The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

‘Well, it’s a waste of bloody good space.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m gonna put everything up there one of these days, it’s ridiculous.’

  I decide not to argue with him, hoping soon he’ll stop.

  ‘Why do you have a phobia of lofts?’

  I shrug. Although of course I know full well why.

  Matt flops down beside me on the couch.

  ‘So what did she say about the ticket?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘She can’t remember it?’ Matt asks, pouring himself a new glass and not bothering to top me up.

  ‘She’ll be giving herself a hard time about that.’

  ‘X Factor?’ he says, and although it’s a question it’s also a statement of intent.

  Halfway through the first song I see that Matt has fallen asleep. A flush of longing washes over me; he looks like a dormouse, lying on his back, softly clenched fists lying on his chest, mouth open. He looks so adorable when he’s like that. The desire to wake him is strong.

  Come on, it’s the girl group next. You like them.

  And then I think of the long hours he’s worked this week in the restaurant. This is his first day off since a week last Friday. But then I see the bottle of wine on the coffee table.

  I am twenty-one and have a coffee table. I am twenty-one and I’m so boring my boyfriend has to drink to feel some excitement, feel something.

  I am twenty-one, and maybe my boyfriend drinks so much so that he doesn’t have to have sex with me. That is possible.

  And then I’m flushed with another sensation. Panic. Mum’s words echo in my ears.

  You’re not forty-one.

  And I wonder if I’m wasting my life away with the wrong man.

  I go outside. The pitch-black sky feels thick like velvet. The odd stars scattered across it glint like halogens peeping through. Something about the whole thing feels man-made, unreal. And then I see the three brightest, Orion’s Belt. And I remember that night. A panic rises in my chest. It always does. I swallow big breaths of the cold night air. And hurry back inside.

  Matty is still asleep. Snoring now.

  I put a DVD on to cheer myself up. It’s the 1993 Wimbledon Men’s final, the year I was born. Sampras beat Courier 7–6, 7–6, 3–6, 6–3. I know the match inside out. My favourite bit is the third set when I always still get nervous that Sampras is going to lose everything. And then he pulls it back just when you think he’s going to succumb.

  I look over at Matt and think, Yes. I will claw this back.

  But I don’t really know what I mean.

  I twiddle the chain I wear round my neck. I always do that when I’m worried. It’s my little comfort blanket. It’s the chain Mum gave me on the millennium. She gave us all one. It’s not the most attractive thing in the world. But I’m used to it now.

  Is that how Matty feels about me?

  I return to the hypnotic game and suddenly I am anaesthetized.

  The panic has gone.

  I position myself on the floor. I lie there, head crooked up against the edge of the sofa. Knees tucked up, toes touching the coffee-table legs. It reminds me of when I went with my dad once to pick Mum up from somewhere. I can’t remember what she’d have been doing, but I hid in the back of the car, in the hatchback bit where she usually put the shopping. I enjoyed the sensation of lying down and looking up, of seeing the sky and the streetlamps, and then keeping quiet as Dad made out to Mum he’d come on his own. Then halfway home I’d jump up and shout surprise and Mum’d jump out of her skin, then laugh her head off. I must have done this many times as a child, and every time I would think I was so clever. I took to lying in odd places around the house, waiting to surprise Mum, Dad or Cally. Once I hid myself in the pullout larder in the kitchen. Eventually Mum came to get some herbs out and, of course, jumped out of her skin.

  Some days I feel like Dad’s just hiding. And he’s going to jump out at any moment and shout SURPRISE!

  He’s not done it yet.

  Natalie

  It’s a sign. I know it’s a sign. A left luggage ticket? Found so long after he’s gone missing? It has to be a sign!

  I am standing in the through lounge of 7 Dominic Close with a smattering of neighbours, a glass of orange juice in my hand, watching Harmony and her identical twin Melody kneeling on the floor singing ‘Jar of Hearts’ in two-part harmony. I say identical. Melody looks like how Harmony would if she didn’t have an eating disorder. In terms of entertainment it’s not exactly the seven gates of hell, but it comes pretty close. My best mate Lucy is standing next to me and I feel her pinching my arm, tight, which is good as I am trying my hardest not to laugh. The convulsions beside me tell me she’s wetting herself as well, but covering valiantly. The ‘girls’, as they call themselves, are staring straight ahead and one of them, not sure if it’s Melody or Harmony, their names confuse me, puts a finger near her ear and presses hard like I’ve seen pop stars do when they’re in the studio.

