Amazing. Who knew?! Coffee? Addictive?? Never!
I check the instructions: remove all food. Discard anything out of date. Clean inside and removable shelves with dilute all-purpose detergent and warm water. Dry. Replace food.
I start hoiking stuff out and checking the date.
‘Miriam?’
‘Aha?’
‘Do you really need these jelly beans in here? I don’t think keeping them cool will preserve them any longer.’
She looks at them, deep in thought.
‘And they might look nice on display, bring a bit of colour to the room.’
What is she thinking? What are they reminding her of?
‘Oh, d’you know, you can chuck those, Josie.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ditch them for ages.’
‘Don’t you like them?’
‘They’re years old. Used to belong to . . .’ Just then her mobile rings, she retrieves it from her pocket and checks the caller ID.
Say it.
‘Sorry. Gotta take this.’ And she scampers out of the room.
WHO? WHO DID THEY BELONG TO?
TELL ME ABOUT YOUR GARDEN!
AND NO THAT’S NOT A EUPHEMISM, I MEAN YOUR ACTUAL BACK GARDEN!
I can hear her upstairs in her study. She shuts the door to keep the call private. Probably a work thing.
They belong to him. Or belonged to him. I just know it. And it kills me.
Why has she kept a jar of sweets in her fridge for five years? I’m allowed. I’m the grieving widow. Who does she think she is?
I pull the jar out. I lift off the nipple-like lid. I furtle around, and they’re all stuck together. Just like the ones in my old house were. I put the jar carefully on the table and slide into a seat to stare at it. Just then something starts to beep. I look around, unsure what it is. It appears to be coming from the fridge. I lean across and shut the door and it stops. I rest back in the chair and look at the beans. I drag the jar nearer, turning it this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of his fingerprints. Was Danny here? Were these his sweets? They must be. This woman collected a suitcase for him. She doesn’t know that I know. But I know. And now I discover she has his favourite sweets in his favourite place. That can’t be coincidence, can it? Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself. These are his.
But why did he know this woman? Does he know this woman? I should run upstairs and ask her. Demand answers. I’ve got nothing to lose. He was my husband, not hers. He was my property to lose, not hers. I should run up there and swipe the phone from her hand, tell her who I am, tell her I’m not leaving until she explains everything.
So why don’t I? Am I a coward? Is it a case of what you don’t know doesn’t hurt you? But it feels like I already know, like I already hurt.
When? When did he have time to have an affair with her? When? I replay images of our time together in my head and try to spot the warning signs. But like I said to the police when he first went missing, he couldn’t have been having an affair. He loved me. I was his teenage sweetheart. He wouldn’t do that to me, to his kids, he wouldn’t throw it all away like that.
But he did throw it away. He threw everything away.
And I’d been lying to the police. I’d been lying then and I’d be lying now if I didn’t admit that he did have the time. He did have nights away with the lads and trips abroad and . . . and his background. And . . .
What an idiot I’ve been.
These beans seem to shout one word at me. Loser.
But when I lied to the police, it was only a little white lie. An assumption I’d made. I wasn’t lying by missing something out, I was making out he was a decent bloke, the sort who wouldn’t do the dirty on his family. Maybe if I’d not been so keen to protect his image I’d have found Miriam sooner, and maybe Danny sooner.
Sooner than what? I’ve still not found him.
He has been in this house. He has been in this house enough times to keep a stash of his favourite sweets here. The evidence is clear. This woman was significant to him.
I look through the kitchen doors to the hallway, the stairs. And as I do, I hear Miriam open her study door. This is my chance. Now I can call up, Miriam? Can I have a word? I’ll be polite. I’ll be respectful, understanding. She’ll feel guilty. She might have grown to like me.
But before I can she shouts down, ‘Josie?! It’s one o’clock! You can go now! Just finish what you’re doing and I’ll see you Monday!’
My voice catches in my throat. I can’t speak.
‘Josie?!’ she calls again.
‘Great!’ I shout back. ‘See you Monday!’
‘Yeah, we can walk Snowy!’
