The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  When I get back to the office I find Minty demolishing a strawberry yoghurt.

  ‘I came up with the best slogan,’ she says.

  ‘What’s that?’ I sound all keen now. The cold air has done me good. I can throw myself into this task and forget what happened at lunchtime.

  ‘Gay is Good.’

  Her eyes seek approval. I so want to give it, but I have to be honest.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s been used before.’

  ‘Really? Shit.’

  I nod. Oh, well. Back to the drawing board.

  Natalie

  Daffyd calls first thing Thursday morning. Well, it’s gone eleven when he does, but he apologizes if it’s too early and I reassure him that eleven is practically the middle of the day.

  ‘Oh, it’s just I associate late nights and lie-ins with you,’ he says by way of explanation.

  Just get on with it. I’ve been on pins all week worrying about this.

  ‘Well, even when I ran Milk I was up early to get the kids to school or run the business.’

  Why am I encouraging him? JUST BLOODY TELL ME.

  ‘So, any joy?’ I blurt.

  ‘Yes. Sorry it’s taken a while – my mate had to find the archive folder on the server and it took forever.’

  Get on with it.

  ‘So did he take it? Did he collect the case? Was it a case?’

  Shut up, Natalie.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘The case is still there? Somewhere?’

  ‘No, someone else collected the case.’

  ‘Oh. Who?’

  ‘She would’ve had to show some ID or a letter from Danny granting her permission, etc.’

  She?

  ‘It was a Miriam Joseph.’

  ‘Miriam Joseph?’

  ‘You don’t know her?’

  ‘No. Are you sure they didn’t make a mistake?’

  ‘No, he sent me a photo of the entry in the system.’

  ‘Miriam Joseph?’

  This is too odd.

  ‘There’s an address. D’you want it?’

  ‘Sure. Let me get a pen.’

  He dictates it and I write it at the top of the local paper that’s lying on the side in the hall.

  Miriam Joseph

  12 Mayville Road

  Chorlton

  Manchester

  M21 0GY

  I stare at the words. Words which make no sense.

  ‘And when was it collected? Does it say?’

  ‘5th August 2008.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Could it be someone who worked with him? An employee?’

  ‘Possibly. Does it say what the piece of luggage actually was?’

  ‘Yes. Suitcase. Sorry. Should’ve said that.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ None of this made any sense.

  ‘Well, anyway, I did what I could.’

  I realize I am sounding ungrateful so I quickly reassure him he’s been amazing and how grateful I am, and minutes later I’ve hung up and am searching my database of contacts on my main computer for Miriam Joseph, but it keeps coming back blank. I try again with the word Mayville. Again, nothing.

  Why would Danny leave a piece of luggage at Piccadilly Station and have it picked up by someone I have never heard of? A woman I have never heard of.

  Unless. Unless . . .

  Unless it was someone he’d met in Ibiza, and he’d offered to look after it for her.

  But why?

  Unless. Unless . . .

  Unless the reason he was keeping Miriam Joseph secret from me was that he was having an affair with her.

  I shake. That idea is so abhorrent. And then it hits me. No wonder he disappeared. He and Miriam have bloody well run off together.

  But then I remember that the police went through everything with a fine-tooth comb (cue running gag in our house: why do teeth need to be combed?) and came to the conclusion that he hadn’t been having an affair or run off with anyone; which brings me back to my original question.

  Who the hell is Miriam fucking Joseph?

  I fire off a set of texts. One to Lucy. One to Owen. And one, after several minutes of deliberating, to Danny’s mum. Anything is worth a shot.

  Does the name Miriam Joseph ring any bells?

  I stare at the phone, as if concentration will bring forth replies. Actually, it works, as almost immediately Owen replies.

  No. Why? X

  So I shoot back:

  Oh. Facebook friend request. No worries. Everything good? X

  Fine n dandy. X

  Lucy pings back:

  No babe. Who is she?

  Oh just some random friend request on FB. No worries x

  Cool. Someone from school? X

  Probs x

  Then Danny’s mum replies.

  New phone. Who this? Bar.

  Bar it’s Nat.

  Hi Nat. blast from the past. Never heard of your friend.

  She’s not my friend Bar.

  And then radio silence from his mum.

  Owen texts again.

  Any joy with the luggage ticket?

  Not yet.

  Why am I lying? Why can’t I just say, Yes, some bitch called Miriam Joseph went and collected it?

  But I don’t want to worry him. I should tell Lucy but again, well, there are no excuses really. But this name feels significant. Call it woman’s intuition, call it what you like, but I somehow feel the need to guard this information with my life.

  And then I think: Barbara’s got a cheek. Blast from the past?! I saw her recently. Our trolleys passed each other in the freezer aisle of Sainsbury’s in Wilmslow. She had several bottles of gin in hers, and a ready-cooked chicken. She said nothing to me. I said nothing to her. I took it from this that she was drunk.

  Danny’s mum has a split personality. It’s all down to her drinking. When she is drunk she is nasty, vitriolic, mean. Sober she is regretful, apologetic, self-hating.

  I find it best to just steer clear. So do the kids. So did Danny.

