Secret Keeping for Beginners

by Maggie Alderson

  Tunbridge Wells

  Joy and Muffin were lying on the bed together, enjoying the early morning sun streaming in through the open window. Muffin was stretched out, his back resting against Joy’s legs, maximising all available sources of warmth. Joy was sitting up, propped by pillows, eyes closed, slowly stroking the blissed-out cat.

  She was opening herself to the universe, trying to understand the source of the uneasy feeling she’d woken up with. It wasn’t just the letters, although she’d had two more of them.

  There’d been a second one from the solicitors the week before, which she’d shredded without opening it and then just a couple of days ago another had arrived, in a different envelope, addressed simply to Elsie Ainsworth. No Lambton on it, which was even more alarming. Elsie Ainsworth really was a dead name, where on earth had somebody got it from?

  There was no logo or returning address on the envelope to give her any indication where it was from so she’d destroyed that one without reading it as well. She hadn’t been able to get it out of her hands quickly enough. Seeing that long-discarded name neatly printed on the envelope, like it was perfectly normal, gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  She’d meditated on the issue several times since and while all kinds of possibilities for receiving the letters had come into her head, some of them more persistent than others, she had always batted them straight out again.

  However she looked at it, there was only one conclusion to make: there was nothing that could be in letters addressed to that name which it would benefit her equilibrium to know, so discarding them unread was the right thing to do. She was in no doubt about it. Things left in the past needed to stay there. For the good of all.

  The unsettled feeling she had now was more to do with her girls. Things beyond any of their control were moving. Change was coming, she knew it. It didn’t feel negative in itself, necessarily, but change was unsettling while it was in progress and it could make people behave impulsively. Make them do things they might regret later.

  She had often wondered if it was the shock of puberty which had made Natasha make that sudden decision to move back to Brisbane with her father that time. And she was sure the changes brought on by motherhood had contributed to Tessa’s self-isolation and Rachel’s impetuous divorce.

  Joy opened her eyes and looked down at the cat, who was now stretching all four of his legs out in an ecstasy of physical comfort.

  ‘Secrets, Muffin’, she said. He looked back at her with his golden eyes. Human trifles, they seemed to say. Go on, bore me. Joy found his indifference very calming.

  ‘Something a bit dark at the heart of it,’ she continued. ‘Someone has a secret and it’s eating them alive, without them realising it. I’m not sure if it’s the secret itself, or the effort of keeping it. I’ve got to tread carefully, Mr Muff, to find out what this is all about, so it can’t hurt my girls.’

  The cat looked at her impassively for another moment and then got busy licking the fur on his chest. Joy smiled down at him. How she wished humans could live entirely in the moment the way cats did.

  She closed her eyes again, breathing in, breathing out, letting go of outcomes, trying not to think about anything, until the anxiety about her daughters elbowed its way forcibly back into her consciousness. It was no good, she’d just have to give in and actively think it through.

  ‘How can I best support my girls?’ she said out loud. Having Muffin there gave her permission to do that, but she was really asking herself, or the Higher Power inside her, as she preferred to think of it. And as she spoke, she realised she already knew the answer.

  ‘That’s it, Mr Muff,’ she said, stroking his head. ‘I just need to be with them, then I will be able to protect them. I wonder how that will unfold, but it surely will. Brace yourself, puss. Change is coming for us, too.’

  Then she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift back to sleep, absolutely certain that now she understood how she could safeguard her daughters, the universe would make it happen.

  Muffin curled up and went back to sleep too.

  Monday, 9 June

  Cranbrook

  Tessa was sitting on the high stool by the phone in the kitchen, trying to think of excuses to get out of this ridiculous lunch Tom wanted her to have with him, Rachel and Simon the next day.

  It was Monday morning, Tom was still in Scotland, the boys had gone to school and she had nothing else to think about. It was going round and round in her head, driving her potty.

