Want to Know a Secret?

by Sue Moorcroft

  From time to time she’d actually been impressed at the unremitting, freezing bitterness with which her parents treated her husband and, to a large extent, herself.

  ‘I’ve been brought up to take a few knocks. I can cope,’ Gareth said, often. ‘Don’t fall out with your parents over me.’ He’d been good about years of stilted Christmases with his parents-in-law, the only time they ever shared with Diane and Gareth, and later Bryony, their cushioned existence in their big house with cleaners and gardeners, new cars and all the status symbols. He’d been there for Diane when her mother had died, the rift between them unhealed.

  When the time came, at her father’s graveside Gareth had stood beside her, although he’d later told her that it was just to be certain that he saw the mardy bugger safe underground.

  Anticipation had been shining from his eyes when she arrived home a few days later after talking to Freddy about the estate. ‘Straightforward, is it, the will?’

  Diane hung up her camel-coloured coat. ‘Very.’ She turned, slowly, slowly, reluctant to face him. ‘I’m not in it.’

  His face turned to stone. ‘You’re joking.’

  Her hair was up behind her head, tightly, making her head ache. She began to drag out the clips, her scalp prickling as the strands unwound. ‘It’s all there in black-and-white. The whole lot goes to Freddy. Freddy’s embarrassed.’ She reached over to her coat and extracted paperwork from one of the large front pockets, tossing it on the table between them. ‘He’s even provided me with literature about how to contest a will under the Inheritance Act.’

  Gareth snatched at the papers, relief sweeping his face. ‘That’s very fair of him. Your dad was always investing in things, wasn’t he? He must have been worth a few bob.’

  ‘Oh yes. The estate is valued at about two million, including the house.’ She dropped down into a chair. Nausea had held her throat in its hands for most of the day as she’d tried to come to terms with what her parents had done. She was weak with disbelief. Grief. And such bitter disappointment, not over the money that had been withheld, but the love.

  Gareth’s face flushed. ‘My God, we’re millionaires, bar the formalities. Fucking millionaires! We’d better get a solicitor. How long do you think it’ll all take?’

  ‘I’m not contesting the will. Freddy has offered to cut me in for half. All he has to do is sign a thing called a deed of post-death variation.’

  Gareth sank into his chair. ‘You gave me a few nasty moments. But there you are, it’ll be sorted in a few weeks. Freddy’s all right, we might’ve known he wouldn’t try and snaffle the lot.’

  Diane stared. Blinded by pound signs, Gareth wasn’t getting the point. Fury burned in her gullet and she spoke the words that changed her world and had made their marriage, for the past ten years, an empty thing. ‘I refused. My parents have disinherited me. I don’t want their stinking money.’

  It was fully ten seconds before he spoke, his eyes horrified. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he managed eventually, hoarse in disbelief. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid! Money, even some money, even if you only accept forty per cent, or twenty, it’ll make all the difference to our lives. We’re still talking hundreds of thousands, Diane. It’s your right, it’s your inheritance. It’s yours! Don’t you see? Taking the money is the very thing to do because they don’t want you to have it. We’ll be getting back at them.’

  Her guts melted with misery as his voice climbed, but she didn’t waver. ‘I have my pride, Gareth.’

  And then he was lunging across the table, roaring into her face. ‘We can’t afford fucking pride! You’re entitled to that money. Pride’s all very well for you but it’s me who’s working my balls off, scrounging for every hour of overtime.’

  Tears flooded from her eyes but she hadn’t wavered. ‘They’re my parents and it’s my decision.’

  Chapter Five

  Trembling, Diane filled a waxed paper cone with the cold, crystal water as the dispenser gulped and glugged. Tiny sips moistened her mouth but didn’t ease the thudding in her chest. Her fingers shook as she drained the cone and refilled it. Money. So much trouble in her life had been over money.

  Like the ugly little scene over her mother’s jewellery when she and Freddy had pitched in to help their father after their mother’s death, she processing the debris of the funeral and Freddy going upstairs with his father to help sort out Karen’s things.

  But when she’d carried cups of tea up to the others she’d heard Freddy sputter, ‘Of course I can’t accept it!’