  Every now and again I receive a letter from her in which she accuses me of killing Danny. Sometimes it is pre-empted by a phone call.

  ‘I think I sent you a letter yesterday. I can’t really remember. Do us a favour and chuck it in the bin. Don’t read it.’

  I read the first few. Now I don’t bother, and they go straight in the flip-lid.

  Even when she’s sober, she’s so adamant that Danny is dead. Some days I am too, and then I can handle her. But when I feel any sense of hope she has the ability to pee on it from a great height. She’s never really liked me. I was never really good enough for her brown-eyed boy. And she doesn’t have to say it, but even when she doesn’t claim I murdered him, I know she thinks he disappeared because of something I did.

  It was all so disappointing when I first met her. As my mum had died when I was so young, I had long missed the presence of an older woman in my life. The family I had since fashioned for myself amongst the squats and clubs of Manchester and London comprised people of my own age or slightly older. And even though Danny had little positive to say about Barbara, I had self-important dreams of rescuing their relationship, of making her see sense, of softening her sharp edges. Needless to say, I failed.

  Mind you, she was hardly in contention for Mother of the Year. Danny had spent a few years in care when he was younger, and she had done six months inside for shoplifting. But I was never allowed to acknowledge that I knew any of that to her, for fear of upsetting her.

  I should call the police. Tell them what I’ve found out about this Miriam person. But I know they’ll think I’m clutching at straws.

  Still. They might decide to pay a visit to Ms Joseph. And then at least we’d know why she’d taken Danny’s suitcase.

  But then, she might not even live in Mayville Road any more. It was six years ago.

  But then I think, well, the police don’t have the monopoly on home visits. I’m completely within my rights to pay Ms Joseph a vis
it myself.

  And before I’ve even processed the thought, I have picked up my car key and am heading for the door.

  Aba calls as I’m driving across Manchester. I contemplate ignoring the call but, if I’m honest, I’m quite keen to know what she’s going to say. Cally was on her best behaviour yesterday, and even I thought the photos they showed us afterwards looked better than average. So I hit the answer button on my steering wheel.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, hon, it’s me, Aba.’

  ‘Hi, Aba.’

  ‘Wasn’t yesterday just THE BEST?’

  ‘Yeah, it was great. Cally really enjoyed herself.’

  ‘Oh, she’s such a poppet. And oh my God, she’s actually hilarious.’

  ‘She has her moments,’ I say, diplomatically.

  ‘How did she think it went?’ Oh. A grown-up question from a woman who frequently screams SOMEONE GIVE ABA HUG BABES!

  ‘Well . . . she wasn’t sure, really. I suppose we both thought, it’s not about whether she enjoyed it or not, it’s about how the pictures look.’

  ‘So right, hon. So right. Hon, can you just hold on a sec . . .’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Sorry. For a second there I thought there was a rip in this dress.’

  ‘And is there?’

  Why do I even care?

  ‘No.’ She’s sounding distracted. ‘Soooo, Natalia Mamma Mia, I have some innnnnnnnntrusting news.’

  ‘Oh, right?’

  ‘Your daughter is proving very popular with some casting directors, and I’d like to get her in front of a few next week.’

  ‘Oh right. Next week?’

  ‘Yeah, babe.’

  ‘It’s just she’s got school. How long would she need to be in London for?’

  ‘Well, ideally five days. I just want her to meet as many people as possible.’

  ‘Where would she stay?’

  ‘Babe, we have model flats.’

  ‘What’s a model flat?’

  ‘Well, she’d stay with some other young models and they’d have, like, a chaperone. Everyone does it, it’s all perfectly legit.’

  ‘I see. What would happen if I said no?’

  ‘Sorry?’ her voice went up three octaves there. People rarely contradicted Aba by the sounds of things.

  ‘If I said I’d rather she finished at school next year and then came back to you?’

  Aba gives a rather throaty chuckle.

  ‘I’d say we need to strike while the iron’s hot, darling.’

  Of course she would.

  ‘I’ll talk to Cally.’

  ‘One more thing, hon. Is Cally short for anything? Keep meaning to ask.’

  ‘No, it’s just . . . Cally.’

  ‘Right. I just keep thinking, “Scally”.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What do you think of the name Calista?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For Cally. I’m just thinking marketing. And Calista Bioletti has such a ring to it.’

  ‘But it’s not her name.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You want to change her name?’

  ‘Everyone changes their name.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘With respect, Natalie. You’re not exactly Kate Moss.’

  I am so incensed I hang up. She rings back. This time I ignore it. I hear her message afterwards.

  ‘Oh God, hon, you must be in a really shit reception area. Buzz me back once you’ve had a conflab with Calista. Bye, babe!’

  Oh God. The madness has already begun.

  The phone rings again. Lucy.

  ‘Hi Luce!’

  ‘Hi Nat. Sorry, are you driving?’

  ‘It’s OK, I’m hands free.’

  ‘Ooh, where are you off to?’

  ‘Oh . . . just into town, pick up some bits.’

  ‘Oh right. What time will you be back?’

