the bloke’s own social media account for now, but that’s how these things start. Next thing you know, you’ve gone viral and some basement-dweller in a far-flung country you’ve never heard of is saying how much he hates your very existence.
‘I’ll go out,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell them who you are and what’s going on. All they want is a statement of some sort.’
‘Don’t. Let them print what they want – and then we’ll show them up for the idiots they are. If you go out, you’ll only make it worse. They’ll get a picture of you blinking and claim you’re drunk or something. Next thing you know, they’ll be calling you a dog rapist on the front page.’
I reel back a little. ‘Dog rapist?’
She grins. ‘Well, maybe not that. I was thinking of the vet thing. Either way, don’t go out there.’
The kettle clicks off and Emily pours hot water into both mugs. She uses a teaspoon to squeeze every last morsel of orangey liquid out of each teabag and then catapults both into the sink. After that, it’s a splash of milk and a quick stir, followed by two sugars each and a stir for luck
That’s how the Chambers family do cups of tea.
Emily passes me one, even though I’d not asked for it, and then heads into the living room. She immediately spies the empty beer bottles I’ve not cleared up.
‘You’re a cliché already,’ she says.
‘Piss off, Em.’
She bites her lip but smirks through it. ‘Sorry.’
Emily slumps onto the couch and slips a coaster into place on the side table. They’re very much Charley’s, not mine. Tea mug rings were a Chambers tradition in the old house before Dad died.
‘Life’s too short for bloody coasters,’ he used to say and, I guess, for him it was.
I miss him so much.
‘Charley’s brother called me,’ I say.
‘Liam?’
I’ve never told Emily his name – but people know. It’s hard not to. Charley, Martha and Liam are all listed on their parents’ Wikipedia pages, for crying out loud.
‘I thought he was out of the picture?’ she adds.
‘Me too – but he wants to meet.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’d think about it.’
‘Did he mention if he knew anything about Charley going missing?’
‘Nothing specific, just asked if I had an hour free today to meet.’
‘Why don’t you go see him? Can’t do any harm.’
I breathe in the fumes of the tea but don’t drink. ‘I don’t want to leave in case Charley comes home.’
‘I can wait in. Rifle through your stuff, look for pornos under the mattress.’ She winks. ‘Like the old days at Mum and Dad’s house.’
It’s hard not to smile. As brother and sister, we’re not touchy-feely, huggy-wuggy, but we’ve always been good at taking the proverbial.
Before I can reply, a flash of movement at the end of the path catches my eye. The assembled journalists have parted like the Red Sea to reveal fluorescent orange stripes on the side of a marked police car on the far side of the road.
I stand, watching as a suited officer emerges and starts to pace along the path to my house. Em is on her feet, too – and rests a hand on my shoulder. Perhaps we are touchy-feely after all.
‘This is it, isn’t it?’ I gulp. ‘They’ve found a body.’
Emily says nothing.
Sixteen
11 Years Ago
Charley Willis, 17 years old
Martha pauses at the front door, hands on hips. She peers around the kitchen once more and sees what I see. No more grimy plates on the side. No mugs full of mould in the window sill. It’s clean now. Liveable. The taps are even sparkling, like they do in the adverts.
‘You’re actually leaving, aren’t you?’ I say.
‘What do you think all the boxes were about?’ She wears a thin smile but there’s no humour there. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘I will if you want. I’ll tell Mason we can put this back a month or three. Maybe four.’
‘You’ve just had him lug all your stuff out to the van.’
‘Yeah but he fancies the arse off me. I’ll get him to lug it all back.’
Martha grins but she’s already sobbing. I try to remember whether I’ve seen her cry before. Definitely not after what happened with Mum and Dad. Perhaps when she was younger and living at home, during one of the blazing rows with Mum before she left? I can’t remember. I was too young.
She dabs the corner of her eyes with her sleeve and tries to blink away the tears. ‘Look at the state of me,’ she says.
‘I think the tears make you about ten per cent sluttier.’
Martha gasps a giggle. ‘Only ten per cent?’
<
br /> ‘Maybe twenty. You need to smear the eyeliner a bit more.’
Before I can say anything else, Martha wrenches me towards her and squeezes the living hell out of my lungs.
