The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  I shouldn’t be so rude. I have of course decided to be all grown up.

  Take Monday night when I finally spoke to Mum on the phone. She actually said, ‘Well, you know I was dead against this but it sounds like you’re really behaving yourself.’

  ‘It won’t be a wasted opportunity, Mum.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Aha? It’s just so nice to not hear you screaming at me.’

  ‘I’m sorry I pretended to be you to give Aba permission to have me down here. And I’m sorry I ran away like that. But I did leave a note.’

  She didn’t say anything. And then I realized. She was crying. And that made me cry a little bit too.

  Eventually she went, ‘That’s really kind of you to say. I do appreciate that, Cally.’

  But I know what she really wanted to say.

  Why did your dad never say that to me?

  I then remembered the thing I know. The thing I know that I’m not meant to know. The thing about Dad that I’m not meant to know. And so I tried REEEAALLLY hard to block it out of my mind.

  ‘I’ve got to go now, Mum.’

  ‘Did you get the email I forwarded from the school? With the work they want you to do on? It’s the only way I could square it with them.’

  ‘God, you pay them enough bloody money. You’d think they could turn a blind eye for one week.’

  ‘It’s a good school.’

  Yes, it would be. If it didn’t have some of those complete and utter bitches in it. I hate them.

  ‘I’m gonna do some homework, Mum.’

  And so we said our goodbyes. And for once I actually did do my homework. I have decided to stay true to my promise that I’m not going to fuck this experience up. London is exciting and I love travelling everywhere on the crazy tube system, but they’ve only sent me a couple of essay things to write.

  The guy for this particular go-see is a big cheese. Aba said he was such a big cheese that he was dangerous for your cholesterol. She then didn’t stop laughing for ages. And texted one of her mates to tell her what she’d just said. Then she tweeted it. Then put it on Facebook. I was like, ‘Why don’t you make a Vine of it?’

  And she said, ‘Oh I don’t really know how to do those.’

  Like I was being SERIOUS.

  ANYHOO. His name is Seth Barnes and he is a really cool photographer who EVERYONE wants to work with. I looked at his website last night and it has got THE best photos on it. Like, really urban stuff of burning shopping trolleys under flyovers (I know that sounds shit but believe me. It’s not), burnt-out cars in the middle of a gorgeous field, and then others of really stark stunning headshots of models. For once I looked at a load of pictures and thought, ‘Oh. I get this.’ And couldn’t wait to meet the guy who took them. Oh and when he had like pictures of famous people he had made them look completely unrecognizable and I thought that was really clever. So Cara Delevingne was covered in flour and eggs so it took a while to work out who it was. Same with James Franco. He had a pair of tights over his head. And he still managed to look SMOKIN HOT N SHIZ.

  In a way I wish I’d not looked at the site now coz I am actually a bag of nerves and so far on my go-sees I’ve been just dead friendly and nonchalant and like I was just passing and thought I’d pop in and say hey coz Aba’s said you were such sweet guys. Now I feel I’m in a job interview. Coz I’d actually LOVE this Josh person to take my pics. I just know it’d be a really exciting thing to experience and be part of . . . seeing how his brain works and how he lines everything up.

  I’ve only met his assistant so far. And she’s making me wait in the entrance room to his studio. I can hear the man’s voice next door again. It must be him. Going on about how ‘beautiful her depression is’. I’m assuming it’s Josh and I’m assuming he’s talking about me, looking at the pics that Aba had done that day, but I can’t be sure. I’m not that morbid-looking, am I?

  ‘OK. Bring her in.’

  It is him. It is me. I go in.

  I’m not expecting him to be so young. He looks like he can only be a couple of years older than me.

  ‘Seth Barnes,’ he says confidently as he holds out his hand to shake mine. Which he does, firmly. ‘And you must be Calista?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say with a grimace.

  Why did I do that? WHY DID I DO THAT.

  ‘Don’t put yourself down,’ he says playfully, and we both sit on this battered old leather sofa. He introduces his assistant, Leila-Jade.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t putting myself down, it’s just that’s not my real name.’

