The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘You don’t really know me,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m married.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Your head’s probably mashed from splitting up with that Finnish girl.’

  He nodded. But what else could I say? This guy who I hardly knew, who I’d hung out with a few times at work, was proclaiming undying love for me. I looked at him. He looked so vulnerable, like a lost little boy, so fragile that if you touched him he’d break. I mean, on one level it was terribly flattering. In that moment he made me feel movie-star fabulous. Was I really that alluring, that men swooned without me knowing?

  I found that very hard to believe.

  And then – talk about low self-esteem – I wondered whether Gripper had mental health issues. Maybe he was actually mad, and this was how his problems manifested themselves, by making him proclaim his feelings for random people.

  ‘I know nothing can happen,’ he went on, ‘but I needed to tell you.’

  ‘Well, I’m flattered, but . . .’

  ‘And I know you and Danny are rock solid.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘But if anything ever went wrong . . . I’ll be there for you after the messy divorce.’

  That made me chuckle. And we were both glad of some light relief.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve said it.’

  ‘It is a bit weird.’ I gave a little grimace.

  ‘Can we pretend I never said nothing?’

  I nodded. He nodded. Then stood. Looked around the scruffy office, winked, and said, ‘I love what you’ve done with the place.’ And then stalked out.

  And now he’s my delivery driver. And he’s asked me out for a drink.

  I reach for my phone. I stare at it, then stare out at the Ikea car park. I see Miriam walking from the exit. She’s on her phone. It looks like she’s crying. Bizarrely, I have a stab of pity for her. Which gives way to anger. Anger at myself that I could even pity her. And then anger at her for sleeping with Danny. Irrational anger, perhaps, as surely it should be he I’m furious with. He knew he was being unfaithful. She didn’t. But I can’t stem my fury with either of them. I have the urge to wind down the window and scream at her.

  Upset, are you? Good. Marriage wrecker!

  I imagine starting the car up and driving at her. I see it, clearly, in my mind’s eye. I hear the squeal of my tyres. She turns, shocked, as I advance on her, then smack! Her blood spits across my window.

  This isn’t good. I should not be indulging in violent fantasies. I try to turn that anger into something more positive. Anger to love. I write a text to Laurence.

  That drink sometime? N x

  I wait for him to reply. He doesn’t. What was I thinking? Like he’s going to reply immediately. That only happens on the telly and in romcoms. Real people are busy, they have work, they have lives.

  But then he does reply.

  New phone. Who’s this?

  Oh. Shit. I go to text and explain when he sends another.

  ONLY MESSING. Yes. Drink anytime is good.

  Tonight?

  Fuck it why not. Pick you up at 8?

  Cool.

  Good work. Agent Bioletti.

  My hand’s shaking. And I don’t know what to say to that. So I just text,

  See you later. X

  I glance over to Miriam. She is now sitting in her car, still on the phone. I bet she’s talking to a girlfriend. If she has any. Meeting your ex’s wife isn’t something you’d want to chat about with your boyfriend, surely. I can almost hear her.

  Oh Jackie it was awful. She’d found the left luggage ticket. I managed to convince her it was a one-off. And she believed me. It was true anyway. Oh, yeah, she was lovely. I know she’s been cleaning for me for a bit but . . . today it was like seeing her beauty for the first time.

  Actually, I quite like this game.

  She was really pretty and . . . dressed really well. I can see why he was with her. And boy, was he lucky to have her. I’d go as far as saying, meeting her was one of the most incredible experiences in my life. And, I might add, she’s a really good cleaner. The house has never been so clean. She’s like Mary Poppins. But a really sexy one? Yeah, she’s a MPILF.

  OK, enough of that. I turn my key in the ignition and begin the journey home. I get stuck in traffic, as ever, on the M62. I kill some time by calling Lucy. And like a true friend, she is waiting on the doorstep by the time I get home.

  I get her to help me light a bonfire in the back garden. I have decided I want to sacrificially burn something of Danny’s, and Lucy thinks it’s a good idea. We carry all the files down from the spare room and start to drop them onto the fire.

