The Dangers of Family Secrets: From the bestselling author of The Ex-Wife’s Survival Guide

by Debby Holt

  ‘I’m not judging her.’

  ‘It sounded like it to me. And meanwhile…’

  ‘All right.’ Anna bit her lip and stared up at the ceiling. She said stiffly, ‘I do regret going over to see Patrick. And I regret letting William down.’

  ‘I take it he’s still upset.’

  ‘I keep saying I’m sorry. And now he says he doesn’t want to be my friend. It’s so childish.’ She glared at her sister. ‘So that’s why I was a cow to Mum and I know that’s no excuse and I’m sorry. Can we talk about our parents now? I’ve tried to give you my theory. Why do you think Dad’s acted totally out of character?’

  Tess put her hands to her face. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ she said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was Sunday evening and Eliza was still in a state of shock. Yesterday morning she had picked up her copy of The Times and, as was her habit, had gone straight to the obituaries page.

  And there it was: WOODWARD Dennis, passed away peacefully on 26th August 2014 after a short illness, aged 87 years. Beloved husband of Vera (deceased) and father of George. A good friend to many, he will be sadly missed.

  She had cut it out and put it on her noticeboard in the kitchen. She sat looking at it now. It seemed absurd that Dennis Woodward had spent eighty-seven years on the planet and now that he was dead his life had been reduced to three lines. He had been a beloved husband to Vera, a father to George and a friend to many. And now he was dead.

  What would she have written? ‘Dennis Woodward, husband to Vera and father to George, was an exceptionally ugly man whose physical shortcomings were utterly irrelevant in the face of his infectious passion for art. He will be greatly missed by his many friends and most particularly by Eliza Sample whose life will not be the same without him.’

  That was true. It might be melodramatic but it was true. There were times in her life when a cocktail of events led her to view herself and her life in a new and radical manner. There was the day when, still a teenager, she realised that her mother’s intemperate rages were motivated by marital unhappiness rather than by Eliza’s failings. Years later, there was the night she went downstairs to find the husband she adored asleep on the sofa. Stephen was a complex, fascinating man who worked too hard and cared too much. She had often come downstairs to find him sprawled against the cushions, reeking of whisky, his mouth wide open and a thin line of spittle trailing down his chin. On this particular occasion, she stared at him with a strange, almost detached understanding that her passion and her sacrifices had been wasted on a weak alcoholic whose charisma and charm, still evident in public, had diminished and would continue to diminish at home.

  The notice of Dennis’s death had triggered another revelation. She was lonely. She saw old friends like June so rarely not because they were dull but because she was jealous, jealous of their husbands if they had them, and jealous of their children and their grandchildren.

  Dennis was the first true companion she had made in years. At a stage in her life when friends seemed to die with worrying regularity, a new one was a prize indeed. She had known he would have come to tea if he could. Every Thursday since, she had haunted the National Gallery, drifting through the rooms like a disembodied ghost, unable to settle in any of them, waiting for him to appear so he could tell her he’d lost her address or had been struck down with flu, hoping he would take her arm, ready to show her some new ancient glory.

  After each of their mornings together, she had gone home with a renewed sense of purpose to open her laptop and attempt to keep up with him. She had prepared with great care for her choice of the Lady Jane Grey picture. ‘Do you know,’ she had told him, ‘that this is one of the most viewed pictures in the gallery? Do you know that the floor in front of it has to be re-varnished regularly?’

  She had expected him to tell her that popular pictures weren’t necessarily great pictures. But he had surprised her again. He had looked at it carefully, told her it was historically inaccurate, for poor Jane had been executed outside rather than in a dungeon, and then he had looked at her and said, ‘It does move me. You were right to bring us here.’ She had felt as proud as if she’d won the Turner Prize. And now he was dead.

  She was glad at least that his illness had been short. She remembered what he had said about his sister. And he was right: it was selfish to mourn, but since he was dead he couldn’t tell her so and she would mourn him. She would keep his sad little obituary on her board until she ceased to miss him. She would go back to the gallery, if only because he would have been cross if she didn’t.

  He would, she thought, be unimpressed by her current decline into self-pity and introspection. He had been a man of joyous enthusiasm. She poured her nightly glass of red wine and stood to attention. ‘Dennis Woodward,’ she said, holding her glass in front of her, ‘I salute you.’ She felt a little foolish but that was stupid. There was, after all, no one here to see her.

  On Monday morning, Freya was cleaning the kitchen floor when the telephone rang. She supposed this was what it would be like for the next three days. The phone would ring and it would be the outside world or Anna or Tess and she had no wish to speak to any of them. Or it would be Felix. She felt a surge of relief as she heard Pam’s customary way of announcing herself. She could just about manage to speak to Pam.

  ‘Freya, I’m not interrupting your work, am I?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Freya tiptoed across the wet floor and went out onto the patio.