  ‘Ah. Cool. So what’s your real name?’

  ‘Cally. But Aba at my agency wanted to make it a bit more . . . I dunno . . . fancy. I suppose loads of people in fashion have really zany names. Like . . .’

  And oh God. WHY DO I SAY IT?

  ‘Leila-Jade.’

  Leila-Jade blushes. But Seth roars. He really laughs.

  ‘Sorry.’ I say with a grimace. ‘I should really learn to shut up. My mum says I could start a fight in an empty house.’

  Seth is still laughing.

  ‘I hate that phrase. It makes me think of ghosts.’

  And still he is laughing.

  ‘I don’t like ghosts.’

  Actually. I wish he’d stop, coz this is making me do all the talking. And that’s not my strong point. And like Aba said, basically models should be seen and not heard. If at all possible. No-one’s hiring you for your brain or filthy sense of humour. They’re hiring you for the ability to look good on camera.

  ‘Not that I’ve . . . ever seen a ghost.’

  Leila-Jade is giggling now.

  ‘I’ve seen Ghost. The movie.’

  I feel I may as well carry on.

  ‘But I can’t really remember what it was about. But thingy was a ghost in it. And she was into making pots. And she had a jukebox in her loft apartment.’

  I thought he’d be really serious. His photographs were like NEXT LEVEL serious, oh my God!

  ‘You know,’ he eventually gets out, ‘for someone who looks so upset in their pics, you don’t half crack me up.’

  He’s got a very cutesy little cockney accent, though something tells me it’s a little bit put on, like Madonna’s ex-husband’s. There’s a word for it. I can’t remember it. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to ask this seriously cool-looking dude in front of me, for fear he’ll take offence.

  I’m in there for a total of about twenty minutes. I think he might be a bit older than I originally thought, coz I could see on his beard stubble there were little bits of grey coming through. But he has a very mod kind of haircut, a bit Paul Weller-ish, and I find I spend the rest of the day thinking of him, and his easy laugh, and the way his lips go funny at the corners like the Joker. Not that he’s some deformed hideosity or anything. Far from it. And his voice. I just have to imagine his voice and it’s like . . . I dunno. Perfect pitch or something. It just sounds reassuring and . . . nice.

  God I sound like a total MORON. SWOON SWOON SWOON and all that shit.

  I tell myself to snap out of it.

  I don’t even know what he was seeing me for.

  He didn’t even comment on my photos. Well, he did, I suppose. But he didn’t do it to my face.

  We just sat there being silly and laughing. And at one point I did some impressions of some of the teachers and girls at school.

  NOTE TO SELF – NOT COOL – HE’LL THINK YOU’RE A TOTAL INFANT. AND IF HE HAD THE SLIGHTEST FEELING OF FANCYING YOU HE’LL NOW FEEL LIKE A MAHOOSIVE PAEDOPHILE AND STUFF.

  So I don’t think I’ll ever hear from him again.

  But it was great to meet him.

  And like I said. His photos are great. What an honour and privilege to actually get to meet someone so talented.

  Half an hour later Aba rings me.

  ‘So I hear it went well with Seth Barnes!’

  ‘Did it? I don’t know.’

  ‘He thought you w
ere great. And he loves your pictures.’

  ‘Wow, that’s so cool.’ And for a laugh I add, ‘Is he going to like put me in all his major shoots and stuff?’

  There is silence at the other end. Then . . .

  ‘Actually, Calista. He does want to use you.’

  ‘What for?’

  And another pause.

  ‘Babe?’

  ‘Aba?’

  ‘Are you sitting down?’

  ‘No. I’m walking through Soho.’

  ‘Please. Find somewhere and sit down.’

  I look around. I see an incredibly low step up to some offices. I go and sit on it.

  What is she going to say? Oh my GOD.