  And her father, clutching her mother’s leather jewellery case. ‘Look, Freddy, you know as well as I do that your sister will let that bloody man get his hands on it. I just couldn’t stand it if your mother’s and grandmother’s jewellery turned up in second-hand shops all over Peterborough.’

  Placing the cups on the nearby chest of drawers Diane wiped sweaty palms on the back of her jeans. ‘Stick it up your arse, then,’ she suggested, pleasantly.

  Freddy had followed her down, taking her hot hands in both of his. He wore contact lenses, in those days, and his eyes were always pink. ‘You’re the daughter, you should have her jewellery. Dad’s not himself.’

  Diane had to find a tissue and blow her nose. ‘He is himself, Freddy. I thwarted him ten years ago and he’s been an unforgiving bastard ever since. Just think of the Christmas when he gave me a mixing bowl and you a gold watch. When he said he’d bought a hundred premium bonds for Bryony – and then “kept them for her”. He very obviously doesn’t want me to have Mum’s stuff so let’s just give it to Sîan. Mum treated your wife more like a daughter than she did me.’

  ‘You can pass it on to Bryony. I haven’t even got daughters.’

  That’s when Diane had hesitated. There was more to be thought of here than her own bloody-mindedness. ‘It can go straight to Bryony,’ she decided, shakily. ‘Will you keep it for Bryony, please, Freddy? Put it in your loft or something until she’s grown up?’

  Freddy had sighed, opened the box, worn at the edges, and gazed at the dull glint of gold set out amongst the compartments. ‘I suppose so, if you’re certain.’ And that’s where it had been put and, she presumed, where it still was.

  The corridor at the Ackerman wasn’t busy but against the background squeak from a trolley, the hiss of the lift doors and the rustling of occasional feet across thick carpet, a shrill, rapid, grief-stricken voice split the afternoon. ‘You’re making an excuse. Inconvenience! I bet you wouldn’t – ’ The voice was female, young and uncontrolled.

  Then a man’s voice came in reasonable, measured counterpoint, his words indistinguishable.

  A door burst open and the young woman’s voice hurried closer. ‘It’s just an excuse. Mum will be fine by the time she comes home.’

  Diane turned her head.

  The man: soothing, calming. ‘It’s nothing to get upset about, I promise. Let’s not worry about it, now. It’ll be a while before she’ll be well enough to come home, anyway.’ The couple came into view. The young woman racing ahead was Tamzin North.

  And, prowling behind, James, focused on his daughter.

  Tamzin, eyes wild and chest heaving, plunged like a pony to avoid his comforting arm. ‘You should tell me what’s going on. I’m not a baby!’

  ‘I just told you.’ James was all reason, not displaying anger, not raising his voice. His eyes flicked to Diane then returned to his daughter. ‘It’s just what your mother and I think is best, for now.’

  Tamzin’s eyes darted about his face. The pitch of her voice veered a degree nearer to reasonable. ‘It’s just for now?’

  James gave a sudden smile. Diane noticed his lips again, too full for a man really, but she liked to watch them as he spoke. ‘We haven’t put a time limit on it. Your mother’s been injured and we have to accept one or two practicalities. That’s all.’

  Tamzin’s expression began to clear. The tension that had puckered her face receded and her fists unclenched. For the first time, she acknowledged that t
hey weren’t alone. ‘Oh, Diane, hello.’ She sniffed like a child with a cold.

  Diane managed a small smile. ‘Hi.’

  ‘How’s Uncle Gareth?’ Another sniff.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Diane didn’t even want to think about Gareth, let alone transmit progress reports. She fished a clean tissue from her bag and offered it.

  Tamzin seemed to wake up to her woeful appearance and grabbed the tissue to wipe her face and blow her nose. ‘Much the same. Won’t be coming home for ages yet.’ She stuffed the tissue into the pocket of aged and shapeless jeans and turned to her father. ‘There’s a little coffee shop on this corridor, perhaps Diane has time for a latte?’ She looked disproportionately pleased at the prospect.

