The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  And she says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  Again, pride and petrification. She’s here, but I’m losing her.

  This girl who only a few weeks ago, if she’d turned round to me and said, ‘You know what, Mum? I’ve given this a lot of thought. I think it’s best if you put me into care,’ I might have said, ‘OK, let me think about it,’ I now don’t want to lose. She is humbling me.

  ‘You look lovely. It really suits you,’ I offer.

  ‘I mean I don’t know how much of that nine hundred I’ll see. They take a percentage and then some money for rent here. How’s Matty?’

  ‘Well, he’s home.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’

  ‘But it’s really shaken the pair of them up. None of us are invincible.’

  ‘I’ve been texting Owen and stuff.’

  ‘Yes, he said.’

  ‘What have school said about me going to Mexico?’

  ‘They’re happy about it. On the condition that you keep up with your school work.’

  ‘Which I have.’

  ‘Which you have. They seem rather taken aback.’

  ‘Good. One in the eye for all those twats who said I’d never amount to much.’

  ‘To be fair, Cally, for the last five years you’ve exuded the aura of a person who thought she wouldn’t amount to much.’

  ‘Yeah, but teachers shouldn’t say it.’

  ‘No. You’re right. They shouldn’t. But I’ve found you hard to manage sometimes; maybe they do too.’

  ‘Hard to manage? What am I? A Renault Espace?’

  And she says it with such good humour we both laugh. She hands me the glass of wine she’s poured for me.

  ‘Are you going to join me? I’m sure you could have one.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to drink in this flat.’

  ‘Cheers!’ I say, lifting my glass, slightly taken aback that someone has set a rule and she is obeying it, possibly because there will be consequences. I’m jealous. She has never shown any enthusiasm for the ground rules I’ve set down at home.

  ‘I wish my flatmates had been in. They’re so cool.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Oh, they’ve both got shoots today. I mean, nothing as exciting as my Vogue thing. And I’ve had to play it down a bit with them coz I totally didn’t want them to think I was showing off or taking it for granted. But yeah. Everyone’s busy.’

  I eat her spag bol. It’s far too spicy, as it transpires she added a whole jar of harissa paste at some point. But it is of course one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten in my life because my daughter’s made it. For me. For the first time.

  After dinner, emboldened by the two glasses of red I’ve now had, I dare to show her which bits I’ve packed for her in the suitcase. Though I’ve been expecting some sulking, stomping and disgusted tutting, she’s actually surprisingly docile and, well, you can’t by any means say she is gushing in her praise for my choices, but at least she manages to sound vaguely satisfied that she won’t look a complete dork in Mexico.

  Eventually Aba comes round in a whirl of OMG’s and BABEs and hugs and slurps of my red and disorder is restored for a while. She’s had a NIGHTMARE sorting the FLIGHTS and the ESTA VISAS – We’re changing at bloody Philadelphia hon. No direct flights left. Huge pisser. And then she’s telling me about what’s in store for Cally, and I’m confused by her scattergun approach to passing on information. One minute she’s showing me the hotel they’ll be staying in, the next she’s bringing up pictures by this photographer who’s shown so much confidence in Cally’s potential. The energy’s too much for me and fortunately I realize it’s almost time for me to go to get the train back.

  Cally walks me to the tube. We hug. I tell her not to let the photographer down. He’s given her a massive break, and she shouldn’t mess it up. But, not wanting to sound too much like an old crone, I also tell her she should enjoy every second and have the time of her life. I ask her if she needs me to transfer any money to her bank account and she tells me that the agency cover everything. This is a business trip. It’s all expenses paid. Plus she will be paid. She drags me in for another hug.

  ‘Text me in the morning. Just before you board.’

  ‘We’re going business class.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘So we might be able to text from the plane. I think you can tweet.’

  ‘Things have certainly changed since my day.’

  And this time I drag her in for a final hug.

  ‘And make sure Aba takes bloody good care of you. She’s a nightmare.’

  ‘I’m the grown-up in the relationship,’ she says, and we laugh.

  ‘Next time I see you,’ she says, ‘it’ll almost be Christmas.’