  ‘I’m at the office so I can’t talk for long. It’s about Percy. He had a funny turn on Saturday. I checked on him last night and he was fine but… If you have a moment today, could you call on him? He shouldn’t be living on his own but I suppose I’d feel the same. The idea of an institution terrifies him.’

  ‘Of course it does. I’ll go round in an hour or so.’

  ‘Thank you. You and Felix must come over to supper. I want to tell you all about Simon’s plans. He and Naomi want a March wedding. What are you doing on Saturday?’

  I don’t know, Pam. Felix has decided he wants to end our marriage and I’m not sure either of us would be great company at the moment…

  ‘I’m pretty sure we’re busy,’ Freya said. ‘I’ll ring you later in the week.’

  Perhaps if Pam had been at home she might have said something, though in fact she preferred to postpone the predictable sympathy for as long as possible. She could only hold herself together by refusing to think beyond Wednesday evening.

  She took round some homemade soup – leek and potato, Percy’s favourite – and rang the doorbell. She could hear little Serge barking furiously. She should have rung Percy first. But now he appeared and seemed as pleased to see her as Serge was.

  ‘Can I offer you tea?’ he asked. ‘Or would you like coffee?’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you.’ The coffee would be instant and the tea would taste like dishwater. Normally, Freya accepted either with good grace. Now she felt she was in no state to see anyone, least of all provide comfort and care.

  The kitchen was not as spotless as usual. The pine dresser had a patina of dust across its surface. There was a half-empty pack of sliced brown bread on the table and a small carton of milk without its lid.

  Freya took a chair by the table and bent down to stroke Serge. ‘Pam told me you’ve been unwell,’ she said.

  ‘I blacked out,’ Percy told her. ‘One moment I was watching the News and the next I felt Serge licking my face. I’ve promised Pam I’ll keep this by me.’ He held up the pendant he had round his neck.

  ‘Quite right,’ Freya said. ‘You have my number on it, don’t you?’

  ‘Pam’s number one and you’re number two. The thing is…’ Percy’s eyes drifted down to Serge who was now draped across Freya’s feet. ‘I’m worried about Serge – if something happens to me. Pam said she’d take him but she has to go to work every day and he hates being on his own. He’s always loved you and I wondered…’

  ‘Of course I’d take him. But
Percy, nothing is going to happen. You’re tough as old boots.’

  ‘I’m not scared of being dead,’ Percy said. ‘I feel I’m on borrowed time anyway to tell the truth. I watched Elaine die. One moment she was there and the next she wasn’t. Her body was there but Elaine had gone.’

  ‘Oh Percy!’ Freya reached for his hand.

  ‘I tried to feel her presence but no, it was just me… me and Serge. So I know what to expect and I’m not scared. But I worry about Serge. He’s not good on his own.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ Freya said. ‘I’m with Serge on that. I promise, you don’t have to worry about him.’

  ‘Thank you, Freya. You’ve eased my mind.’ He glanced at her hopefully. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a coffee?’

  ‘Just a quick one then.’ She glanced at the carton of milk. ‘I think I’ll have it black.’

  In the evening, her phone rang and a voice said, ‘Freya?’

  It was him! She couldn’t believe it. Her hands tightened round the handset. ‘Hello, Neil.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you,’ he said, ‘I want to apologise for my appalling behaviour the other night.’

  ‘It was my fault, too.’ She hesitated. ‘You might as well know – I’ve told your wife about it in a letter. My husband’s in Madrid this week on business. Just before he left on Thursday, he told me he wanted to leave me. So I’m afraid I was a bit of a loose cannon at your party.’

  ‘You were a very beautiful loose cannon.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘When does he come back from Madrid?’

  She stood by the window, gazing out at the dusky sky. ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Do you want to see him?’

  ‘What do you think? He hasn’t been in touch since he left. He knows I’m just sitting here waiting. It’s pretty humiliating really.’

  ‘Then don’t wait. Come and stay with me.’

  That made her laugh. ‘That’s very kind. I’ve spent all this morning composing a long and very contrite letter to your wife. I’m not sure I can face the idea of swapping small talk with her.’

  ‘You wouldn’t need to,’ Neil said. ‘I’ve moved out. I’m staying with Rory in Chelsea.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! Now I feel guilty.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. We should never have had the party. Things haven’t been right for a long time. So, there you are. Come to London.’

  ‘You are joking, aren’t you? I’ve known you for five minutes! Can you imagine what your children would say, what my children would say? And Felix would come home and…’

  ‘Exactly. He’d come home and find you gone which would serve him right.’

  ‘There is that,’ Freya conceded. ‘I suppose your son’s flat doesn’t run to a spare room?’

  ‘It does and I would be delighted to share it. The bed is very comfortable.’

  She couldn’t help smiling. ‘You are a very wicked man.’

  ‘You have only to ring and I’ll meet you off the train.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s out of the question but you’ve made me feel better.’

  ‘I could make you feel all sorts of things if only you’d let me.’

  ‘Neil! I’m ringing off now.’

