The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  The most HILARIOSA thing is that in the hotel lobby there is a man with no legs who sits in white robes playing the sitar. Don’t ask me why. He may also be blind. But he plays all these (trying to be) trendy choons on his sitar like ‘Get Lucky’ by Daft Punk. It really is BEYOND.

  Aba keeps throwing coins at him and saying, ‘Take it to the bridge, baby!’ before closing her eyes and dancing round him like she’s walking over hot coals in some spiritual ritual. Admittedly, she usually only does this in the evenings, after lots of heat and lots of after lunch piña coladas.

  Actually, maybe he’s not blind, coz when she does that he always looks a bit mortified and seems to look around as if saying, I wish there was security in this hotel. This woman should be sectioned. By Arlene Frigging Phillips.

  There is one person here who really messes with my head. Like, really, does my swede in. And that’s the stylist. She’s called Iris and she’s from Primrose Hill (‘But like, the working-class bit’) and she ALWAYS wears these platform trainers which have fairy lights round them. I have met girls like her at school. Poshest private school in the area, chauffeurs driving them hither and thither, nannies, trust funds, relatives called Jocasta and STILL they claim to be ‘like, really working-class and stuff’? Imbeciles.

  Well, that’s what Iris is like.

  Her hair. MAN ALIVE, her hair! She describes ‘the story’ of her look as ‘prom queen on her way home who’s stopped off to get fucked in some bushes by her boyfriend’. Which basically means it is lacquered to high heaven, almost in a beehive, but then one bit is REALLY MESSY. Once she explains ‘the story of her hair’, it kind of makes sense. But if you don’t know, you just see loads of Mexican people and guests in the hotel giving her a double-take and thinking, WHAT THE HELL DID THIS MOFO COME AS? SHEEEZ!

  Actually, I did hear one American woman whispering to her husband as Iris walked past once, ‘Oh God, Bud. Is it a costume party? Let’s stay in the room.’

  And even I know that in Yankee-land, a costume party is a fancy dress party.

  Silly bitch. (Iris, not Bud’s wife.) I think she thinks she’s a little like Lily Allen. I say to Nancy, ‘She’s more like Alan buggery Carr.’ And Nancy really laughs her head off.

  Iris is prone to bursting out crying every five minutes. Also, at the moment she has her ‘Big P’ – which is what she calls her period. And ON MY LIFE I SWEAR you would think she was the first person in the history of the world AND menstruation to ever have had a period. She keeps telling everyone. Like it’s something none of us have ever heard of.

  I do actually say one time, A period? What’s that?

  And she actually starts explaining. Before seeing everyone laughing.

  I then realize that was a bad move. She hates me now.

  She also hates that a couple of times I have called her Irish instead of Iris. That didn’t go down too well. Whoops.

  Oh, and another time I was saying to Aba, ‘D’you reckon without those hideous trainers on she’s three foot two?’ only I didn’t realize Iris was walking past behind me. I just saw Aba’s eyes widen in horror as she took a MAHOOSIVE slurp of her piña colada.

  Never piss the stylist off. She will make you look shit.

  Oh, well. It’s not like I wanted her to be my best friend or anything.

  The other thing that really pisses me off is that she keeps saying to Seth, ‘What’s the journey here?’

  At first I thought she was asking for directions to guide one of her mates to the hotel or the location, but no, she’s asking how he wants the pictures to look.

  At first I thought Seth thought the sun shone out of her arse. Aba seemed impressed that the wonderful Iris was doing this shoot, but as the days have drawn on I can see her becoming exasperated with the girl with the weird hair. And I can see Seth’s eyes glazing over whenever she questions the journey of the clothes.

  OK. So here’s the journey. Or, in normalspeak, here’s what I think Seth wants the pictures to look like:

  Each model stripped bare. Almost a photograph that hasn’t been properly developed. The background in sharp focus, the model fading away. With each picture she becomes more focussed, stronger or something.

  I just stand where I’m told to.

