A Hidden Life

by Adele Geras

  Matt told her about Eremount and the spa and the enormous amount of money and Ellie listened in silence, giving him her full attention. When he’d finished, he took a sip of his tea, which had grown quite luke-warm while he’d been talking and waited for her to sympathize.

  ‘I think,’ she said finally, ‘that you’re making a bit of a mountain out of a molehill.’

  ‘What?’ Matt could scarcely believe it. ‘D’you mean you’re on his side? I’m … I’m amazed at you, Ellie. Surely you must see—’

  ‘Calm down, darling. It’s you who’s having trouble seeing, you know. This is none of your business. Justin owns the house and okay, it was a shock when we heard what Constance had decided to do with her property, but we’ve all got over that now, haven’t we? Come to terms with it.’

  ‘But that was my home, dammit.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Matt. It hasn’t been your home for years. What do you care if middle-aged ladies want to lie all over it and immerse themselves in five kinds of warm water on the premises? Put it out of your mind.’

  ‘It’s not fair!’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how childish he sounded. Ellie laughed. She said, ‘Never mind. Come here …’ She patted the sofa and Matt went to sit beside her. It would have looked ungallant to do otherwise. As soon as he was within reach, Ellie put an arm around him and pulled him closer.

  ‘I’ll cheer you up, darling,’ she said, and before he knew it, before he could move away and do something to prevent it – did he want to prevent it? Not really, oh, God, no, he didn’t, he wanted it, yes, it was something he’d been thinking of, obsessing about for days. Weeks – she had her mouth on his and his lips were opening under hers and it was like a tune you thought you’d forgotten but then realized you remembered … every note of it. He groaned and started to pull away but Ellie had one hand in his hair, holding his head so that he couldn’t move. She stopped kissing him briefly and said, ‘Come to bed with me. Now.’

  ‘I can’t, Ellie, it’s mad. We’ve got to stop this. Now. Stop it at once.’

  ‘We don’t have to stop at all. Think about it, Matt. You want to. I can tell you do.’

  ‘I’ve got to go, Ellie …’ he murmured.

  ‘Don’t go. Stay with me. For a bit. Please.’

  ‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’

  ‘But you want to. Say you do. You do, don’t you?’

  He sat up, suddenly afraid, the erection that he’d been trying to hide disappearing in a moment. Fear of discovery, of Phyl learning about this, had suddenly put all desire to flight. ‘No, I don’t, Ellie … I can’t, don’t you understand? I can’t do this to Phyl.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ she said, ‘that you’re halfway to doing it already.’

  ‘I’m not, Ellie. It must be … I was feeling … well, it was a weak moment. I just …’

  ‘Okay, darling. I won’t rock the boat. But you’ll be back. I know you will. You’ll remember and you won’t be able to stay away.’ She laughed. ‘I might blackmail you into coming back. I might say: Come back or I’ll tell Phyl.’

  ‘What will you tell her? Nothing’s happened.’

  Ellie shrugged. ‘I think I’ve got enough to make you uncomfortable. You came here rather than going straight home when you were feeling upset. That’s something.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Justin is your son. That’s why I came to see you. You needed to know what he was up to.’

  ‘You could have told me that in a phone call, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  Ellie smiled. ‘You were looking for comfort. From me. Not from her.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ellie, stop it. It was a kiss. Nothing more. Let’s forget about it. Okay?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so. And I’m late now, so I ought to go.’

  They stood up and walked together to the front door. ‘Kiss me goodbye at least,’ Ellie said, leaning towards him. She brought her lips together into a pout that was meant to be seductive. Matt kissed her as briefly as possible and stepped out of the flat, closing the door behind him, slightly queasy with a mixture of relief and regret.

  Once he was safely in the car, he looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. What had he done? Nothing. Not really. Just a kiss. A sudden closeness to Ellie after years and years of being with Phyl. The stirring in his flesh could be put down to a sudden rediscovery of someone who’d been imprinted upon him, duckling-fashion, years and years ago. It didn’t really mean anything. But those breasts, creamy under the silk folds of the kimono … He shook his head. Not going to think about that. He turned his mind deliberately to Justin in an effort to replace a vague sense of yearning and desire with the irritation he’d been feeling when he arrived at Portland Place.