‘I bloody love you,’ she whispers.
‘I love you, too.’
She lets me go and then takes a small step backwards. It’s not quite enough to take her outside, but she’s nearly there.
‘I’m going to keep the flat,’ she says. Again.
‘I know. You’ve told me.’
‘You can stay here as long as you want.’
‘I will. Doesn’t get better than rent-free. Are you going to pay the bills, too?’
‘Don’t push it.’
Another half-step backwards and Martha is on the threshold. Mason appears behind her, sweating from all the fetching and carrying. He’s all rugged and stubbly; big arms and thighs, quite the rugger bugger. Martha’s type.
‘How are you, Little C?’ he asks.
‘Lonely!’ I fake wail into my hands. ‘I can’t believe she’s leaving me for you! I’m so abandoned.’
I peep through my fingers to find an unamused sister and a slightly confused sister’s boyfriend.
‘Do you need anything else doing?’ he asks.
‘Bit of wiring, the bathroom tap keeps dripping. I think the previous owner is a bit of a you-know-what. She had lads over all the time, but they never did anything about it.’
Martha slaps me on the shoulder. ‘You lying little cow!’
We both grin, but it’s probably too close to the bone for Mason. He bobs awkwardly and then says he’ll see Martha in the van. She waits for him to go and then takes one final step backwards. She’s fully outside.
‘I’m gonna go now,’ she says.
‘So you keep saying.’
She smiles sadly. It’s been a whirlwind few months. I guess it was always going to be when it came to Martha and someone she actually liked. It started with her stopping out for a night or two, then a couple of nights at a time, then weekends. Now she’s moving across the city to live with Mason. She was never the slow-and-steady type.
I’m so over the bloody moon for her, I can’t even put it into words.
‘I’m really going to go now,’ she says.
I gulp and, from nowhere, I’m crying too. Martha reaches out and holds me as we sob onto each other’s shoulder. It might be seconds, maybe minutes, but we cry until we stop. That’s what it is: a moment where it feels like we’re done. One chapter finished, here’s to the next.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘You are very welcome.’
‘We’re still gonna have girls’ nights out, yeah?’
Her features harden. ‘You’re seventeen, Char.’ Then she cracks a smile. ‘Of course we are!’
‘I think your husband’s waiting.’
She turns to the street. ‘He’s not my husband.’
‘Yeah, but he will be.’
She bites her tongue and then beams. ‘You’re damned right he will be.’ Martha moves to the first stone step. ‘This is me leaving,’ she says.
‘It’s not me, it’s you.’
The second step: ‘I’ll call you when I get there.’
‘It’s only half-hour away.’
Step three: ‘Northern line to District; head east. No excuses. I got you an Oyster card.’
‘You’ll get sick of me.’
Number four: ‘We’ll do the pubs out there next week. Just you and me.’
‘Sounds good.’
Step five: ‘Mason does nights every weekend in three, so you can stay over if you want.’
‘I want the big bed.’
Martha is by the gate now. I can’t see her feet and am staring up at the upper half of her body. She arches backwards and peers along to the street towards Mason’s van.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘I love you.’
‘I know.’
She grins wickedly. It’s so unlike her, but there’s a skip and a jump and then she’s gone.
I wait in the bunker bit outside the kitchen window, staring upwards, wondering if she’ll return. We’ve been talking about this for weeks, but I guess I wasn’t sure it would actually happen.
‘I love you, too,’ I whisper – but it’s only the dying pot plant on the lower step that hears.
I close the door, lock it, and head through to the living room. I’ve spent days, weeks, by myself in this place and yet it was always Martha’s. She was always going to come home at some point, but now she has another home.
I’m wondering what to do with myself when there’s a knock on the door.
I spring up from the sofa instinctively. Martha’s forgotten something, which means we get to say goodbye all over again!
I race through the flat back to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open in one free movement.
Except it’s not Martha.
It’s Liam. He’s tanned, wearing a loose T-shirt and ripped jeans, as usual.
‘Jeeeeeeeesus,’ he says. ‘You’ve grown up, Charlotte. Man alive.’ He holds a palm out at waist height. ‘Last time I saw you, you were down there.’
‘What are you doing here?’