  Though I do make Seth laugh at breakfast one day when I go, ‘What’s the journey of this kumquat?’ while I’m having my fruit salad.

  One day we shoot in the sea. One day we shoot on the sand. One day lying round a pool. One day on a jetty, walking into the water. One day hanging upside down from a palm tree. Between photos, hair and make-up poke and prod and backcomb and do all manner of things.

  One time, when I’m not hanging bat-like from a palm branch, one of the vile models sidles up to me.

  ‘Heard about your dad.’

  Her name is Angel. Devil would be more appropriate. She grunts at everyone on set and has NO manners. She once handed Aba a bottle of water before a take and went, Hold that. Quickly.

  Which I think is totally out of order.

  She’s not a fucking slave, I shouted.

  And everyone looked really uncomfortable because of 12 Years a Slave and because Aba’s black. But that’s how Angel was treating her and it really got ON MY TITS.

  Aba diffused the atmosphere by calling, Turn the choons up, guy! And carried on swaying to the music.

  I shrug. So what if she’s heard about my dad?

  ‘Bare bad times, babe.’

  I roll my eyes. She has a Brummie accent. She better learn to keep that grid shut if she wants to get on.

  ‘D’you ever worry that . . . people will hire you because they sort of have a morbid fascination?’

  I look at her.

  ‘I just tell it how it is, babe.’

  I hate it when people say that. I mean, I’ve been known to say it sometimes. Well. Quite a bit actually.

  But when other people say it, I now realize it’s really FACKING annoying.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say. Coz I’m actually flabbergasted. My flabbers are well and truly gasted.

  She repeats herself. ‘D’you ever worry that . . . people will hire you because, they sort of have a morbid fascination?’

  So I reply, ‘D’you ever worry that people won’t hire you coz you’re a massive cunt?’ At which point Seth overhears, and calls me back up the tree.

  On a couple of nights we have all piled into a stream of taxis and headed to this GORGEOUS restaurant in a different part of Tulum. It’s on this narrow lane of hotels and restaurants and it serves modern Mexican cuisine. It’s weird. I thought I knew all about Mexican food coz it’s what my dad used to make if Mum asked him to cook. He was actually really good at it and could cook up a feast of fajitas and burritos and chillies and . . . it was all gorgeous. But this restaurant, El Paisano, is BEYOND.

  For a start, it’s so hot here that the restaurant is OUTSIDE.

  And secondly, the food is SOME OF THE BEST I HAVE EVER TASTED IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.

  And don’t just take my word for it because OH MY GOD. The first night we went, REESE WITHERSPOON was in there.

  And the second night, DEMI MOORE was eating there.

  Exactly. BEYOND.

  Admittedly I didn’t see either of them. The bad thing about the restaurant place is that it is EXTREMELY dark and atmospheric and candle-y. And if you’re sitting more than a table away from me, I won’t be able to tell if you’ve keeled over dead into your soup and stuff. But everyone was saying they were there.

  And it’s totally feasabilidido. Because . . . You see, what I didn’t know before I came to Tulum is that Mexico is really easy for Americans to get to (unlike us Brits) and so they all come here non-stop. And the other thing is, the place they have brought us to, Tulum, is a real hangout for celebs and the fashion world.

  But anyway. The food. The menu hangs on two mahoosive blackboards overlooking the bar. It is chock full of stuff like stuffed jalapeño pepper, lavender prawns, seafood in almond cream.

  Exactly. TOP NOSH KLAXON
.

  The atmosphere here is amazing. Though on the second night I notice that it’s only really me, Aba and the other models who are eating. Everyone else is just knocking back the drinks at our ginormous table. The place must feed about sixty people at a time, has live music and a very long bar, which is rammed. The toilets are near the bar and I see Iris going there non-bloody-stop. Each time she comes back she is more and more enlivened and annoying. It’s quite clear she’s on coke. And if I, as a sixteen-year-old, can tell that, then surely everyone else can.