  As James murmured easily, ‘Perhaps she has?’ Diane blinked at Tamzin’s transformation from stressy mess to hospitable young woman, recognising the poise from the sort of childhood she’d had herself – private school and lots of socialising at her parents’ house, the scene of almost weekly parties: bridge, dancing, after golf, pre-ball.

  She ignored an unexpected twist of nostalgia. She’d long since left her parents’ lifestyle behind and the pleasure of coffee shops was one of the many economies she’d made in her bull-headed determination to make her life with Gareth Jenner.

  James’s gaze was fixed on her, as if Diane’s acceptance of the simple invitation was of peculiar importance. She was glad of an excuse not to fight the manic traffic all the way to the green Fen lanes and an empty house, so smiled at Tamzin. ‘Sounds great. Lead the way.’

  The coffee shop was small, just ten bentwood tables staffed by a lady in a white top and a red gingham tabard trimmed with rick-rack braid. Once only seen in school needlework lessons rick-rack was currently hot in Diane’s sewing supplies catalogues. There was no accounting for fashion.

  Tamzin appointed herself hostess. ‘Would you like something to eat, Diane? No? Just a latte?’

  Diane, as suggested, ordered latte, having only ever heard of it and curious as to what all the fuss was about. When the pale, creamy liquid was set before her in a thick pan of a cup she was satisfied. Until she saw James’s cappuccino with cream and chocolate sprinkles.

  Cream and chocolate sprinkles would’ve been great.

  ‘Do I call you Aunt Diane?’ Tamzin glanced at the coffee placed before James and Diane – plus biscuits for James – as she accepted mineral water herself.

  Diane wrinkled her nose. ‘I think we could leave off the “aunt”. None of my other nieces and nephews uses it.’

  Tamzin seemed in the mood for conversation, her eyes over-bright. ‘I love your jeans and top, you wear such wicked stuff. It’s well strange.’

  The top was a fine linen shirt with shiny chrome eyelets zig-zagging down one side, threaded with scarlet leather laces and tied with fat tassels. The jeans had dinky little zips in odd places, topstitched in emerald green.

  Automatically, Diane sat back to display the outfit. ‘This is what I do, I make one-offs, and sell a lot of it to a shop in Peterborough. I wear my own stuff as a kind of walking advertisement. It’s all very highly decorated. I was making boho before boho was invented.’

  ‘It’s so cool. Really random but pretty. Do you, like, take orders?’

  ‘Customer commissions? Of course. Mainly evening wear, for ladies who want something you won’t get at John Lewis or Debenhams.’ She stirred her latte.

  ‘What could you make for me?’

  Beside her, Diane felt James start slightly, and wondered wryly whether he’d just seen himself as the guy footing the bill. Oh well, he looked as if he could afford it, with a leather jacket that she kept wanting to trail her fingers across and midnight blue polo shirt that fitted just so. ‘Anything you want, so long as the fabrics are suitable. I don’t do rubber or vinyl or anything.’ She winked.

  Tamzin giggled. ‘No, nothing weird. I was thinking, like, freaky tops. And decorated jeans.’

  Tamzin turned to link her father’s arm, beaming up at him with a smile, their spat, apparently, forgotten. ‘I haven’t had any new clothes for ages, have I?’

  His eyes crinkled. ‘You’re positively overdue for some.’

  ‘You’re not such a sad Dad.’ She planted a sudden kiss on his cheek before swinging back to Diane. ‘Can I talk to you about it? One morning? I know you visit Uncle Gareth most afternoons. I come to your house, right?’

  ‘Tomorrow, if you like,’ Diane agreed, unable to read James’s expression but wanting, as much as the welcome commission, because Rowan at the shop was really stingy with what he paid her, to see more of this bright Tamzin who’d suddenly burst on stage like an actress. All the clothes Diane had seen her in so far had been atrocious; it would be fun to do her justice.

  ‘My mother likes to see me in autumn colours but my favourites are turquoise or hot pink.’

  ‘Turquoise would look really good on you,’ Diane agreed.

  And Tamzin went on and on, talking with her hands and giggling. Presently, she fluttered off to the Ladies, still calling back over her shoulder about beads and fabric, like a child who doesn’t want to waste time peeing but can’t put it off any longer.