He holds his hands up. ‘We’re brother and sister. I don’t need a reason, do I?
Liam steps towards the door and I find myself moving backwards, letting him in.
‘Were you waiting for Martha to leave?’ I ask.
‘Martha?’ He speaks as if he’s never heard the name before.
‘She only left two minutes ago. There’s no way you turned up by chance. You must’ve been watching from over the road or something…?’
He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter and then leads me through the flat into the living room, plopping himself onto the sofa in my spot.
I don’t particularly want to sit next to him, so that leaves me with the lounger. Martha’s seat.
‘How have you been holding up?’ he asks.
I crane my neck, ostrich-style. ‘You’ve been gone for four years, Liam. Four years! I’ve not seen you since they read the will. Nobody knew you were in California until Martha got the postcard.’
Liam is nodding along. ‘Oh, so you did get it? I wondered if you had.’
He tails off. One postcard in four years and now he’s here as if this is all normal.
‘I was doing the whole Hollywood thing,’ he adds.
‘What’s the Hollywood thing?’
He flicks away a strand of hair that isn’t there, preens towards the mirror on the wall at my side. ‘Oh, y’know. Going to auditions, trying out for adverts, that sort of thing.’
Liam speaks as if this is the most normal thing in the world. I don’t want to be mean, but I’ve seen Hollywood movies. I’ve watched American television shows. I’ve muted the adverts and changed the channel. I have no idea what his acting skills are like, but I do know my brother doesn’t have the chiselled features to be a professional actor.
‘Don’t you have to be good-looking?’ I ask.
I make it sound as innocent as I can: head-in-the sky, thirteen-year-old Charlotte, not Charley.
He eyes me suspiciously and it feels good to see him squirm. Four years! We thought he might be dead, or snorting his million quid on an island somewhere.
‘What are you saying?’ he asks.
‘Nothing, I just don’t know how it works. Did you get much work?’
It’s barely there, but he shakes his head, dismissing the question. ‘I’m back now.’ A momentary pause and then: ‘So… what’s been going on?’
‘You want me to sum up four years into a couple of sentences?’
He shrugs. It’s not as if he cares. ‘Have you been living with Martha this whole time?’
‘She’s my legal guardian. We did all the paperwork.’
‘So she’s like Mum?’
I stare at him and wonder if this is his dig back at me. ‘She’s nothing like Mum.’
&nb
sp; He allows himself a hint of a smirk. ‘Who’s her fella? I never thought she was the settling-down type.’
We look to each other, but the passive aggressiveness is becoming too much. Liam scratches his crotch and shrugs as if to say he doesn’t care about the answer anyway.
‘Do you think he’s still out there?’ Liam asks.
‘Who?’
Another shrug. ‘Y’know. Whoever broke into the house that night…’
For a while after it happened, I thought about Mum, Dad and that house all the time. It felt like every minute. Even when I was talking about something else, it would be at the back of my mind. It was the first thing I’d think about each morning, the last thing before I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke in the early hours, it’d be right there, front and centre.
It’s been four years and things have changed over time. Sometimes I would wake up and think of Martha, or the things we’d done the night before. I’d think of the games we’d play to evade photographers, or plot complicated routes so that we could get around without being followed. Either that, or I’d come up with new nicknames for the blokes with cameras. I’d plan what to have for dinner, read about people and things other than my parents.
And then there was one Saturday last summer where I realised I’d gone the whole day without thinking of Mum, Dad or that house. Martha had got us tickets to an event in Hyde Park. It was mainly music, but there were a couple of comedians, too. We each wore wigs and she had to cover her tattoos, but, other than that, it was a day in the park. We spent most of the time laughing and dancing.
That’s been the pattern ever since. Remembering what happened is the exception now, not the norm.
Liam’s question almost makes me feel like I’ve been punched. There’s a moment in which it’s hard to breathe.
‘Why do you think it’s a he?’ I manage.
He blinks. ‘It’s always a bloke. You don’t hear of women going around, breaking into houses and so on.’
So on. That is one way to sum things up.
‘Is that why you’re here, Liam?’ I turn away from him. ‘It’s been four years.’
‘That’s what I’m saying: four years and he’s still out there. Aren’t you worried?’
The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist Page 10