‘Cool!’
And her study door shuts.
I look back at the beans. Evidence. If I was to show this to the police they’d need to see it in situ. I quickly return them to the fridge and take a photo of them in situ on my phone.
I won’t throw them away today.
I return the cleaning schedule to the drawer where it lives, grab my coat and car keys, and let myself out.
Next time. Next time I’ll confront her. Next time I’ll wipe the floor with her.
As I’m leaving, I see a business card in a bowl near the front door. Frog Graphic Design. Must be hers. Has her address and email on it and a cartoon picture of a frog. Original. I imagine stamping on the frog, killing it. And I’m usually very anti-animal cruelty. I cry more at dogs dying on telly than humans.
But cartoon frogs can do one.
As I’m clambering into the car, the mobile rings. I see it’s the school calling. I slide my finger across the screen as I fall into my seat.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Bioletti?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Pam Anderson here.’
No. It’s not the Pamela Anderson. It’s Cally’s head of year. She just has a rather unfortunate name.
‘Oh hi.’
‘Just wanted to check how Cally was?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she’s not come to school today.’
‘What?!’
‘So we assumed she was poorly.’
‘I’m so sorry, Pam. I’ve been out all morning, I’m just heading home now. She went out this morning in her uniform.’
‘Ah. Then this might be what we call a situation.’
‘Yes, it might. I’ll call you later when I know what’s going on.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Bioletti.’
En route home, I try Cally’s mobile and the landline. Both ring out, then go to answerphone. Maybe she returned home poorly. Maybe she’s sleeping it off. Yes, that’s what it’ll be.
But when I eventually get home, her room is empty. And after many bursts of calling her name politely and then frantically, the resounding silence tells me the house is empty.
And then I see an envelope on the kitchen table. Mum is written on it in her biro’d best. I tear it open and there’s a note inside.
Hey Mom.
I hate the way she spells it like that. We’re not in Connecticut.
I’ve decided to go to London and become a model. Aba’s cool with it coz you have to be 16 to make your mind up and as I am I have. Or it’s a grey area till you’re 18. I know you were dead against this but I am a grown-up and it’s what Dad would have wanted. He always said I should follow my dreams. And this is what I’ve wanted all my life and what I was put on the planet for. Well, it is since I went Clothes Show Live.
I’ll be in touch again when I know where I’m staying and stuff. Please don’t kick off at Aba or anything because I can’t bear the idea of you embarrassing me more than you already have done etc. In fact, not calling her would be best.
Remember when we went to Matalan that time? And we were crossing the zebra crossing and all the traffic stopped? And you said, ‘It’s like being famous’? It was then. Then’s when I knew. Thanks for starting this dream off and one day I hope to make you proud, like you are w
ith Owen and all his gay shit.
Take care of yourself
Cally x
P.S. You supported Owen through the whole tennis thing.
Time to support me, yo!
I phone Aba immediately.
I kick off at her.
Midway through my kick-off, the doorbell rings. Please. Not some God-awful neighbours now. I ignore it, but it rings again. I trudge to the door as I continue to berate Aba, and spring the door ajar.
Laurence is standing there. This is a an event of my own making. He is standing there with a parcel I ordered from Amazon yesterday. It’s just a book, but by clicking on the bit where it said I wanted it by 1 p.m. today, I knew it would come Special Delivery.
He’s grinning.
‘Aba, hang on, I’m busy,’ I snap, and hold the phone to my shoulder as I grab the parcel from him, a bit brusquely.
‘Sorry it’s not before one,’ he stammers, thinking I’m pissed off with him and not that silly cow in London. ‘Called round earlier but you weren’t in.’
‘No, it’s fine. You OK?’
‘Yes . . . I . . .’
I indicate that I’m on the phone and can’t really speak, even if this is what I wanted, Laurence showing up on my doorstep again.
‘Wondered if you fancied a drink sometime.’
‘Great. Perfect. Gotta dash.’