  *

  ‘Dyke. Lezzer. That kind of thing.’ Nessa was sitting at her dressing table, smoothing moisturizer over her face. Mickey was lying on the chaise longue, already dressed and ready for the day’s work. ‘If I don’t make a secret of our relationship, that’s what he’ll say. Those are the terms he thinks of you in, Mickey, and this isn’t going to make things better. It’ll make them worse. So really, I’d rather not make any – well, I’d rather …’

  ‘You’d rather keep it a secret is what you mean. You like what we do in bed well enough but you’re not brave enough to confess it. Having your cake and eating it is a speciality with you, Nessa, you know that?’

  ‘I’m not having my cake and eating it, I’m simply protecting Tamsin and making sure that her father doesn’t start a whole lot of nonsense about custody. I know you think of Gareth as easily led and a bit thick, but he’s got strong views about this, funnily enough. He’d say I wasn’t a fit mother. Something. And I simply couldn’t bear to lose Tamsin.’

  ‘And a divorce judge would take his side? Who on earth could look at you and say you were an unfit mother?’

  ‘Honestly, Mickey, don’t be naive. A judge who shared Gareth’s prejudices, and I promise you there are plenty of those about. Gareth’d make out that we were constantly having orgies, that Tamsin would be in mortal danger of turning into a lesbian herself. Shared custody would go out of the window. I might even lose the house. I’m not prepared to do it, Mickey, and if you loved me, you’d understand.’

  ‘I do understand. I just don’t like it, that’s all. Bottom line is: you’re ashamed. You must be.’

  Nessa went on applying her make-up. She leaned into the mirror and widened her eyes, ready for mascara. They’d spent the night together in Nessa’s house because Tamsin was with her father, and everything would have been perfect were it not for this bloody row they’d managed to begin having almost before they’d got out of bed. She didn’t say anything and after a while, Mickey got up.

  ‘I’m going down to make some breakfast. I’ll see you down there. We’d better get a move on if we’re going into work today.’

  She didn’t quite slam the door behind her, but she almost did. Nessa felt the waves of her annoyance in the air, like an invisible vibration. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Mickey was right. Nessa could admit it to herself, though she wouldn’t ever say it to anyone else. There was a part of her (okay, not a very big part, but still) which did think there was something strange about the whole affair. A smidgen of shame was lodged somewhere deep in her brain and she was struggling to rid herself of it, because she loved Mickey so much and because the sex was amazing.

  Even the thought of it made her blush. How many gatherings of women had she been to where the subject of discussion had been so-and-so running off with another woman, my dear. No lesbian tendencies ever before as far as anyone knew and now look at her! Running off and leaving her husband and young children for another woman! Well! We’d never be able to do a thing like that – unthinkable. Unimaginable. We’ve never had the slightest desire to kiss a woman, much less get up to all the sorts of things they did get up to … What did they get up to? Did anyo
ne have any experience? And oddly enough, no one did, ever. Not a single woman of Nessa’s acquaintance had ever piped up with stories of her lesbian past, much less details of ‘what went on’. There were rumours about dildos and appliances and sexual aids but no one knew anything for sure. Or said they didn’t. Perhaps there were others like her in those groups: in love with a woman and not brave enough to say anything.

  I’ll be brave, she thought. I’m not embarrassed about Mickey. She imagined a scenario where everyone was gathered round Matt and Phyl’s table together, with her female lover there instead of Gareth. Phyl wouldn’t mind. She’d always been tolerant. Too tolerant, in Nessa’s opinion, never putting her foot down over anything. Being wishy-washily kind all over the place, which had nearly driven Nessa mad when she was a teenager. There was nothing to kick out against with Phyl and she’d always been able to make you feel like a swine for throwing even a tiny tantrum. I’m being kind and reasonable so why can’t you? was the message she was conveying and it had made the young Nessa grind her teeth and want to hit her. She’d be just the same now.