  She’d tried going for a walk through the yard with her phone, to see if there were any good Instagram shots to take in the morning sun. She’d tried working on the new mural, based on the Great Barrier Reef, she was doing in the guest bathroom, but she couldn’t settle to it. Nothing had felt quite right in her world, since that shattering encounter with Simon.

  Over a week later, the overwhelming feelings seeing him again had aroused had mostly abated, until she sometimes wondered if it had actually happened. But then out of nowhere, a vivid recollection of that moment out by the car would pop into her head, and the sense of utter desolation she’d felt when he’d driven off would come back in all its intensity. It had happened all right.

  She’d hardly thought about him in all the years since that night in Devon, she’d been too busy with kids, the business and Tom – darling Tom – but in that instant it had felt as though she’d been waiting all her adult life for Simon to come back.

  She wondered what strange game her heart was playing with her and knew that only time and distance would help her move on again. So the last thing she needed was to reignite her feelings, by seeing Simon again at a stupid lunch that she really didn’t need to go to.

  After grasping her head with her hands for a moment and shaking it, she picked up the phone and dialled Rachel’s mobile.

  ‘Hey, sis,’ said Rachel, surprised to hear from Tessa. She wasn’t a great one for the phone. ‘What gives?’

  ‘Hi, Rachel,’ said Tessa, feeling a sense of dread at even raising the subject. ‘I’m just ringing about the lunch Tom has arranged with you for tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Rachel, ‘about us doing some PR for Hunter Gatherer. Great idea, don’t you think? Capitalise on the publicity the TV show is giving him to get some separate media for the salvage business. So people know how great Hunter Gatherer is in its own right, not just something that nice Tim Chiminey does in his spare time.’

  ‘Yes …’ said Tessa, uncertainly.

  She could see that what Rachel had said made perfect sense and it would help assuage her anxiety about how Tom was neglecting the business for that wretched TV show. He’d just told her he was going to America for something to do with it, for heaven’s sake.

  ‘And it’s the perfect moment for your business too,’ said Rachel. ‘Distressed industrial is the biggest trend in interiors right now.’

  ‘Yes, I do see what you mean,’ said Tessa.

  A bit of concentration on the core business was exactly what she’d wanted for ages; it was just the prospect of having to sit opposite Simon, and possibly see him on other occasions, and act as if she’d never met him before that she dreaded. She didn’t know how she could possibly do it.

  She was still wondering what to say next when Rachel started speaking again.

  ‘To be completely straight with you, Tess,’ she was saying, ‘I did have some doubts at first, about mixing family and work, but I really do think some PR now would work brilliantly for your business – and there’s another thing. If it comes off, I’ll get a new-business bonus from Simon, because it was my idea and I really need the money right now. I had to tell you that, to be transparent, but it’s not the only reason I think you should do it. I really believe it would be great for your brand. So the sweet thing is, we’ll both benefit. Win win.’

  Tessa closed her eyes, glad they weren’t on Skype, so Rachel couldn’t see her anguished expression. She knew her sister was struggling with money. She’d lent her some just the
month before to pay off a credit card. Could she be so selfish as to deny Rachel a bonus she so badly needed, just because she was freaked out by seeing Simon again? No. She couldn’t. Blast it.

  ‘Oh, that’s great, Rachel,’ she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘I can see it’s all good, but I just wondered, do you really need me at the lunch tomorrow? Surely you, Tom and …’ oh, she’d have to say his name, no, she just couldn’t, ‘er, your boss, could nut it all out without me. I haven’t been involved with Hunter Gatherer properly for so long, I don’t see what I’d add to the conversation.’

  Rachel smiled fondly at the phone, glad her brother-in-law had already rung her with strict instructions not to let Tessa squirm out of going to the lunch, as he knew she’d try to do.