  All the time. All the time I look for signs that he’s alive. Or dead. This has to be a sign. This is a part of him we knew nothing about. It should have been discovered ages ago but it wasn’t. This . . . is a game-changer.

  A harassed-looking woman shuffles over. She has straggly hair and a baby in a papoose swaddled around her chest. She snaps me out of my reverie.

  ‘Bet you’re wishing you’d never moved now,’ she whispers, and I like her immediately. I wink at her. ‘Tamsin. Number three. And this is Phoebe.’

  I do what you’re meant to do when meeting someone who can’t answer back but to gurgle, and take one of her tiny fingers and gently shake it.

  ‘Aww, like her from Friends. The mad one,’ I smile. Tamsin looks confused.

  ‘The sitcom? Years ago?’ I take a sip of my orange.

  She nods, looking rather unnerved. Just then the twins’ mum coos over, ‘Ladies? Voices down please!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t encourage her,’ Tamsin whispers.

  As the song ends and the applause ripples round the room I am about to introduce Tamsin to Lucy when Betty Caligary bounds over, seemingly from nowhere. She speaks out of the side of her mouth today, hoping that half the room won’t hear.

  ‘Have you seen the size of her now? Skinny Malinx? She’ll be back in the psychiatric ward soon being force-fed through a tube. Are you settling in OK there, Natalie?’

  She’s Scottish. How did I not notice this last time?

  ‘Er, yes thanks, Betty. Still unpacking.’

  ‘Aye well, there’s no rush, is there. How was the cake?’

  ‘Absolutely gorgeous. So moist.’

  ‘That’ll be the yoghurt. My secret ingredient.’

  ‘Sorry I’ve not returned your Tupperware.’

  ‘Och, there’s no rush. No rush at all.’

  ‘Betty, this is my friend Lucy. And Lucy, this is Tamsin.’

  They say hello. Lucy even shakes their hands. I see them staring at Lucy’s Senegalese Twists as if she’s dared to come to the party with a stuffed cat on her head. I, however, feel proud to have this beautiful woman as my friend.

  ‘Hope you didn’t mind me coming, I popped by to see the new place and . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’re English.’ Betty sounds relieved. I see Lucy’s right eyebrow arc up.

  Racist cow!

  ‘Anyway, it’s not my party,’ Betty says curtly, then zooms in on me. ‘So. Still no news, then?’

  Bloody hell. Talk about direct.

  ‘About . . . ?’

  ‘Your husband.’

  I feel like shouting, Yes. We found him this morning. He’s waiting at home to explain where he’s been but I thought coming to a neighbour’s buffet was more important.

  ‘No.’

  But just you wait. We have found a massive SIGN.

  ‘You poor wee thing. My heart bleeds for you. Were you not getting on?’ Without waiting for a response, she turns to Tamsin. ‘You’ve had depression, haven’t you, Tams
in?’ Then, quickly, she looks to Lucy. ‘Shocking disease. The silent killer. They say the true sign of clinical depression is . . .’ and then her eyes flit like she’s forgotten. ‘Something like, if you see a ten-pound note on the lawn. If you’re depressed, you won’t go and pick it up.’

  ‘I thought that was flu,’ says Tamsin.

  ‘No, it’s depression. Psychosis is if it’s a twenty. Is that your husband smoking in the garden?’

  That was directed at Lucy. She nods. ‘Yes. Horrible habit.’

  ‘Horrible garden. Have you seen the state of her clematis?’ agrees Betty. ‘And there’s your son, Natalie. Is his partner not here?’

  We look into the back garden and see Owen chatting with Dylan. How does she know Owen has a . . . oh yes, she Googled us.

  ‘No, he’s working,’ I lie.

  ‘Such a shame,’ Betty says dreamily.

  ‘Sorry?’ I can’t help myself sometimes. I should know better. ‘Shame he’s working?’