  ‘What a year you’ll have had,’ I say.

  She looks so happy.

  I cry on the tube back to Euston.

  The next morning I lie in bed slightly groggy from last night’s red wine. I feel hollow. I should eat something, but I know today it won’t touch the sides. This is a hollowness born of the status quo never changing. This ever-present feeling of limbo. I can’t move forward, I can’t move back. I am stuck up to my waist in mud, not drowning, not being pulled down into it, but it is paralysing me. I want my life change but today, as my daughter jets off to the other side of the world and my son nurses his broken boyfriend, it seems it never will. At what point do I let go? Will I continue to worry away at this sore till the day I die? What will that have achieved? Why can’t I just own up to the fact that Danny walked out one day, drove his car to Beachy Head and jumped into the grey, waxy water?

  I know why. Because that version of events shows little sympathy for me. I am not important in that story. At no point did he think, ‘To save Natalie some pain I will write her a note or at least hint at what I am going to do.’ I am not the star of that show.

  And even if he ran away, he didn’t tell me. I am not the star of that show either.

  And why can’t I just admit it? He is dead. His car was at a bloody beauty spot popular with suicides. That’s a pretty big giveaway.

  If he’s alive he has not used his passport, or phone, or bank accounts.

  He is dead. And the sooner I give in to that, the better. OK, so he had a cloudy past, a few years where he recklessly had an affair with some stupid graphic designer with a daft pink streak in her hair. But maybe that’s because he was feeling depressed. And he just couldn’t bring himself to tell me.

  He’s dead. He’s always been dead. And I feel pretty damned stupid for not believing it in the first place.

  I sit bolt upright.

  But Barbara knows something. She knew he was having an affair. And she never told the police. Which means . . .

  He told her he was going to kill himself. And she did nothing to stop him.

  Maybe that’s why she carries on drinking. And why she lashes out at me with all those letters. Maybe she blames me for not stopping him from killing himself. Or for not noticing he was depressed in the first place.

  But he wasn’t depressed.

  I’m going round in circles again. This is helping no-one. Most of all it’s not helping me.

  Danny is dead. And the sooner I bloody get used to it, the better.

  My husband is dead. I am not a woman whose husband went missing. Ish. I am a widow.

  Sitting in bed, I hear a slicing noise outside. It comes and goes and I know what it is. I swing my legs round to get out of bed, and as I stand, I draw back the curtains.

  Harmony Frayn is roller-skating up and down the cul-de-sac. As I open my curtains she stops and looks up to my window. I’m not sure if she can see me, as the light is hitting the glass. But she stands there, shielding her eyes from the light with a saluting hand, staring at me. It unnerves me. She continues to stand and stare.

  I don’t know why, but I’m in no mood for weird stuff like this today. To be stared at by some bizarre young woman with pigtails that infantilize her beyond
words. I bang on the window and shout a braying FUCK OFF. I stomp off from the window, and hear the slicing of her skates retreating across the street.

  Five minutes later, the landline is ringing. I snap it up. Nobody ever calls me on a landline. It feels so Seventies.

  ‘Hello?’

  I can’t even remember my new number.

  ‘Is that Mrs Bioletti?’

  ‘Speaking?’

  ‘Margaret Frayn here, Melody and Harmony’s mum.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’ And my heart sinks.

  ‘Did you just swear at my daughter?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  This silences her. Briefly.

  ‘And if she wants to stare at me twenty-four hours a day when I’ve just got up, I’m sure I can think of a lot worse things to say to her than “fuck off”. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘My daughter has a very big heart,’ Margaret explains.

  It’s about the only thing that is, I want to say. And then realize I am being bitchy and realize there is more to my mood than Harmony.

  ‘And she cares. She cares about you. And your family. And what you’ve been through.’

  ‘Well, caring’s not going to bring him back. So please tell her to find someone else to worry about. And stare at.’

  ‘Prayers might.’

  ‘Might what?’

  ‘Bring him back.’

  ‘Mrs Frayn. I’m sorry I swore at her. And I’m sorry if my attitude today is rather arsey. But I woke up this morning pretty much convinced – finally – that my husband probably committed suicide and is never coming back. So let’s just say this isn’t a good day. Now I really must go.’