  Matt was a different matter. His attitude to gay people was reasonably modern and enlightened but it hadn’t been tested. It was one thing not to have prejudices when you were reading articles in a newspaper, or laughing at things on the TV, and quite another to welcome a lesbian couple into his house, particularly when one of them was his stepdaughter. No, he’d be all right. Whatever he felt, he’d not make a fuss, but underneath, she was sure, he’d be disapproving and if asked he’d mutter something about Tamsin: her welfare. Quite bad enough, he’d be thinking, to be the child of divorced parents without also being the daughter of someone gay.

  I could tell Ellie. She’d just laugh and want to know what she’d undoubtedly refer to as ‘the gory details’. In fact, Nessa thought, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she hadn’t been there, done that and got the T-shirt. Ahead of the curve in matters sexual, that was Ellie. The thought of confiding in her would have been comforting. It would have given Nessa someone with whom she could discuss Mickey, but she didn’t trust Ellie not to give away a secret. Discretion wasn’t her thing. No, far better to keep the whole thing under wraps. In fact, she told herself as she went downstairs to try and make it up with Mickey, I love the idea of knowing something, doing something, that no one else knows about. The truth was, she liked the secrecy. She got a kick out of people not realizing who she was: assuming she was one kind of person when in truth she was someone quite different. And it was years since she’d felt this overwhelming longing, this wanting to be with someone all the time, wanting to say her name to everyone, wanting wanting wanting. I love her. I’m in love with her, she thought. I’m in love with a woman. Nessa shook her head. It was true, and yet she hung back, didn’t want to tell anyone, still felt as though – as though this relationship was a kind of dizzyingly beautiful holiday from real life; not who she really was.

  8

  ‘Could I possibly have a word with Ciaran Donnelly?’

  The woman who’d opened the door to Lou looked as though she’d been artificially stretched: she was only a couple of inches taller than the average but so thin that she seemed to Lou, as she stood in the porch of the Donnelly house, to be looming and swaying over her. Lou had left Poppy’s pushchair at the nursery with Poppy, just this once, with special permission from Mrs Warren, who looked as though she were giving temporary shelter to a Chieftain tank. Lou had put a skirt on for the occasion and it felt strange after months of living in trousers. Her shoes, quite high-heeled for her, made her long for her trainers.

  It had taken her ages to screw up her courage sufficiently to walk up the drive and knock on the door, but she’d done it at last and was a bit disappointed not to see the man himself, but that was ridiculous. Of course a top Hollywood producer would have a staff: a secretary, a PA, or even a housekeeper. Why had she thought he’d be living like an ordinary person who opened his own door?

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Donnelly is rather busy this morning. May I help you?’ Help was what her mouth was offering, but her body language, the way she was standing in the hall, suggested she was ready to fight to the death anyone seeking to cross the threshold.

  ‘Harry Lang has sent me over. I work for Cinnamon Hill Productions and …’

  ‘Who’s that, Monique? What’s happened to coffee?’ A short, fat man who looked like Santa Claus out of uniform stuck his head round the door of one of the rooms opening off the hall. ‘Did I hear Harry Lang’s name mentioned?’

  ‘Yes, I mentioned him,’ Lou said, leaning to the right a little so that this man – it must be Ciaran Donnelly himself – could see her. She smiled at him, trying to appear nonchalant and as if she spent every day delivering screenplays by hand.

  Monique had the grace to step aside as Mr Donnelly said, ‘Come in, come in … Monique, coffee, please. D’you drink coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Lou stepped into the house. ‘But I don’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘You’re not, I swear. I’m bored beyond words. Nothing but phone calls asking for money. Don’t you just hate that?’

  He sounded American, though Lou could still detect the Irish accent in his voice. She said, ‘No one’s ever asked me for money and I wouldn’t have any to give them if they did.’

  Ciaran Donnelly laughed uproariously, much more than her remark deserved and went to sit behind a desk heaped with CDs, books, papers, newspapers, magazines. She couldn’t see him properly till he’d cleared a few of them away. He did this by picking up a handful of stuff and chucking it haphazardly on to a chair that was already quite full to begin with.