  ‘And you’re sure your accountant said you could get rid of them?’ she checks, before dropping a box folder in.

  I nod. It feels good. It feels right, doing this. Milk was our baby, but it links me forever with him.

  ‘What was she like?’ asks Lucy.

  ‘Bit bland. Clothes a bit too matching, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘And you reckon she’s older than you?’

  I nod.

  ‘I wonder what her obsession with that Tiffany Keith was all about?’ I ask.

  ‘Maybe she knew her. Maybe they were related. You said she hadn’t got kids?’

  ‘But it wasn’t a proper photo. She’d cut it out of a magazine.’

  ‘Admittedly that is odd.’

  ‘These folders burn well don’t they?’

  ‘They do. Is this making you feel better?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How d’you feel?’

  ‘Numb.’

  And I did.

  ‘It’s just yet another thing I can’t ask him about. All these years I’ve been dying for him to come back, come home, so I can see his face again. Now I want him back so I can have it out with him.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  ‘But I can’t, of course. And anyway, I don’t want that Danny back. I want the nice one who adores me and wouldn’t step a foot out of line.’

  ‘Basically, you’re fucked,’ says Lucy, and it makes us both roar with laughter. I have to clutch onto her as my foot slips on the wet grass. I upend the file in my hand and its contents flap around the bonfire. Invoices, printouts of minutes, each slip of paper documenting my life, my work, and I’m saying good bye to it. As I scoop them up to set fire to them, something catches my eye. It’s a comp slip. Some writing in biro. But I’ve seen the logo on it before. And I know where. My blood runs cold.

  ‘Nat? What is it?’

  I show her the slip. It has a cartoon drawn on it of a frog. The name FROG GRAPHIC DESIGN LTD.

  ‘That’s her company. That’s her writing.’

  ‘What, Miriam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, did she do some work for you? When’s it from?’

  I look. I kneel on the grass and gather some other papers I’ve dropped to me.

  On the comp slip she has written,

  Good to meet you last week. Hope we can work together some day. Mim x

  And on the back of the slip, Danny’s handwriting says,

  Not quite right but one to watch.

  My brain whirrs. I can almost hear it spinning like a top inside my skull. Looking at the other papers with it, I piece two and two together, and . . .

  ‘Oh my God. I’ve met her before, Luce.’

  ‘When?!’

  ‘Oh my GOD.’

  I am pacing the garden. Walking round in circles. Smoke billows from the bonfire. Suddenly, from nowhere, it starts to rain. Thick torrential downpour. The smoke from the fire goes blacker than ever as the fire starts to extinguish. I keep pacing the garden, but Lucy pulls me inside.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I gasp.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘See her. Will you drive me? She’s been lying to me. She knew he was married a year before he went to Ibiza. I’ll fucking kill her.’

  Lucy pulls a face.
‘Not sure murder’s the right idea.’

  ‘OK, I’m probably not going to kill her, but will you give me a lift anyway?’

  ‘I’m not very happy about this. I think you need to . . .’

  ‘Fine, I’ll drive myself. I knew I was right about those jelly beans.’

  Frog Ltd comp slip still in hand, I head out of the front door. One of the twins is out roller skating. She shrieks a hello at me. I ignore her. She shrieks again as I get back into my car. Just as I sit down, Lucy appears at my side.

  ‘I’ll drive. Come on.’

  I get out. She gets in. I get in the passenger side. We drive.

  ‘A year before. A year . . . before Danny disappeared, we sold Milk. A year before that, we considered rebranding.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘We looked into changing the logo. Complete and utter madness, who changes their logo when they’re doing well? Anyway. We interviewed a few graphic designers. Me and Danny. And one of them must have been Miriam.’

  ‘But you don’t remember her?’

  ‘Me and Danny were having a massive row that day. I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than that.’

  ‘What were you rowing about?’

  ‘I forget. I was really pissed off he was so gung-ho about changing the logo. It was probably that.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her. First time you saw her.’

  ‘It’s about seven years ago.’