  Owen

  I have this recurring dream. It’s that night. I’m back there. I’m standing in this boggy building site. My jeans are ripped because I had to climb the perimeter fence. My knee’s muddy and bleeding from where I fell coming down the fence. My heart is pounding as I grip the spade and dig. Dig. Grinding it into the clarty soil. Turning it this way and that. Covering. Hiding.

  ‘What are you burying?’ a small voice says beside me.

  I turn to locate who it is. It’s a small boy. Although it’s raining, he’s bone dry. He asks again.

  ‘What are you burying?’ I realize now that it’s me when I was young.

  ‘I’m not burying anything,’ I insist, then carry on digging.

  ‘Are you burying a body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are. You’re burying a body.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Are you burying my dad?’

  ‘Fuck off!’ and I jab the little boy with the edge of the spade. He screams and falls back and . . .

  And that’s when I always wake up. This dream comes to me often, when I feel I’ve done something wrong. I guess it’s a memory of a guilty secret. One that no-one else knows anything about. I wake and check the clock. It’s two a.m. Just after. Matty is snoring by my side, his hands curling over the top of the duvet. He looks so helpless. He looks like a little boy. A child I could never hurt. Yet if he knew what I’d done, it would pain him so much.

  I first slept with Dylan after we returned from London at the weekend. I might have been with Matty the whole time, but me and Dylan were in constant contact via text. Our exchanges became more and more loaded as the weekend progressed. I was canny, some might say twisted, enough to change some contacts round in my phone so that it looked like I was getting messages from Gerard at work. I changed Dylan’s name to Gerard and Gerard’s to Boss, promising myself to revert once I was home. Matty has little time for Gerard and just rolled his eyes when he thought there’d been another text from Gerard coming through.

  Will he not let you have a weekend in peace?

  Things are tricky at work. One of the advertisers has pulled out and he’s bricking it a bit.

  Which advertiser?

  Oh can we talk about something else? I’m discussing it enough with him.

  Was I thrill-seeking? Did I just want an affair for the sake of it? Gone were my assertions that Matty was being unfaithful, or drinking too much, or not communicating properly. Give him his due, he had been the perfect boyfriend during our time away. Attentive to Cally, and her friend, to me. We even had good sex both nights. But maybe that’s because when I closed my eyes it wasn’t him I was seeing.

  I crossed the Rubicon, or whatever you call it, the same day we got back. Matt had to do a shift at the restaurant Sunday evening. I offered to drive him in. Then, heart beating in chest, I texted Dylan and asked if he was at the office. He was. When I got to the top of the stairs and saw him in the doorway he said nothing, just showed me in. I was shaking as he shut the door. We looked at each other and said nothing. We didn’t say anything for the next hour. Just once it was over we got into the banal chit-chat of ‘How you getting home?’ and ‘How long you working till?’, even ‘How was London?’ and ‘Matty OK?’

  I have been back every night this week. Matty has a lot of evening shifts. And I don’t know why I’m doing it.

  A lot of people stand to get hurt if they find out. Matt. Lucy. My mum. But as Dylan says, they won’t. Unless we tell them. And we have both agreed it’s just a bit of fun. ‘Harmless boysie fun’ is what Dylan said. Not sure I agree with that, but at least he’s not intending on our secret coming out.

  What do I get out of it? He’s old enough to be my dad. But I am not seeking some sort of father figure to feel closer to, in some pervy fetishy way. It’s sex. It’s his body. It’s his vigour. It’s his excitement. He says there have been a few men over the years, Lucy doesn’t know, but he’s just experimenting. Well, I am happy to be his case study. He makes me feel alive, cliché or not, because when he looks at me he wants me. He wants something from me. And I have control because I can either give it to him or not. Although physically he can sometimes overpower me, and it’s refreshing and exciting when he does, I still feel I retain the control.

  ‘How old is he?’ Sonia asks over coffee in the Royal Exchange one lunch time.

  ‘Forty-two, but he’s really fit. It’s not a dad replacement thing.’

  ‘I’d bloody well hope not, that’s disgusting.’