  Because as well as the obvious benefit to the business, he’d told Rachel, he was planning to use the PR campaign as a way of getting Tessa actively involved with it again, and out of the house occasionally. And Rachel could see that her sister really needed that. It had been clear at the photo shoot that she had the self-esteem of a squashed slug. Natasha had commented on it too, shocked that Tessa could have let her hair get in such a state.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Rachel, ‘well, when Tom rang me to confirm the lunch he mentioned that he’s going to be away a lot in the next few months – he said he’s going over to the States to do some promotion for the show over there, which is pretty amazing – so I think it’s vital you’re on board with the PR campaign from the very start. You’ll have to be on the spot to look after the media while he’s away, so you’re more important than him in this really.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tessa, all hope of getting out of the dreaded lunch draining away. ‘I see what you mean. OK, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then …’

  ‘Great,’ said Rachel, ‘and apart from all that stuff it will be so lovely to see you up here, you hardly ever come to London any more … and Tess, don’t be anxious about this, I’ll be doing it with you. I’ll be running the account and the campaign and it will be fun, you and me doing it together. I think you’ll enjoy it. I’m excited.’

  ‘Well, yes, that does sound great,’ said Tessa, feeling the first tiny twinge of optimism about the whole thing.

  She said goodbye and paused for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror on the wall. Her awful grey roots had come back the moment she’d washed out Natasha’s miracle cover-up powder and now they were even worse. She couldn’t possibly go to the lunch looking like that.

  She looked down the numbers on a piece of paper stuck to the fridge for a mum from the school who used to be a hairdresser in London and would do a quick root touch-up for Tessa in her kitchen, wondering, as she punched the number into the phone, who exactly she was doing it for.

  Herself, so she wouldn’t feel like a terrible provincial frump in the no doubt ultra-fashionable London restaurant Rachel was taking them to? Or was it really for Simon?

  Tuesday, 10 June

  Regent’s Park

  Simon looked at himself in the mirror in his dressing room. He held a tie up next to the collar of his immaculate white shirt, then took it away again, opened a drawer and pulled out a burgundy silk square with white polka dots. He stuffed it into the breast pocket of his jacket. Yes, that was better than the tie.

  He stood for a moment, tweaking the points of the handkerchief to make it look less contrived, as if he had casually just thrust it in there, which he had, but it never looked that way when you did. Then he stopped and looked at himself face on. At the immaculate shave he’d just done and the hair he’d had trimmed the day before.

  What the fuck are you doing, Rathbone? Why are you wearing the navy Brioni suit which makes you feel like Daniel Craig’s much hotter younger brother? What – and who – is this preening for exactly?

  Of course, he always wore one of his sharpest suits when he was gunning for new business. It was part of his arsenal, always being the best-dressed man in a room. Not in a dandy way, just quietly, subtly, killer well dressed. It was the same logic as the flashy car. Be better than everyone else. Female potential clients wanted to ravish him, male potential clients wanted some of his glamour to rub off on them, or to ravish him, or both.

  But was that exactly the kind of rubbing off he was thinking about this morning? Or was his lower brain – the one neatly curled up in his Calvins – more concerned with pleasure than business?

  Perhaps he should change … they were going to Café Colbert, after all, not anywhere stuffy. He could wear a jeans-and-jacket combination, play it all down a bit. He looked at himself again, smoothing his dark blond hair over the sides of his head. Fuck it. This was how Simon Rathbone rolled.

  And maybe if he was true to the man he had become, he wouldn’t feel so controlled by the one who had rolled around in a field with a beautiful young woman all those years before.

  Tessa hurried down Sloane Street, feeling very hot and desperately wishing she and Tom could have arrived at the restaurant together, but he was coming straight from the airport. She hoped she looked OK. A vintage floral dress might not be the norm for this particular part of London, but it was what she felt comfortable in, and it was a hot day for June and she wasn’t going to put a bloody jacket on.

  A woman strode past her wearing white jeans, cut short to reveal skinny brown ankles, with a floaty silk top, boat-necked and striped like a matelot jumper, big black sunglasses and a very expensive-looking handbag over one arm. Her other hand held her phone clamped to her ear, a chunky gold bangle on her wrist.

