The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  And I’m not lying. For once.

  There’s this massive silence. Then she goes, ‘Look, there’s still a problem. Legally she’s in charge of you till you’re eighteen. It’s just that from sixteen it’s more of a grey area. I wouldn’t feel happy bringing you down here unless I knew she was one hundred per cent on your side.’

  And then I hear the pips for the next lesson.

  ‘I’ll talk to her tonight.’

  ‘Good luck. And six months isn’t that long.’

  Isn’t it?

  I hang up. I look about and suddenly feel like I’m in an amazing adventure movie. The playground is full of girls swirling around, heading back to class. Suddenly they’re all the enemy and I have to escape. It’s just a matter of when.

  A girl jumps out from behind the bushes. She screams ANOREXIC HORSE in my face and then runs off laughing.

  Usually I’d find this REALLY FUNNY. Usually I admire girls’ cheek and bravado. Today I find myself running after her. She’s a bit of a fat bitch so I’m faster than her. I pounce on her and vault her to the ground. She squeals as I sit on her and pull her head back by the ponytail.

  ‘Just you watch, bitch,’ I go.

  Then I forcibly shove her face into the grass. It makes a totally AMAZING thud noise and I feel her back going weird, as the wind is knocked out of her.

  I let go of the ponytail.

  I walk away.

  I feel INVISIBLE.

  Sorry, no.

  I feel INVINCIBLE.

  During double maths I create a new email address:

  NatalieBiolettiMum@hotmail.com

  I give myself a password and everything.

  As far as the internet’s concerned, I am now my mum.

  And as far as Aba’s concerned, I will be.

  From: Natalie Bioletti NatalieBiolettimum@hotmail.com

  To: Aba Wilshaw-Smit AbaWSnewfaces@l’agence.com

  Subject: Change of Heart

  Hey Aba

  This will probably come as a bit of a surprise to you but having spoken to Cally tonight I have done some more thinking about your kind offer. I have tried to reason with her about why I think she should stay on and do her exams in the summer but she is strong-willed, as you know. I now see I was probably a bit hasty with that phone call I made to you this morning.

  On reflection, I’m cool with her coming to London. I just need your reassurance that she will be taken care of and looked after. She is a sensitive wee soul at the end of the day, even if she is amazingly good-looking and got the potential to be a massive model.

  Do feel free to email me on this email address but don’t bother calling me as my phone is playing up. And anyway I’m off to stay with some friends abroad tomorrow so I’m going to be pretty much out of action for a while.

  Let me know when you need her to come and I’ll make sure she gets down to you, no sweat.

  I’m putting a lot of trust in you, Aba. Please don’t let me down.

  Yours sincerely

  Natalie x

  God I’m good. And . . . send! Sooo glad I went to a really excellent posh private school and got PROPER English lessons. Coz if I’d been in some scummy comp I probs would’ve put loads of spelling mistakes in and not known. Also I’d not have known to say shit like I need your reassurance and I’m putting my trust in you and stuff. Hahahahahaha I’m amazing.

  Aba replies almost immediately.

  From: Aba Wilshaw-Smith AbaWSnewfaces@l’agence.com

  To: Natalie Bioletti NatalieBiolettimum@hotmail.com

  Subject: AWESOME SAUCE

  Hey Nat-Nat

  This is the best email EVER. I’ve been dancing round the office.

  I’ll be back in touch with some dates and times and we’ll sort C’s train tickets and a car from the station.

  You won’t regret this. I’ll look after her like she’s one of my own. It’s my job.

  Laterz

  Aba xxxxxx

  Looks like I’m going to London, babes!

  My mobile rings. It’s her! I snap it up.

  ‘Hi Aba!’

  ‘Hi hon, I just had the most AMAZING email from your mother. Is she there? I know her phone’s playing up. Just want a quick word.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s sat right next to me. We’re having a girly evening watching movies and stuff.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  ‘Mum? It’s Aba.’

  I give the performance of my freaking LIFE. At one point I slip into being Cheryl Cole, but thank FRIG Aba doesn’t seem to notice.

  Job done.