  But then I remember my first encounter with Bimbi’s husband.

  A toot a day keeps the doctor away.

  Maybe they’re all on it. Oh God. WHAT IF THEY’RE ALL TOTAL GAK HEADS, GUY?!

  After I’ve eaten we’re all sitting round drinking wine (Aba has lifted her no booze ban now that we’re abroad and I’m earning money), when Iris sidles up next to me and goes on and on and on about how we’ve got off on the wrong foot and she sees a lot of herself in me.

  Lesbian! I joke. But she doesn’t get it.

  And then she takes my hand and says some more coked-up bollocks about the pain in my eyes painting an interesting landscape of distrust.

  Exactly. OFF HER MONG BOX KLAXON.

  And when she takes her hand away I realize she’s left something in the palm of my hand. I look. It’s a small rolled-up ball of cling film. And inside is some white powder.

  ‘Go to the loo, babe,’ she whispers. ‘Want me to come with you?’

  I freeze. But then find myself standing. And heading towards the loos next to the bar. I realize she is behind me because as well as telling me what an amazing model I am, she keeps saying hello to all the fashion bitches she knows on her way over.

  There’s a row of four loos to the side of the bar which look all rustic and wooden, like the doors have been made from driftwood from the beach or something. At the moment they’re all in use.

  When one of the loos comes free I head in and she comes in with me, shutting the door behind us. I am instantly nervous. Surely this is illegal and someone must have seen us come in together. One of the bar staff, one of the waiters. But she grabs the coke off me and flips the loo seat down and in a matter of seconds has a credit card out and is chopping out two fat lines. I stand watching, mesmerized. She then quickly uncoils a note from her pocket.

  A memory hits me.

  I’ve always tried to forget it, wipe it out. But it’s here again.

  I’m about ten.

  Mum’s at Aunty Lucy’s.

  Dad’s in his office doing some accounts.

  I decide to go and surprise him with a picture I’ve drawn of the club. I’ve drawn three people dancing and him and Mum flying above them.

  But when I push the door open he is bent over his desk. He is sniffing. Has he got a cold? He stand up, throws his head back, then rubs the bridge of his nose. He bends again. And this time as he sniffs I see a white line magically disappear.

  I gasp.

  Magic.

  He turns. He looks angry.

  He comes to me. Kneels. And says, ‘You must never tell anyone you saw me do this. Not even Mum.’

  I nod.

  I am jolted back to reality by the toilet door being burst open. The manager comes in and starts pulling me and Iris out, shouting 83 words per second in Spanish. I can see Aba running over like a bomb has gone off. Seth is following. He has some sort of urgent discussion with the manager. But as they do, we are very brusquely manhandled out of the restaurant.

  The SHAME.

  Everyone is looking.

  Iris is screaming.

  I didn’t even get to do any coke.

  Owen

  From www.gay-mover.co.uk:

  Coming Out Poster Boy Has Face Pummelled in Homophobic Attack

  by Gerard Woolerton

  A waiter from Manchester suffered damage to his face, teeth and arm in an assault which he claims was fuelled by homophobia. Manchester police say they are treating their investigation as a homophobic hate crime. Matthew Warburton, aged 22, from Bolton, partner of gay-mover journalist Owen Bioletti . . .

  I can’t read any more. I click off the website and hear the post plopping through the letter box. I hate that our personal life has become cheap tabloid fodder. That because of my actions, my man has ended up on the very pages of the website I work for. Oh the irony.

  Can’t live with him, can’t live without him? No. Wasn’t there to protect him, can’t stop him appearing online. Typical.

  I instinctively go to play with my chain. I’ve never taken it off since Mum gave it to me years ago. Whenever I’m anxious I twiddle it round between my fingers till it gets too tight and constricts on my neck. It has D N O C engraved on it – each of our initials. But then I remember I’ve not been able to find it these last few days.

  It’s not worth much and I could easily get a replacement, but it’s the sentimental value. Mum gave us each one. When Dad was still around. And now I can’t find mine anywhere.