  ‘I’m surprised she didn’t recognize you.’

  ‘I don’t understand it. Either way, if she met him on holiday, then she already knew him. And either way she’s been lying to me.’

  ‘She might not tell you the truth, you know.’

  ‘I want her to look me in the eye and deny it.’

  ‘She might not be in. Why don’t you call her?’

  ‘I want to see her face.’

  We drive in silence for a while. Eventually I say, ‘Is Dylan faithful to you?’

  She looks at me, alarmed, as if the thought had never entered her head.

  ‘Don’t you think I might’ve mentioned it if he wasn’t?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Again. Silence. I feel bad for even suggesting it. I feel a pang of jealousy. I want Lucy’s life. I want her happiness. Her serenity. Her happy marriage. Her good sex life. Instead I’ve ended up with a guy who has caused me nothing but heartache for the last five years.

  Selfish. Selfish BASTARD.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You can say what you like to me.’

  And of course, the fact that she’s being so reasonable makes me feel even worse.

  ‘She knows where he is,’ I say suddenly.

  ‘She might not.’

  ‘She’s a liar. If she can lie about how she knew him, she can lie about anything.’

  ‘You might be reading too much into this. She might’ve been lying coz she didn’t want to hurt you any more than she needed to.’

  ‘She lied to save her skin.’

  Half an hour later we are in Mayville Road. There is no answer at the door and I can’t see her car parked anywhere.

  ‘Call her.’

  But I don’t want to. As we sit in the car, in the pouring rain, a man walks past us and then turns up her path.

  ‘That’s Alex. That’s her boyfriend.’

  He goes and shelters on her doorstep, trying to duck his head out of the rain.

  ‘He likes to play in the snow,’ Lucy murmurs, and we chuckle.

  Alex makes a call on his mobile. Looks through the letter box. Rings the doorbell a couple more times. Then angrily storms off.

  ‘Can we follow him?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘What d’you think this is, Nat? Scott and Bailey?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, maybe he’s going to meet her.’

  Lucy rolls her eyes and starts the car up. Further up Mayville he has got into a black estate car and is driving off. We follow.

  We follow for ages. And ages. I’ve never followed anyone before, and it’s quite exciting. And a lot easier than you’d expect. One thing you can say about Alex, he’s a very proficient and cautious driver. He eventually pulls over on a suburban row of red-brick semi-detacheds in Crumpsall. Can’t say I’ve spent too much time here either.

  He gets out of the car and zaps it shut. He walks up a path. But before he can even get his key in the door, a young black woman opens it. She’s stood inside with a baby in her arms. She kisses him. He kisses the baby. The door shuts.

  I don’t quite know what to make of it.

  Lucy breaks the silence.

  ‘She likes her married men, doesn’t she?’

  I look to her. Maybe she’s right.

  Cally

  ‘You can see her pain. Look how hurt she looks. It’s heartbreaking. She has this aura of melancholy. It’s arresting. It’s disturbing. It’s amazing.’

  I pretend I’m not listening to this dude as he leans over my pictures in the next room. I’m on a go-see. A go-see is where you go and see someone from the fashion industry and they check you out and write your name down if they think you’re interesting and might be able to work with you in the future. I didn’t just happen to know this shit; Aba explained it all to me. So far this week I have been on eight go-sees each day, and this is the third day. That’s a lot of bang for your buck in anyone’s book.

  I don’t have a card or a book yet or whatever it’s called as I haven’t done loads and loads of shoots, but some of the go-sees are with junior photographers who are building up their portfolio and so they do some shots with me and that’s been kinda fun. Others I’ve met have been casting directors. They choose the models to go in various catwalk shows and print stuff (I’m still learning all the words so bear with) and all of them have been really really cool and really really nice. Some of them have even asked about Dad coz I think Aba must have filled them in on the whole going missing thing. She says it’s something unique about me and all these guys will want to feel they connect with me on some level so I can use Dad’s disappearance as a bit of an icebreaker, and a reason for why they might remember me when they might have met, like, eighty-three models that day. It helps me stand out and stuff. Lots of the peeps I meet make me walk up and down in their offices to see what I’d be like on the runway or whatever it’s called. That is the most mortifying thing in the world. I hate even having to walk to the front of the class if the teacher calls me up. But down here, in London, it has a purpose, a better purpose. So I hold my head high, pull a FURIOUS face and then sashay away.