  ‘No, dear. Shame he’s gay.’

  Oh my God. Right first time!

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, Betty.’

  ‘Now, now, my little Bolshie!’ she says, amused, and taps me on the arm. It makes my blood boil. ‘I was only meaning it’s a shame I can’t palm him off on one of my gorgeous granddaughters.’

  ‘He’s not a second-hand car, Betty.’

  ‘No, dear.’ She’s sounding lascivious. ‘He’s a top-of-the-range Maserati.’

  Is she perving over my boy?

  ‘Your husband’s very dapper.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Lucy.

  ‘Ah. I see you like to play in the snow.’

  Lucy looks horrified. I am confused. I’m about to ask what this means when the twins’ mum Margaret comes over, a twin each side. It’s like one’s a shadow of the other.

  ‘How did you like the impromptu jig?’ Margaret sounds desperate to know. Like it’s a matter of life or death.

  ‘It’s gig, Mother,’ says a twin.

  ‘It was lovely,’ says a non-twin, me.

  ‘You know they’ve been on X Factors three times?’ Margaret again has a tone of urgency.

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘And they sang while they were switching the lights on in Bolton. 2006, wasn’t it, girls?’

  ‘December the first.’ They both reply in unison.

  ‘Now tell me, Natalie. You’ve been on This Morning. Do you have a mobile number for Phillip Schofield?’

  I feel Lucy dragging me away, my protector.

  ‘Why don’t we go and get some food? Buffet looks lovely.’

  As we move away I hear a few sentences spat at each other in lowered voices.

  ‘What did you say that for?’

  ‘She’s been on telly.’

  ‘She used to work in nightclubs!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, that’s showbiz!’

  As we headed into the kitchen I felt like calling out, See you, girls! Whatever your names are. Now that really is showbiz!

  I first met Lucy many moons ago when she was a barmaid at Milk, paying her way through a psychology degree at university. In the Nineties she wore platform trainers, hot pants and a peroxide weave, making her very popular with the boys, who enjoyed seeing her bend over to pull beers out of her fridge. And no, that’s not a euphemism. These days she’s more at home in a pair of flats, some skinny jeans and a nice cardi and, now that she’s in her forties, she is a relationship counsellor. I always rated her because she never showed me anything but respect when she was working for me. Most of the staff treated Danny as the boss and me as his glamorous sidekick, even though I was anything but, but I always felt Lucy admired what I’d achieved when she was still studying. Over the years I’ve seen so many Milk staff flourish and go on to do so many other wonderful things: some in the music industry, some staying in clubs and promotion, some in hospitality, whilst others have branched, like Lucy, into things completely unrelated. She’s taught me a lot over the years, has Lucy, including the fact that at Milk she never liked it if someone described her as half-caste, preferring the term mixed race. And that these days she eschews the likes of mixed race, preferring mixed heritage. Which always makes me think she sounds like a world heritage site. Or something from the National Trust. Which, when you see how gorgeous she is, is so far from the truth. And she is stunning, inside and out. How lucky have I been to have a counsellor as my best friend during the last five years?

  She and Dylan are one of those beautiful couples who make everything look effortless. Their house is rarely messy. Everything they wear looks like a stylist chose it for them. They never seem to row. They’ve read all the books you’re meant to have read, seen all the TV programmes everyone raves about but I never have time to watch. It would be quite easy to hate them, but they’re so disarmingly kind and involving, they both have a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in their universe. You can’t help but love them. Sickening, I know. When I grow up I want to be them. Well, I want to be Lucy. I’m not sure I could get away with Dylan’s trendy beard.

  Lucy and I sit on a canopied swingy banquette thing, even though it’s December and we’re freezing; anything to escape the house, and the vultures. We pick at our paper plates of brightly coloured E-numbers masquerading as food.

  ‘What did she mean? You like to play in the snow.’

  Lucy rolls her eyes as she chews the life out of a Wotsit. ‘It’s a stupid, sort of racist saying. About black women shagging white men. We like to . . .’

  ‘Play in the snow,’ I say with a groan, getting it finally. God, I’m dense today.