  ‘So, Harry Lang sent you. Why was that?’

  ‘There’s a screenplay he wants you to look at.’ Lou was beginning to feel hot with guilt. Ciaran Donnelly was being so friendly, so nice to her, and she was deceiving him. And deceiving Harry too.

  ‘He’s in the States, right?’

  ‘He emailed me …’ Lou started to say and then couldn’t bear it any longer. She stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Donnelly. I’ve done something awful. I’ve got to go …’ it’s … I’ll see myself out. Really. I didn’t mean to disturb you …’ To her complete amazement and horror, there were tears in her eyes and she wanted more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. She turned and began to cover what seemed like a mile of carpet that lay between her and the door.

  ‘Wait a minute, please. I don’t even know your name, but please – come back here and sit down for a moment. You seem … you’re upset. Just sit down and take a deep breath.’

  She couldn’t, she just couldn’t. Where would she find the courage to turn round and face him? As she was wondering whether to make a run for it, try for the front door, she found herself gripped quite firmly by the arm and led like an invalid to the leather chair in front of the desk and gently pushed into it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I must go. Really. You …’

  ‘Please stop apologizing, Miss … do you mind telling me what to call you?’

  ‘I’m Lou. Louise Barrington.’ Lou sniffed. She was trying very hard not to start howling with embarrassment. What in the world had she been thinking? How had she reckoned she could get away with this madness? Stupid. Stupid and reckless, and if Harry found out he’d never want to talk to her ever again, nor read one of her reports, much less get into any kind of romantic relationship. Oh, God, she thought, let me just escape from this whole thing and I’ll never, ever again do anything so ridiculous and mad.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Louise. Now,’ he beamed at her across the desk. ‘Please tell me why you’re so distressed. I’m curious. Really. What I have so far doesn’t make much sense. Harry Lang sent a screenplay over and you’re having some kind of conniption.’

  ‘Harry doesn’t know I’m here. I came off my own bat. I wanted to – well, I wanted you to read my screenplay and I thought this was a clever way of getting you to do that. It’s mad, stupid a
nd unprofessional and if Harry knew about it, he’d kill me. Please don’t tell him I came. Can you not tell him?’

  ‘I could not tell him and I’m intrigued, I must say. Why haven’t you shown this screenplay to Harry?’

  ‘I thought – I think he might not be able to tell me what he really thinks of it. Because he knows me. He might not want to hurt my feelings, so he wouldn’t be completely honest. I need a completely honest opinion.’

  ‘You say you work for Harry? What d’you do?’

  ‘It’s nothing very much. I read stuff that’s sent into Cinnamon Hill and write reports on what I think might be worth pursuing.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You read so much rubbish that you thought you’d have a go yourself? Is that it?’

  Lou shook her head. ‘No, that’s not why I wrote it – this screenplay, I mean.’ She took a deep breath. ‘What I mean is, yes, I’ve always wanted to write for the movies, but this – well, it’s a personal thing. An adaptation of a novel by my grandfather. The novel’s called Blind Moon.’

  ‘Your grandfather wrote a novel? Okay, Louise Barrington. This is what’s going to happen. I’m intrigued, I confess. I’ll read your screenplay, then I’ll get in touch with you and tell you what I think. We won’t, either of us, say a word to Harry. Deal?’

  ‘Really? You’d do that? I don’t know what to say. It’s … it’s so kind of you. I’m … I’m speechless. Sorry, that’s stupid of me, but I can’t …’

  Stop talking, Lou said to herself, before you start to sound like a drivelling idiot and he changes his mind. She smiled and handed him the file which she’d been clutching to her bosom. He took it and placed it on top of a tottering paper mountain. Lou glanced round the room. She could see at least a dozen files that looked exactly like hers. There must be others hidden under something which she couldn’t see. These probably also contained screenplays. For a split second she wondered whether this was going to be the end of everything. The other files probably contained scripts which were much better than hers; more commercial, more artistic, more everything. She didn’t have a chance, she was sure of it. But still, here was Ciaran Donnelly willing to read what she’d written.