  (Yes, I have seen RuPaul’s Drag Race. And I’ve been very grateful for it this week.)

  If you don’t feel it, bitches, fake it.

  Actually I made that up. It’s quite good. Hashtag almost amazing!

  And. I’m not being funny, but I really think I’ve grown up a lot since coming to London. I feel I’m moving in an adult world and therefore I have to behave more like one.

  Maybe where Mum was going wrong all those years was by treating me like A BLOODY KID. So I therefore BEHAVED LIKE A BLOODY KID.

  These people treat me like a GROWN-UP. And therefore I AM ONE.

  Hardly brain surgery, is it?

  I think seeing Owen over the weekend helped a bit actually. It’s the first time he’s talked to me like I’m not just his mental little sister and AGAIN like I was another human being. I was pretty damned sure he was going to come in all guns blazing and drag me back Up North but instead he actually listened to me and thought about it all and seemed to agree that what I said made actual sense and wasn’t the drivelling ramblings of some demented old loon. And what that felt like was . . . was . . . liberating. And when I saw how upset he was about Dad. He NEVER shows me that side of him. EVER. I thought he was just like Mum and had locked his feelings away and it’s best not to go there but SHOCK HORROR I was wrong. He was sort of doing what I was doing. Pretending everything’s fine
just to keep Mommie Dearest happy. (Mind you he reckons we’re not that similar coz he still thinks I am a proper little madam who stamps my foot all the time and is incredibly rude. I disagree, I just feel the need to raise my voice sometimes in order to make myself understood with total CRETINS. But there you go.)

  After I saw him Friday night he and Matt spent the weekend in London and I totally hung out with them loads. And they took me and Zaraah out for lunch at this amazing place on the Kings Road where they do these INCREDIBLE lobsters and prawns and stuff and they have this REALLY REALLY HOT SAUCE. And they paid for us both. And then took us up the road shopping to this really cool farmer’s market and they bought us both these really cute pouches of lavender that you can put in your knicker drawer or in a bag when you go travelling. They’re so wonderful and I sleep with mine under my pillow each night, I love it. And we didn’t even row. Only a little bit. Mostly when I laughed my head off when Zaraah announced over the deep-fried jalapeños:

  ‘In South Africa my Uncle Oscar was a gay like you. But he got shot. Dead. With a gun.’

  And Owen went on about the rise in homophobic hate crimes and how they’re not funny and so I felt really bad. But instead of apologizing about it I dug my heels in, just call it my default mode, and demanded to know what the figures were like compared to heterophobic hate crimes. And the lads told me not to be so silly. And even Zaraah was like ‘You’re totally out of ord.’ So I flounced off to the toilets and returned and finished the meal in silence as Owen and Matt asked their new best friend all about apartheid and Mandela and white farmers and the rand, and by the time the bill came I was in a better mood and everyone seemed to have forgotten there’d even been a kick-off.

  I’d still like to know the figures on heterophobic hate crimes, mind.

  But they hadn’t forgotten it, because half an hour later when we were walking down the old Kings Road to the farmer’s market Matt started going on about something that had happened at his work. The restaurant he works in is SO not posh. I mean it’s OK. I’ve never been. But it’s hardly Nobu n stuff. Anyway like last week? He was serving this table of total twats and they were like taking the piss out of him and one of them called him a fucking queer and the boss – I forget her name but they really like her – had to come over and ask the blokes on this table to pay their bill and leave and the blokes got a bit arsey about the whole thing and smashed a few plates. The owner called the police but the twatty guys had legged it. Matt was all shook up about it and stuff but was fine about it now but I’m sure they brought it up because I’d laughed about homophobic hate crimes. God those two are like elephants. They forget NOTHING.