  Owen

  If you’ve ever wondered what working for a ‘LGBT’ website entails, and I really wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t, then it mostly involves sitting around all day staring blankly at a computer screen and pouncing. I pounce in the name of honesty and decency only, but pounce I do, any time I smell a story. The website, called www.gay-mover.co.uk (supposed to sound like ‘game over’, not sure why) was set up by Gerard a few years ago to report on the latest news affecting LGBT in this country and beyond. We also do some campaigning. Anything to keep Gerard and the website in the black, frankly. I was brought on last year, allegedly because of my profile in the media – something I suppose I have to thank my father for – and Minty is a recent addition, meant to be taking us to ‘the next level’. Whatever that is.

  I know that since I’ve joined, Gerard’s been pleased with the publicity I have brought the site, mostly down to the interviews I do with various press about my work and my dad and so on. But I don’t know if he’s really that impressed with the articles I write (he certainly seems happy enough to correct my ‘errors’). Matt reckons he keeps me on because he fancies me, which I find incredibly reductive, but actually he might not be far from the truth. Gerard has a funny little face, a myopic runt of the litter who hasn’t seen daylight before, and I sometimes catch him staring at me across the office. When I do he shakes his head and goes ‘Just thinking . . .’

  Matt tells me, Yeah, just thinking about doing you.

  Why does everything have to be about sex?

  And then Matt tells me I am a young fogey.

  Well, if I am, so be it.

  Sunday I decide to do a few hours from home before heading to the demo. The demo is a little gift from God, right on our doorstep, everything we believe in, bashing a UKIP councillor and his reactionary homophobic views, blah blah blah. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so dangerous. I fire my laptop up and hit Twitter. I used to enjoy scrolling through celebrity tweets sniffing out ‘an exclusive’, as Gerard calls it. Though as it’s a celebrity announcing something on here to a million followers, it can hardly be called that. I follow primarily famous gay people, politicians, sportspeople, TV names and pop stars. If anyone refers to anything ‘politically’ I have to try and turn it into a story for the website. So if, for example, Mariah Carey were to tweet, and admittedly this is highly unlikely, ‘God I really don’t like Lady Gaga,’ I would probably write a one-hundred-word piece called CAREY LAMBASTS GAY ICON. Etc. Though Gerard might contest my use of the word ‘lambasts’. Usually we try to be more highbrow than that, naturally, but more often than not we fall short of the mark.

  Matt is working this morning. The house is quiet without him. I hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall that, rather appropriately, his granddad left him in his will. I hear the occasional whirr of the washing machine and the pulse of my mobile, but I ignore it. Work must come first for a bit. But as ever, it’s hard to work when you’re not in an office, distracted by stimuli. My mind wanders and I turn a bit stalkery. I open Matt’s Twitter page and am, as ever, disappointed to find he hasn’t tweeted for a couple of days; and then it was to some mutual friends, making corny jokes about work.

  Why am I disappointed? Do I really want to expose his flirting or setting up some sleazy sex date? As if he’s not clever enough to do that behind my back and would do it online in a social media forum for all the world – well, for his 634 followers, se
lf included – to see? It’s like I’m willing him to have an affair or be unfaithful just so I can be angry with him. Why is that? Is it just because, post Grindrgate, I have a niggling suspicion that all is not right and therefore I just want proof that my endless worrying is not in vain? Or am I just the opposite of a thrill-seeker, if there is such a thing – a doom-seeker, looking for bad news wherever I can find it? Is this what my job has turned me into? I seek out the contentious online and run with it, while at home I look for a drama that may not even be there?

  I shut down Twitter. This is not good for my mental health. I look to the cube of bright sunlight in the window and try and count my blessings.

  Matt deactivated his Grindr. He told me the next night. He didn’t make a big song and dance about it, he just mentioned it in passing over supper.

  ‘Oh, I shut down my Grindr thing,’ he said between mouthfuls of vegetarian lasagne.

  ‘Why?’ I’d tried to hide the thrill in my voice.

  ‘Well, I know it was making you uncomfortable. And if I want to gab to people that much I’ve got Facebook and Whatsapp and loads of other things so . . .’