And I slam the door shut. I return to calling Aba every name under the sun. As I do, the letter box flips up. I’m not even listening to her bewildered responses. Something about a Hotmail account. Oh do shut up, you child-snatcher.
‘I haven’t got your number.’
‘Aba, can you hang on?’
I kneel in front of the door so I’m eye to eye with him. ‘Find me on Facebook. Natalie Milk. There aren’t many. My profile pic’s Lena Dunham.’
‘Who?’
‘Off Girls.’
‘I’ll look her up.’
‘Brilliant.’
The letter box flips shut.
I have just said yes. Ish. To a date. Am I mad?
Well, I have just found out. Ish. That my husband was having an affair.
Screw you, Danny and Miriam. Time I had some fun.
Then I go back to berating the woman who has forced my daughter to run away from home.
Well, that won’t be for long, I can tell you.
When I have had enough I hang up. How dare she say I’d emailed her? How dare she say I’d spoken to her on the phone? How dare she insinuate that I’d forgotten these things and was losing the plot because my husband had gone walkabout? Who does she think she is?
She makes these absurd claims and somehow manages to convince my daughter to move hundreds of miles away on her own when she is barely sixteen?
I’m going to call the police.
I stare at my phone. It would be so easy to dial 999.
Sod it, I will.
But as I stare at the phone it miraculously springs to life. I see that Miriam is calling.
Fuck.
I quickly answer. ‘Hello, Josie speaking?’
This seems to throw her. There is a slight pause.
‘What’s your real name?’
‘Sorry?’
‘This is Miriam Joseph. Are you a journalist?’
‘Miriam, this is Josie. Your cleaner. Who did you think you were ringing?’
‘You tell me.’
Why would she think I was a journalist? I instinctively reach for my back jeans pocket.
The piece of paper isn’t there. The piece of paper with my notes on Josie on.
Oh God. It must have fallen out in her house.
Oh dear.
A journalist?
Cally
‘Calista, if you’d like to take a seat, and Aba can shut the door.’
‘Yes, Bimbi. Thanks, Bimbi.’
Aba has like brought me to see the massive humoooongous boss of the agency, Bimbi.
(I know. Hashtag amazing name or WHAT?)
Bimbi was like a completely amazing model in the seventies but then she had kids or put loads of weight on or something or maybe she just got old and then she set up L’Agence and now she helps people like me do what she used to do and she’s meant to be the best person in the whole wide world though also pretty scary and she can do something called the Death Stare which means she gives you evils and grown men have been known to pee their pants when she does it and I’M NOT EVEN MAKING THAT UP ABA TOLD ME.
Oh, and she’s American. I think. Yes, she is. I remember Wikipedia-ing her.
(Her ex-husband Ralph is the guy I caught gakking it up in the toilets on my first visit. He comes and goes but doesn’t actually work here.)
I sit opposite her, and she smiles a smile that’s so thin it’s untrue, like she’d be pleased to see me IF I HADN’T BROUGHT THE PUTRID SMELL OF DOG TURD IN WITH ME.
I immediately like totally have a nervous breakdown coz I know I’m well in trouble now and stuff.
She’s stirring something. OMG it could totally be a witch’s cauldron. When I look, it’s a Müller Fruit Corner.
‘Someone’s been telling porkies. We don’t like porkies at L’Agence.’
She doesn’t sound that Yankified.
‘Who?’ I go. Coz that’s really clever. Coz that makes it look like I don’t know what she’s talking about.
She just stares at me. I hear Aba sitting down and doing loads of really loud sighs like she’s not feeling well. After what feels like ages Bimbi goes, ‘Why did you pretend you were your mum?’
‘I don’t know,’ I go.
And she slaps her hand on the table. Makes a ‘DUH-DUUUUH’ noise like when they get something wrong in Family Fortunes and shouts, ‘Wrong answer, Missy!’ which is scary and funny at the same time, and really American. It certainly makes Aba sit up in her seat. ‘Why?’ It now sounds like she’s barking. What is she? A dog?
I start to cry. Oh God, this is SO embarrassing.