  At first I had a panic on, as I thought I’d lost it at Dylan’s. I didn’t particularly relish the prospect of calling him and asking him to look for it but when I did he was so sweet and concerned about Matty I realized I didn’t have to lay any ‘it’s over’ ground rules down. He looked in his car, the bedroom, the living room, everywhere I’d been, no joy. But then he said he couldn’t remember seeing it round my neck while we were . . . while we were in bed, so it sounds like I’d lost it already, before I went to his house. Not that that gives me much pleasure. The necklace is still gone.

  I hear footsteps crunching the ceiling. The muffled strains of Matty on the phone, probably to his mum. Looking up at the Artex, the sounds are almost sinister. Like he’s gagged and groaning for help. Then I realize he is laughing. Then he really does groan. I know it hurts him to laugh at the moment.

  Good job he’s living with me, then. I’m hardly a laugh a minute at the moment.

  I check Cally’s Instagram. Another bleach-white beach, emerald sea, diamond sun.

  At least something’s going right for someone in this family.

  Mum’s been a bit distant lately. I wonder if it’s anything to do with this delivery guy she met. She’s not said anything since he asked her out, but my instinct is that she’s started seeing him and doesn’t know how to tell me. Personally I’d be thrilled if she started seeing someone; it would be the much-hoped-for sign that she’d moved on. But maybe she’s worried about broaching the subject with me in case I get upset.

  Personally I wish she’d met someone else years ago. Before everything with Dad happened, frankly.

  Maybe I should give her a call and see how she is and casually mention him, saying I hope it’s going well.

  Or maybe I should order her something online and ask for it to be delivered by his company. Except I can’t remember which company he works for.

  I will call.

  The phone rings for ages, and then goes to voicemail. I’m not sure why but this wrong-foots me and I find myself hanging up instead of leaving a message. She always answers! I try the landline and she picks up almost immediately, but sounds groggy.

  ‘Oh sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘Oh, I was just having a lie-in.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. Everything OK? Bit early for you, isn’t?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll call back later.’

  ‘No, I’m awake now, go on.’

  ‘No, I was just . . . ringing for a catch-up.’

  ‘At half-eight in the morning?’

  ‘Well . . . I was just wondering. If you’d seen any more of that fella.’

  ‘Which fella?’

  ‘The delivery guy.’

  ‘Laurence?’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Well, that’s answered that then.

  ‘He thinks I’m still too obsessed with your dad.’

  ‘And are you?’

/>   ‘A little bit. And not in a good way.’

  ‘I wish you’d move on, Mum.’

  ‘So do I. But . . . it’s not easy. Though I did decide this week that he’s defo killed himself.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Sorry if that’s harsh.’

  Actually, I feel relieved.

  ‘No, it’s . . . what’s brought this on?’

  ‘Not helped by her over the road turning all psychic on me and saying she’d got a message from him and he’s living the life of Riley somewhere on a beach.’

  ‘Imagine,’ I say, with a laugh.

  ‘And. Well. I’ve been debating whether to tell you this or not, but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I found out he was having an affair.’

  Gulp. I feel as if someone has whipped the sofa out from under me and I’ve crashed onto the carpet.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘That left luggage ticket. It was collected by a woman. And it turns out she was seeing him.’

  My mouth has gone dry.

  ‘And does she know anything about . . .’

  ‘No, the police have questioned her and they’re quite confident she’s as much in the dark as we are.’

  ‘Bloody hell. How d’you feel about all that?’

  ‘Still processing it, really. It’s hard, though. Coz he’s not here to have a go at.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Oh, and your nan knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘About the affair.’

  ‘Who is this woman?’

  ‘She’s called Miriam.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask me about her ages back?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you known for ages?’

  ‘It’s . . . been complicated. And I didn’t want to bother you till I knew everything.’

  ‘Suppose.’

  ‘And now I know everything. It feels like I know even less than I ever did before.’

  ‘Sure.’