  ‘I know.’

  We’re keeping our voices down in this cavernous space.

  ‘So you fancy him?’

  ‘Of course I fancy him.’

  ‘Is he gay?’

  ‘He says he’s bisexual.’

  ‘So he’s still sleeping with the wife?’

  I nod.

  ‘Your mum’s best mate?’

  I nod.

  ‘And Matty’s not shagging around?’

  I shake my head. She looks bewildered.

  ‘D’you hate me?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I think you’re playing with fire, though.’

  ‘I know. It can’t go on forever.’

  ‘You don’t sound that convinced.’

  ‘It’s not like I love him.’

  ‘Do you love Matty?’

  ‘Yes.’ But I sound hesitant.

  ‘Some people would say you can’t. If you’re prepared to play around behind his back.’

  ‘It’s a gay thing. I can differentiate between sex and love.’

  ‘Fuck off. If I said there was a difference between gay people and straight people you’d call me on it.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘When you thought Matt was fucking around you were devastated.’

  ‘I know. But as I say. It’s not gonna go on forever.’

  ‘But if he had been. And you’d found out. And he’d said to you, Oh I can differentiate between love and sex. What would you have said?’

  She’s right. I know she’s right. And I know she’s angry with me. And with every right. We sit in silence for a while, and I wish I’d never told her. But I’ve told her everything. We have no secrets. Well. Apart from the one I dream about when things are going wrong. And even the fact that I’m dreaming about that night proves I know what I’m doing isn’t right.

  ‘I wonder if you’ve not wanted this for years.’

  ‘With Dylan? No. It didn’t even cross my mind till . . .’

  ‘No, just . . . a chance to . . . misbehave.’

  ‘I’ve never been a saint.’

  ‘A chance to feel closer to your dad.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By behaving like he did. By playing around.’

  I’d not thought of it like that. I let the words settle in my brain for a while and feel them taking root. Has she got a point?

  ‘It would make sense,’ she adds, sounding a bit holier-than-thou. ‘But whatever the reason, Owen, it’s all very self-destructive. I think you’re being a knob. There. I’ve said it.’

  And I nod. Because I don’t disagree with her.

  ‘I don’t want to fall out with you.’ And from her lips it sounds like a warning.

  She does hate me. Of course she does. And it suddenly makes me feel washed with shame. It�
��s like a hot flush rising up me. And she’s not even one of the people who stands to get hurt.

  ‘I’ll finish it tonight.’

  ‘I hate sounding like Mary Whitehouse.’

  ‘I hate you looking like Mary Whitehouse.’

  And that breaks the mood. And she smiles. I hate her hating me. Maybe we all have a desire to be liked. And who wants a best friend who will approve of everything you do? I need people around me who’ll call me out when I’m being a fool. And people who’ll spur me on to do the right thing.

  ‘So,’ she tries to change the theme, ‘your Cally’s got a big modelling job! Amazing.’

  I nod. ‘She’s off to Mexico for Christmas.’

  ‘Bloody hell, doing what?’

  ‘Oh, some . . . magazine spread on upcoming models.’

  ‘And she has to go to Mexico to do that?’

  I nod. ‘It’s the law.’

  What Cally has achieved – or what Cally has been lucky enough to have fall into her lap – is amazing. But I’m in no mood to celebrate her achievement/luck right now.

  We say our goodbyes, and I promise to call her when I’ve done the deed.

  I’m meant to be joining Matty at work in an hour or so. They’re closing the restaurant for the night and having a party for Mother Hen Jen’s 30th. I send him a quick text as I hover on St Ann’s Square, hoping he won’t see me from the restaurant. I practically glue myself to the side of the theatre, safely ensconced in shadow.

  Gonna be an hour late Bubsy. Got to finish off an article for work. Won’t be long. See you. Love you. X

  He replies immediately. Of course he does. He’s not having a sordid affair with a man twice his age.

  C u later. Just out for candles for cake. Ran out x

  I phone Dylan. He picks up quickly.