Oh my God, I think I must be morbidly depressed or something. These tears are MASSIVE. I’m half tempted to take my phone out and get a selfie with them in it coz they might actually be the biggest tears in the world or something.
‘Calista?’ Bimbi goes. (I know. Amazing name or WHAT?)
And I find myself going, ‘Coz she didn’t want me to come and I did and this is all I’ve ever dreamed of and Aba’s so lovely and I didn’t want to let her down and . . .’
‘Don’t give me that Aba shit,’ Bimbi barks again. ‘Tell me more about the “this is your dream” stuff, honey.’
Honey. She shouts at me like I’ve done something wrong but adds a honey on the end like it’s all OK?
‘Modelling. I really want to do it. So I had to find a way.’
‘Why do you want to do it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘DUH-DUUUUUH.’ Table slam again. ‘Wrong answer, Missy!’
‘For the adulation. The acceptance. I don’t know, I just . . . I’ve never been good at anything and to think I could be good at this is totally exciting and even though Aba said I could wait for six months I didn’t think I could really coz you should strike while the iron’s hot and stuff.’
Bimbi pushes her chair back and stands. It makes an almighty fucking screechy noise on the wooden floorboards that really makes me jump. She walks REALLLY SLOWLLLY round to me and stands there looking down on me.
OMG . . . is she going to, like, HIT ME?
She reaches out her hand. It’s all gnarled and wrinkly but has THE best rings on it. And I see she’s got a tissue in it.
‘Blow your nose. Sweet thing,’ she says, and now she’s all calm and mother-henny.
So I take the tissue. It smells of perfume. Which in itself makes me sneeze when I hold it to my nose to blow it.
She goes on to do this really boring speech about how I have to stop lying to them if they’re going to look after me and how they can only look after me if they know that Mum is on our side and how she will only be on our side if the l
ying stops and we take her seriously and her feelings and how I’m her little girl and she probably finds it really hard to let go and let me come to London and miss a week of school for something that might never lead anywhere and maybe Mum’s got a point but we’re not playing from a level playing field because now I’m in the wrong and she’s in the right because she’s been lied to and I’ve done the lying. Or something. I got a bit lost listening to it if I’m honest coz you know what she sounded like? A BLOODY BUGGERING BOLLOCKING TEACHER. God I thought I’d escaped them FFS. But the plain truth of the matter is if you’re sixteen, everyone speaks down to you coz they think you’re a kid and that is never EVER going to change.
‘Anyway,’ she goes. ‘We’ll have this all sorted out tonight.’
‘Why?’ I goes.
‘Your brother’s on his way down.’
‘Owen?’
PLEASE DON’T LET THAT MASSIVE WOOFTER COME HERE AND SHOW ME UP. NO. NO. NOOOOO.
AND PLEASE DON’T LET HIM BRING BORING MATTY EITHER HE-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-ELP!
Aba pipes up, ‘Your mum thought it best if he came as he’s more . . .’ She can’t think of the word, so Bimbi goes, ‘Dispassionate. Your mum thinks she’ll get too cross with you.’
‘She’s a total. She’s got issues,’ I go.
‘A total what?’ asks Aba.
I shrug. ‘Take your pick.’
‘You know,’ goes Bimbi. And I know we’re in for another lecture. She goes and opens a window and lights up a ciggie, which she smokes out of it, ‘I’d’ve killed for that sort of bitchiness at your age.’
‘It’s not bitchiness, she CARES,’ goes Aba. God, she’s changed her tune.
‘I see girls like you all the time, sweetheart,’ Bimbi’s going. ‘And the spoilt ones, the ones whose parents don’t care, they don’t have boundaries, you see. So they’re a fucking nightmare to work with. What we want are girls with a work ethic. Girls who know right from wrong. Girls who are going to turn up on time and get the job done, and that’s usually the girls whose parents have instilled that in them from an early age.’
‘Cally’s dad went missing a few years ago. Six, was it, hon?’ Aba’s looking at me.
‘Five,’ I go.
The Secrets We Keep Page 11