  ‘I dunno, Luce, why?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing really, just a silly thing. I’ve sent you a little housewarming thingy and it’s going to be delivered before one.’

  ‘Ah, well, I might be back by then; I hope so.’

  ‘Well, not to worry, if you’re not back they can leave it with a neighbour or something.’

  Oh God. Please don’t make me go and see those neighbours again.

  ‘Thanks, love. I wasn’t expecting anything.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a silly thing really.’

  ‘Everything OK with you?’

  ‘Yeah. Wonderful. Dylan’s been staying over at the Uni last few nights. Finishing this paper he’s working on. It’s really nice to get the bed to myself.’

  I chuckle with recognition.

  ‘And not to hear his snoring.’

  ‘Oh piss off, Luce. Perfect people like you don’t suffer shitty little things like snoring and duvet hogging, surely!’

  She laughs. She pretends to hate it when I describe her world as idyllic. But I can also tell she really likes it.

  ‘Just you wait till you see what I’ve sent you as a housewarming.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Proof that we’re all the same deep down. You’ll howl.’

  I howl now anyway, desperate to know what it might be.

  ‘Anyway doll, I’ve got to fly. Got my first client in ten and just need to check I look PERFECT.’

  Again we laugh. And hang up.

  I can’t wait to see what she’s sent me. She is the mistress of the funny greetings card and comedy present. For my birthday she sent me some sparklers that were in the shape of letters. Letters that spelled out a very rude word. A word that rhymes with Hunt. The memory makes me smile.

  A thought hits me as I near the delights of Chorlton. What if Danny is living here? At her house? What if all along he has assumed a new identity and has been living in Suburbia with Ms Joseph? What if I peer in through her bay window and see them munching lunch for two on trays on their knees, side by side on a cosy couch? What if they have his and hers matching onesies?

  But I am getting ahead of myself here. This woman is probably perfectly innocent.

  It’s a drab road. And I am wrong: it might be Chorlton, home to media types and yummy mummies, but there are no bay windows on this road. Identikit red-brick terraced houses domino past me; I half expect Mr Benn to come out of one of them and head off to a fancy-dress shop. The numbers flit past me, like a countdown to judgement day; I am snailing along like a kerb-crawler. And suddenly it’s there. Number 12. As nondescript as every other house, although there are no nets up, and if I was to walk up to the low brick wall and peer in I’d get a pretty good view. I park. I wait. But what am I waiting for? I’m waiting for the courage to arrive, so I can get out of the car and go and knock on the door.

  And say what?

  Before I can rehearse what I might possibly say, there is movement at the house. The front door opens and a woman comes out. She is about my age. She is wearing quite high-end jogging bottoms, they reek of some unpronounceable label. No make-up, hair scraped back into a cap. She’s not bad-looking, and she is taking a small dog for a walk. I do a once-over of her, then look away in case she catches me staring. I hear the clink of her gate swinging shut and then look in my wing mirror to watch her from behind, heading off down the road.

  OK, so what do I do now?

  Was that Miriam?

  There’s only one thing for it. I will follow her on her dog walk and start up a conversation with her. I get out of the car and lock it. Pull my coat tight to me and head off in the direction she went.

  I have to be careful not to overtake her, as she seems to be stopping at every single lamppost to let the dog – I’m not sure it’s any particular breed, just a mongrel – pee on them. At the end of the road she turns out onto the main shopping street. I dawdle, pretending to look in shop windows, but all the time watching her, working out when I might pounce. But now that I’m in touching distance of her my courage has failed me; I don’t know where it is to
day. I was so gung-ho coming over. I practically dived into the car. But now I’ve come face to face with her . . .

  But then, it might not be her. Miriam might have moved from the house years ago.

  Miriam might be a lesbian, and this is her lover.

  This might be Miriam’s dog walker.

  Miriam might be the bloody dog!

  No. Dogs don’t go into left luggage offices and retrieve suitcases.

  But what if he’s got a bit of retriever in him? Heavens.

  So many potentials. So little . . .

  Oh. She’s gone into the post office. I didn’t know you could take dogs into post offices. I walk up to the window. OK, so it’s not just a post office, it’s a sweet shop of sorts too. I see her chatting with the Asian woman behind the counter. She hands her a small card and then scoots back out. She now seems to be heading back to Mayville Road. I watch her turn back into it. OK, so that was a short dog walk. I will give her a few moments before following her back. I return my gaze to the shopkeeper. She has come out from behind the counter and is heading for the window. I have a worry that she is going to tap on the glass and tell me to keep my nose out of her shop, but instead she comes and slides the card into a display in the window advertising goods for sale or wanted. The card from dog-walking-possibly-Miriam lady reads:

  CLEANER / DOG WALKER NEEDED. LOCAL.

  And then a mobile number.

  I quickly take a photo of the advert and number with my phone. I know what I will do next.

  I can’t call immediately. I might arouse her suspicions if I ring within seconds of the sign going up.

  I return to my car. I have lost sight of her now. There is no sign of life in her house.

  I check the photo on my phone and try to memorize the phone number.

  It is now ten minutes since the sign went up.