  James turned to Diane the instant his daughter stepped out of sight. ‘You’re amazing.’

  Diane was caught off guard. ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s the nearest to normal she’s been for two years. If you knew how much I wanted her to take an interest in her appearance but it’s all I can do to get her to brush her teeth. And you just wander in and – She has problems, I suppose you realise? Adolescent depression. She seems mainly to dress in gardening clothes – when I can coax her out of her dressing gown, that is.’ And suddenly his warm hand was closing about Diane’s. She could even feel the pulse in his thumb. ‘Thank you!’

  Diane flushed, her fingers tingling. ‘I don’t think I did anything; it’s just a coincidence that what I do interests her.’ Then, cautiously, ‘She certainly swings from one mood to another. I suppose she’s been knocked off balance by what’s happened to her mother?’ She glanced down at their fingers curled together, his so big and capable. She hoped hers didn’t feel incredibly workworn and rough.

  He released her suddenly and used the hand to rub tiredly over his face. ‘She has a special relationship with her mother and occasionally comes out batting wildly on her behalf, completely unasked. That row you overheard – I just suggested that Valerie had a bed of her own when she eventually comes out of hospital. It’s practical. She might still be in plaster.’ He hesitated, as if debating how much to say. ‘Tamzin viewed it in the worst possible light. That I was trying to avoid intimacy with her mother. She has a thing – a fear – about us splitting up. She has fears about lots of things.’

  Then, in a rush, taking her hand again as if he couldn’t get his feelings across without touching her, he fixed her with his dark grey stare. ‘If Tamzin doesn’t turn up tomorrow, I hope you’ll understand. Persist. Make her another appointment. She sometimes just ... runs out of steam. Stays in bed. She describes her depression as living in a labyrinth of caves. Every time she makes it out of one cave she finds she’s walking into another, just as grey and festooned with cobwebs as the last one. She only ever sees the sun in the distance but some things make it seem closer – I think that her interest in your work might be one of those things.’

  ‘I’ll be patient,’ she promised. Her heart rate had picked up, as if his enthusiasm was transmitting itself to her through the touch of his hand.

  ‘I wish more people would just show patience instead of treating her as if she’s feeble.’ His hand fell away, leaving her feeling suddenly cold.

  ‘Did it just come on? The depression, I mean.’

  He grimaced. ‘During her first year at university she began to be overwhelmed in certain situations, unable to organise herself. She attracted the attention of some bullying bastards and began not to eat.’

  ‘Is she anorexic?’

  ‘That isn’t the diagnosis. The doct
or calls it unhealthily thin.’

  ‘If she’d been to university she must be older than I thought.’

  ‘Twenty. She was the baby of the family, of course. Valerie says I’ve babied her too long.’ He sent her one of his fleeting smiles. ‘Tamzin’s so fragile, she brings out the guard dog in me.’

  ‘I’d thought sheepdog,’ she joked, gently, to disguise the compassion she felt for him as he tried his damndest for his child. ‘It must be horrible for her, to feel like that. And your wife must be out of her mind with worry about her, too.’

  James’s eyes shifted to the wall behind Diane’s head. ‘Most mothers would be.’

  His silence made Diane feel awkward. She wished Tamzin would come back. It seemed time for a change of conversational direction but none of the subjects they held in common were particularly cheerful – the accident, Gareth’s deceit and now Tamzin’s difficulties. She opted for the accident as the best of a bad bunch.

  ‘Have the authorities given you any indication of what the problem was with the helicopter? Why it came down, I mean?’

  His eyes flicked sharply back to her face. He checked over his shoulder and saw that Tamzin was walking towards them. Words rat-a-tatted out of him like bullets. ‘Oh, I have a good idea what the problem was. Valerie forgot that alcohol and flying don’t mix.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘That took ages. There are only two and they were both busy.’ Tamzin was slipping back into her chair before Diane could react to James’s shocking statement. ‘Diane, we’re going to see Pops. Why don’t you come?’

  Diane tore her gaze away from the anger in James’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, slowly, trying to process information and invitation simultaneously. ‘Yes, I think I’d like to. It’s not as if there’s anything spoiling at home.’