  Tessa felt like something out of Beatrix Potter next to her and regretted bringing her old French basket into town. It was fine in the country and it had felt fine at the Royal Academy where she’d been to an exhibition before heading for the restaurant, but probably didn’t count as a handbag in Chelsea.

  She had a pair of kitten-heeled sandals in it, which she’d planned to change into near the restaurant, but in the gritty heat of the city her feet already felt swollen and sore in her ballerina pumps. If she took them off she’d never get them back on again. London and all the people in it would just have to take her as she was.

  Rachel was already waiting at a table on the far left of the room when Tessa walked into the restaurant, which was a great relief, especially as Simon wasn’t there. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all.

  ‘Tessie!’ said Rachel, standing up to greet her and giving her a big hug. ‘Come and sit on the banquette next to me. We can look out at everyone and the chaps can lump it with their backs to the world. They should have got here on time if they wanted the good seats.’

  Tessa smiled and slid in beside her, wondering whether it would be worse to sit next to Simon and risk touching him, or sit across and have to keep meeting his eyes. She was telling herself to get over it when a waiter appeared and put a glass of champagne down in front of her. She turned to Rachel to see her holding one in the air.

  ‘Cheers, big sis,’ said Rachel. ‘Welcome to the wonderful world of Rathbone & Associates.’

  Tessa picked up her glass. She didn’t often drink at lunchtime, but it would be churlish not to join in with Rachel’s well-intentioned enthusiasm and maybe a bit of Dutch courage was exactly what she needed to get through this torturous occasion.

  ‘To Hunter Gatherer,’ continued Rachel, ‘becoming the best-known salvage merchant in the UK – then the world – and to you, my fabulous, talented, gorgeous big sister, helping to steer it on its groovy way.’

  Tessa clinked glasses with her.

  ‘To Hunter Gatherer,’ she said. That she could drink to at least. She certainly didn’t feel fabulous or gorgeous.

  ‘Where’s, er, your boss?’ she asked Rachel after they’d chatted for a bit about the kids. ‘Isn’t he joining us?’

  Oops, mustn’t let the hopeful tone come through too strongly.

  ‘Slime-on?’ said Rachel, in the derisory tone she reserved for figures of authority. ‘He had some meeting out of the office this morning, he just texted me to say he
’ll be along shortly. Where’s Tom?’

  ‘On his way in from Heathrow. He’s been in Scotland since Friday doing stuff for Tim Chiminey.’

  Her voice, when she mentioned that, took on a contemptuous tone similar to Rachel’s talking about her boss.

  ‘You really hate that show, don’t you?’ said Rachel, quite surprised by the vehemence of it.

  Tessa nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. It felt good to say it.

  ‘What in particular about it?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘What’s not to hate?’ said Tessa, feeling an unaccustomed anger rising to the surface. She looked at her champagne glass. It was empty. Oh well. ‘I hate that everyone in Cranbrook treats me differently – mostly with resentment – because my husband is a “celebrity”. I hate that women ring the business number day and night to try and speak to him. The only thing worse is when they turn up at the house …’

  ‘Eek!’ said Rachel. ‘Does that happen much?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Tessa. ‘I hate all the nasty comments I get on Instagram and in emails to the business address, that’s all ghastly, but beyond all that, I just hate how it’s changing Tom, or should I say “Tim”? He loves it, Rach.’

  ‘And here he is,’ said Rachel, spotting her brother-in-law arriving, stopping for a moment, framed in the arch at the entrance to the dining room. If he wanted people to notice him, they had.

  Rachel watched as he walked towards them. People staring. Nudging each other. Pointing. You could almost hear the whisper going around the room. ‘Tim Chiminey … on the telly … that chimney bloke … ooh! I love him …’ And this was a sophisticated spot in Sloane Square. She started to see Tessa’s point. Also why it might be affecting Tom.

  One woman stopped him, grabbing his arm as he passed, and took a selfie of them together, all her friends at the table giggling excitedly and then insisting on the same. One of them kissed him, full on the lips.