  ‘So. You said you wanted to talk about the left luggage thingy.’

  I nod solemnly.

  ‘Well, come on. Shoot.’

  How American.

  ‘Owen sent me a photo of it this morning, so I checked the date with my old diaries and . . .’

  She has stopped eating. I realize I’m making it sound sensational. Like it’s gossip when actually it’s not. It’s eating me up with anxiety.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember that time we did Milk in Ibiza, only I couldn’t go coz Cally had broken her leg and I didn’t want to take her on the plane?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says, remembering.

  ‘And I didn’t want to leave her?’

  ‘Ye-e-es.’ She sounds less convinced now.

  ‘So Danny went on his own.’

  She’s nodding more encouragingly now. I’m finding it hard to speak.

  ‘Well, according to the ticket, Danny put a suitcase in left luggage the day he got back. Why would he do that?’

  Lucy looks bewildered, like I’m making a big deal out of it when it really doesn’t matter at all. That makes me feel better.

  ‘Maybe he was going for a meeting and just wanted to dump it. Probably picked it up the same day.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You know, he . . . lands in Manchester Airport. Can’t be arsed with a taxi. Takes the train. Has to meet someone, so sticks his luggage there for a few hours.’

  I nod, considering this.

  ‘What, you think he’s left it there all this time?’

  ‘Well, he’s still got the ticket.’ Then I correct myself. ‘We’ve still got the ticket. Wouldn’t he have had to hand that in to get the case back?’

  ‘You know Danny, always losing things. Maybe he lost the ticket.’

  ‘Well, Owen said it was in the lining of the jacket.’

  ‘And so had a big barney with them and showed them some ID or something and he got the case back. Not knowing that all along the ticket was in the lining of his coat.’

  This was plausible. He was always losing things. He’s lost himself, hasn’t he?

  ‘Well, anyway,’ I say, ‘there’s one way to find out.’

  ‘You’re gonna call them?’

  ‘I’m gonna go one better.’

  Lucy does that downturned smile thing that conveys confusion. Tha
t and a quick judder.

  ‘I’m gonna go there in person.’

  ‘When?’

  I drain the last of my orange.

  ‘Now.’

  The lips turn up. ‘I wondered why you weren’t drinking. When you’re in staggering distance of home.’

  I tip Owen the wink and he comes over quickly, abandoning Dylan near the house, lighting up yet another cigarette. Owen’s cheeks are a blushing red. I put it down to the fresh air.

  ‘Ready?’ he says.

  I look to Lucy. ‘Owen’s coming with me for moral support.’

  ‘Why don’t you just call them? Quote the number on the ticket and . . .’

  ‘Because if the suitcase is there I’ll be able to pick it up.’

  ‘And if it’s not,’ Lucy points out, quite patronizing, ‘you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘She’s driving me home anyway. It’s on the way.’

  Owen is lying, but I appreciate it. It placates Lucy.

  ‘Anyway, she phoned them.’ He is quite a good liar – his composure and confidence has to be seen to be believed. ‘But she just kept getting the answerphone.’

  Lucy groans sympathetically. And I give a ‘What can you do?’ shrug. Lucy looks to Owen and has to shield her eyes. It might be December, but that cold sun is still bright.

  ‘Is Dylan all right?’

  Owen is nonplussed and shrugs. ‘Think so. Why?’

  ‘Hasn’t spoken to me all afternoon.’

  ‘That’s married life, isn’t it?’

  ‘Cheek!’

  Just then my mobile phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I answer it. My heart is in my mouth. I know it’s ridiculous after all these years but I see an incoming call from a number I’m unfamiliar with and I think, It’s him. He’s swum to safety and he’s got a new phone and he’s calling me and . . .

  I answer it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi, is that the very gorgeous Natalie?’ Gosh, whoever this is is very enthusiastic and loud and has an air of ‘zany’ about them. I think she’s going to tell me I’ve won a free prize. Though I haven’t entered any competitions. If she’s cold calling, she’s a bit OTT about it.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Natalie? Natalie Bioletti?’ and then very annoyingly she puts on an Italian accent, ‘Natalia Bioletti, Mamma Mia!’