  And we’d said no more about it. I trust him. I have to. So even though I was itching to check his phone and see if he was telling me truth, I did what I should always do in those situations. I took a deep breath and went with it.

  I check my phone to see who’s been texting. It’s Matt.

  Sorry bubs. Jen needs me to work till four. Billy off. Gonna miss demo. Soz. Grrr. X

  I stare at the screen and feel a rush of anger. Not because Billy is off and Jen is making him cover his shift and therefore he’s going to miss the demo. We were looking forward to the demo. At least I thought we were.

  I’m angry instead that this could be an elaborate ruse. Billy is not off, Jen has not made him work longer hours, he is heading to a free-for-all in a flat in Rusholme where he will sleep with approximately seventy men, and . . .

  I know. Ridiculous. I text him back.

  Ah shame. Kill Bill next time you see him LOL x

  He replies almost immediately.

  Kill Bill LOL x

  Sometimes we say so little, but mean such a lot.

  I decide to phone Mum as I’m getting ready to go out. I do this a lot, think I can multitask when clearly I can’t. So as I’m cleaning my teeth and swapping my top and loading the dishwasher, I battle to keep the phone at my ear and make out like I’m chillaxing on the couch giving her my undivided attention.

  ‘So how did Cally take you telling her she couldn’t go to London?’

  ‘Oh, she was furious at first, but remarkably – you’ll never believe this – she’s been incredibly mature about it for the rest of the week.’

  ‘Oh. Maybe she’s finally growing up.’

  ‘Fingers crossed. Are you having a wee?’

  ‘No, I’m running the tap.’

  ‘Oh right. Yeah, she’s been sweetness and light these last few days.’

  ‘Well, like you said, you’re only asking her to postpone it for six months.’

  ‘I know, but when you’re that age, six months is a lifetime.’

  ‘She’s probably too scared at the prospect of living on her own and all that.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So. Any other news?’

  ‘Not really. Not been up to much. Been down to Chorlton a few times.’

  ‘Chorlton? What’s in Chorlton?’

  ‘This girl I was at school with. Been chatting a bit on Facebook. Popped round for coffee.’

  ‘Has she changed much?’

  ‘We’re both a bit fatter. More wrinkles. Not sure why I bothered, really.’ And then her voice changes, brightens. ‘Oh, something interesting happened yesterday.’

  ‘Oh aye, what?’

  ‘Lucy sent me a housewarming present. A coffee table book about Martin Parr, the artist?’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Even though I had no idea who he was.

  ‘And she sent it via Amazon, only because she’d booked it to arrive the next day it was delivered by a courier company. Well, it wasn’t the Royal Mail, anyway. And the guy who delivered it was the this bloke who used to come to Milk.’

  ‘God, it’s been a real trip down Memory Lane this week, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It was so weird. He recognized me coz my name was on the package, but we chatted for ages.’

  ‘Mother?!’ I gasp faux-dramatically.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you fancy him?’

  ‘Owen!’

  ‘Well, it’s a simple enough question!’

  ‘How can I fancy him?’

  ‘Because you’re a . . .’ I want to say single woman. But I can’t.

  ‘I don’t fancy him,’ she says, to cover the obvious. ‘But it was really nice to see him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Well, I only knew him as Gripper. I never knew why people called him that. Anyway, his name’s actually Laurence, and apparently no-one’s called him Gripper for years.’

  ‘And why did they call him Gripper? Did you ask?’

  ‘His surname’s Stebson, apparently.’

  ‘Is that meant to mean something?’

  ‘He was a character in Grange Hill.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Gripper Stebson.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  And with that, I make my excuses and get ready to head into town.

  While I’m having a shave, something in the bathroom mirror catches my eye. Behind me, out on the landing, I can see the corner of the hatch that leads into the loft. My breath shortens. My lungs appear to have shrunk. I flick my leg back and kick the door shut with a slam. If I don’t want to look at a loft hatch, I don’t have to.

  Ain’t nothing weird about that.