  I hang up. But as I return the phone to its cradle, I hear her say.

  ‘Betty says he’s alive.’

  But it’s too late. I have killed the call. I lift the phone again, as if her voice will magically reappear at the other end.

  He’s alive? What does she mean? Betty?

  I dial 14713. Eventually I hear the phone ring. Margaret answers.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s alive. Betty . . .’

  ‘Melody’s been reading up on it all. Online, and . . .’

  ‘Margaret, tell me!’

  ‘Well, she spoke to Betty.’

  ‘Betty?’

  ‘Caligary. Number seven. She like to think she’s a psychic.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘And Betty’s convinced . . . and now she’s got Harmony convinced. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Well, Betty needs to learn to keep her fucking mouth shut!’ I snap, and throw the phone down.

  I pace. I fume. I decide.

  I go to the kitchen and rifle around through the cupboards till I eventually find the Tupperware that Betty gave to me with that hideous cake in when we moved in. I see there’s a piece of paper in it. Ah yes, she said she’d written her number down in it for me. I rip the lid off and open out the folded-up piece of notepaper. But there’s no number there. Instead I read:

  Please come and see me when you’re ready.

  I have news of your husband.

  I march out of the house, across the cul-de-sac, and ring her doorbell. It’s musical. It plays the Skye Boat Song. She takes a while to answer, but when she does she seems amused I’m still in my dressing gown.

  ‘Ah. Mrs Bioletti,’ she says, all smiley and sing-song. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  I practically throw the Tupperware at her.

  ‘Well, go on then. If he’s alive, where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, that’s handy.’

  ‘All I know is he’s not in spirit.’

  ‘Good job you don’t do this professionally.’

  ‘He’s hot. He’s on a beach. He’s alive.’

  There is so much I want to say. To scream. I want to rant and rave and tell her I hate her glasses. Why? Why is she saying this? Does she not realize this is my life and this is hurtful? I want to hurt her back.

  ‘Your cake was horrific,’ I say, and turn and head back towards my house.

  At my front door I turn. She is still stood at hers, staring. I look across to the Frayns’ house. The twins are in an upstairs bedroom, staring. The world is staring.

  A beach. Yeah, right.

  ‘Horrific!’ I yell again. And then slam the door shut on them.

  Cally

  Aba was really facking annoying on the flight over here. Rabbit rabbit rabbit. Really showing off and being SOOOO loud. She was more excited about being on a bloody plane than I was. In the end I had to say,

  ‘Yes, I HAVE travelled business class before, Aba.’

  But she was so not listening. ‘And see all these films? You can watch ANY of them at ANY time. Isn’t that amazeballs slash awesome sauce? CHEERS!’

  At which point she thrust her glass of champagne in my face, even though I didn’t have a drink by that point to clink with her. And then she started reeling off a list of all the films I could watch. I bit my tongue, stopping myself from saying, Yes Aba, I can read. I have been to school. I wasn’t reared in a derelict house. By APES.

  But instead I stuck my earphones in and listened to some music on my phone.

  This trying to be a grown-up at all times malarkey is actually really tiring. So I have got into the habit of, like, to the outside world I am serenity personified, nice to everyone, minding my Ps and Qs, whereas inside I’m just the same as ever. Enjoying being VILE on a minutely basis. Except when Seth’s around, and then I revert to ‘kooky Northern comedy modelly girl who he met on a go-see’ character. Which was basically me as a bag of nerves. And which isn’t too much of a stretch to recreate when he’s around because he does actually make me feel nervous. Not because he’s some dirty great paedo or something, but because I am like TOTALLY IN AWE OF THE PHOTO MONSTER N STUFF.

  Everything about him is just so cool. We’re all baking in the zillion-degree heat. He walks round without a drop of sweat on him, as if he’s lived here all his life. Nothing fazes him, nothing makes him scream OMIGODTHATSAMAZEBALLS. He’s pretty much Zen all the time. He speaks quietly, he’s polite, and he speaks Spanish to the locals like a native. (Of Spain.) (Well, actually of Mejicococococo.) (Actually I must remember not to say that out loud. Mejicococococo is quite annoying. NOTE TO SELF KLAXON)

  There are six of us models in total.