  And as I go out: eyes down, eyes down. Pathetic. But it has to be done.

  After getting off the tram I take an elongated stroll towards the university, meandering through St Ann’s Square where Mother Hen is. It’s busy with its lunchtime service and I see Mother Hen Jen clucking round the bar, filling carafes of red wine. I see Matt, but he doesn’t see me. And a further strain of the neck shows no Billy in sight. I slink off quickly, just in case. The smell of their double-baked cheese soufflé stays with me a long time, though, and the resultant rumble in my stomach reminds me I’ve not eaten much this morning.

  Another rumble is more ominous. I’ve come out without an umbrella in Manchester and this is asking for trouble. True to form, the rumble I hear is thunderous and suddenly there is a torrential downpour. I leap into Waterstones’ doorway, yanking my hood up. Why did I wear such a stupidly thin jacket? Why did I assume the weather would remain so bright? I wait for the storm to pass by but it looks like it’s here for keeps. Half expecting an ark to float by, I take my courage in both hands and run for my life. It’s a long run to the university and I may as well be running through a river. My jeans cling to my legs and I can barely open my eyes. By the time I get to where I need to be I know I am cutting it fine, and I know I look like a drowned rat. And as soon as I get there, sod’s law, the rain vanishes as quickly as it came. Within seconds I am bathed in sunlight. Feeling and looking like I’ve walked through a car wash. And the car wash won. A strong wind builds up. I hope it will blow-dry me warm, but it doesn’t. I push against it to find my destination.

  Gerard and Minty are waiting outside the lecture hall when I finally arrive, after getting lost in some concrete wind tunnels behind a gloriously Victorian towery edifice that puts me in mind of Oxford or Cambridge. They look dry. They must have had somewhere to hide. Minty’s hair is blowing all over the place, mind you, and Gerard’s looking pissed off. They’re both wearing www.gay-mover.co.uk T-shirts over their normal clothes, and Minty is holding a megaphone. A pile of sodden placards bearing various anti-homophobia slogans lean neatly against the wall of the lecture hall we’re about to protest outside. But the wind is looking like it might send them all scattering any time soon. A frail-l
ooking woman looking a bit like Florence from Florence and the Machine is hovering nearby with an old-fashioned camera. I recognize her as Minty’s girlfriend. She never speaks. Nobody else has turned up. And I’m cutting it fine. Oddly, there doesn’t appear to be much movement inside the lecture hall building. Usually there’d be some signs of life, lights on, people arriving. But today, nothing.

  ‘Bit of a poor show.’

  ‘I think they’ve changed the venue,’ says Minty.

  ‘Where to?’ I venture. And for devilment I direct it at Florence. She shrugs and busies herself with her camera. This was going to be a wonderful photo opportunity for the website. Me, Minty and Gerard haranguing Mr Sanderbach as he made his way in to address the students on UKIP’s latest policies. But it looks like no-one’s turned up to hear him. A small victory, perhaps?

  ‘Did you not bring an umbrella?’ asks Minty.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Yes. But I decided against putting it up.’

  I gestured to show there was nothing in my hands.

  ‘Also, it’s invisible.’

  She shakes her head. Gerard’s not saying anything, but he is scrolling through something on his phone. His face seems to be very pale. And he is chewing his bottom lip.

  Minty sighs. ‘I’m ringing the uni. Ask them what the hell is going on.’

  She starts jabbing a number into her phone.

  Just then, we hear a window opening above. We look up. Dylan is leaning out of a window on the second floor, all smiles. Dylan! Looking very dry, it has to be said.

  ‘Owen!’

  ‘Hey Dylan!’

  ‘You here for the Humphrey Sanderbach thing?’

  ‘Yeah. Doesn’t seem to be much going on?’

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t be!’

  ‘Oh God,’ groans Gerard. ‘This is a disaster.’

  And he starts ripping his T-shirt off.

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’ I shout back to Dylan.

  ‘He’s been dropped by UKIP. And they banned him from coming. They did a press release about an hour ago.’

  I look to Minty, who has returned her phone to her pocket. Surely it’s her job, as head of PR, to know these things?