  (I CAN’T BELIEVE I NOW ACTUALLY REFER TO MYSELF AS A MODEL. HOW PRETENSH AM I?!?!?!?!)

  And four of them are complete jerks. They really do think they’re too cool for school, so I just ignore them. The other one is really sweet and is just in a constant state of panic all the time. She’s from a council estate in Dewsbury and just freaks out at everything she sees and everything they ask her to do.

  Oh my God what’s that?! you’ll hear her shrieking on the beach.

  And Aba’s like that: Hon. Chill. It’s just a pelican.

  I thought that was like a zebra crossing.

  No it’s a bird.

  Why does it keep diving into the sea like that? Is it like Jaws?

  It won’t come near you, it’s fishing in the water.

  For what? SHARKS?

  No, for tiny little fish. Fishettes.

  Right. OK.

  Her name is Nancy. Which her agent made up. Her real name is Kylie, but she was told it was too chavvy.

  Nancy, she goes. That’s what my nan calls her minge.

  In fact, I’m the only model to have my agent here. Aba says this is because the staff at L’Agence go above and beyond. I reckon she’s only here for the cocktails. Honest to God, she’s always on them. She looks at her watch after breakfast and she’s like,

  Mmm. Mohito time!

  By mid-morning she’s just dancing everywhere and asking for the ‘sounds’ to be turned up coz she just can’t help but ‘get her groove on’. No one seems to mind, though. And she never gets lairy or aggressive. She’s more an aul lush than anything else. And the minute she needs to get worky,
say Bimbi calls from London or the stylist needs something or one of the girls is upset or stroppy, she’s really good at snapping out of it and channelling into ‘business bitch’. Even if it is slightly annoying that the rest of the time she’s always gyrating and booty bouncing and twerking like she’s the first person to ever do it in the whole wide world.

  Still, it seems to keep the other models amused. She can get a smile out of anyone. Including the severe lesbian-y one from the Isle of Mull. She reads books all the time and says shit like, ‘That sky’s very foreboding, is it not?’ like she’s in an arthouse movie and is possessed by Jesus or something.

  The hotel we’re staying in is pretty amazing. It’s meant to be the best in Tulum. I can’t judge that coz we’ve so far only been either at the hotel or the bit of beach where we shoot the pictures, but of all the places round the world where I’ve stayed – and thanks to my mum and dad’s work I’ve stayed in a fair few posh places – this is the best. My room isn’t the biggest in the world, but it’s got everything you need. And the best thing is it’s at ground level and it opens . . . STRAIGHT OUT ONTO THE BEACH. In front of my French windows a palm tree stands either side, a hammock linking the two, and then there’s just a twenty-footstep walk into the sea.

  AMAZE SLASH PARADISE KLAXON!

  The food in the hotel is SO TASTY. And it’s not even that Mexican coz the guy who owns it is Italian and so it’s all pastas and pizzas for tea which I LOVE. And breakfast is all fresh fruits decorating your plate in the shape of a smiley face and stuff and they do this GORGEOUS spinachy-type juice which looks HORRENDOUS but is actually YUMMY.

  We’re under strict instructions not to sunbathe and if we are going to lie out we practically have to wear a sleeping bag and beekeeper’s hat coz Seth wants us looking pale in the bright sunlight. Most days it’s too hot for me anyway so I am more than happy to lie in my room watching programmes in Mexican. No idea what they’re talking about but I’m quite addicted to some sort of fashion police programme where they show someone on a red carpet wearing something HIDEOUS and then the guys back in the studio talk ten to the dozen about it, CLEARLY hating everything they see and getting quite MURDEROUS, which is hilarious to watch when said in Mexican. Which I think is Spanish. I do Spanish at school, but this is a different type of Spanish, and I only catch about three words out of ten, because they all speak like they’re on speed. Honest to God, they all say approximately eighty-three words per second.