  ‘Can I talk to you again soon?’

  She said, ‘This is silly! You know nothing about me.’

  ‘I’d like to rectify that. Ring me if you change your mind.’

  She wouldn’t, of course, but she did feel better. As Felix had often said, she was a sucker for flattery. She wondered what Neil would say if she took him up on his offer. She suspected he’d be appalled.

  Whenever she could, Freya set aside Tuesday mornings for Ivy. Today, Ivy was in an odd mood: fretful, easily distracted. There was no talk of Marilyn. She’d had some phone calls, she said, but she couldn’t remember why. At breakfast she’d eaten sausages and they’d disagreed with her. Freya talked brightly about favourite breakfasts: fresh fruit salad, she suggested, with homemade yoghurt and strong black coffee. And then Ivy said quite suddenly, ‘Where is Felix? He should be here!’

  Freya was surprised into silence and then her eyes began to smart and all she could do was to press Ivy’s hand and agree that, ‘Yes, he should be!’

  On the drive home, she marvelled at Ivy’s extraordinary lapse into her old perceptive sanity. But of course it was no such thing. From time to time Ivy’s brain flared into life like a brief, beautiful firework, offering a tormenting glimpse of what had been lost.

  Freya had planned to stop in Darrowbridge for eggs but Dulcie Makepeace stood on the pavement, chatting to a friend; she was in no mood to make conversation so she drove on. She hadn’t seen Dulcie since the balloon-debate fiasco. That had been a terrible evening and Felix hadn’t helped afterwards, shutting himself away with the television and going off to work the next morning without saying goodbye. He hadn’t been himself ever since. They used to go for an Indian meal fairly regularly. The last time had been a few days before the debate. And their sex life was virtually non-existent. The only times he’d shown any interest was when he’d had a few drinks.

  Freya turned into her drive and stopped the car. She sat, frowning at the windscreen. The memory was sharp as ice. She was on the platform, accepting with faked confidence the half-hearted applause for her Bovary speech. Her eyes scanned the audience and there was Felix – Felix who regularly decried the use of mobiles in inappropriate occasions – staring down at his screen while his wife was dying onstage.

  Everything fell into place. How had she been so blind to all the signs? There was no mystery. Felix was a walking cliché. He had met someone else.

  In the kitchen, the answerphone flashed and she hit the button. ‘Freya, it’s Felix. I’m sorry I’ve missed you. I should be home about eight tomorrow evening. I’ve been in touch with Harry from work and he says I can stay with him until I find a place of my own. Anyway, we’ll talk plans tomorrow.’

  She played the message over and over and each time her anger increased. He had had no intention of talking to her. He knew she visited Ivy on Tuesday mornings. And now he had told Harry from work that he’d left her. There was no apology, no explanation, just a brief, curt message. He couldn’t wait to get shot of her. Well that was fine. If he expected her to wait at home in order to hear his ‘plans’ for their future, if he really expected that, he didn’t know Freya.

  In the evening, she honed the letter she had spent the entire afternoon composing. Finally, she read it through for the last time.

  ‘Felix, I have gone to stay with a friend in London. There is no need for you to move out since I have no wish to stay in this house on my own. Once I’ve worked out what I wish to do, I’ll let you know. For the time being, I think it’s best if we don’t communicate. I doubt you would tell me the truth anyway. Freya.’

  The letter had originally run to four pages and into it Freya had poured all her bitterness and rage. But actually, brevity was far more effective and dignified. He didn’t want her. A four-line farewell was all he deserved.

  On the train the next day she sat in the Quiet Carriage, only too happy to switch off her phone. She had the sense that her life was spiralling out of control and she had neither the will nor the energy to do anything about it. Felix had pushed her off her planet and now she floated in space with no idea of her destination. She was Anna Karenina setting off to meet Vronsky though Anna Karenina’s husband loved her and Freya’s husband didn’t.

  She remembered a silly argument she’d had with her own Anna, who must have been sixteen because it was then that she started going on about her legal right to have sex when she wanted. On this particular night, she hadn’t come home till the early hours of the morning and Freya waited up for her. When Anna eventually returned, very much the worse for wear, she did what she always did in these circumstances and plunged into a pre-emptive attack. ‘Why did you call us after women who died?’ she demanded. ‘It’s like you wanted us to fail or something…’ And
she had ranted on and on, her pronouncements growing ever more incoherent until Freya lost her patience and told her to go to bed.

  The girls would be horrified by her flight to London. She would have to tell them soon. She’d had a number of missed calls from them in the last few days. And what would she do if Neil was not there to greet her? Why had she ever thought this was a good idea? A man who could flirt with such enthusiasm while his marriage fell apart could hardly be expected to be a safe port in a storm. He’d sounded – understandably – taken aback when she rang him. What would she do if he didn’t turn up?

  There were any number of friends on whom she could call. There was no one to whom she could face telling the truth. The trouble with being part of a couple for such a long time was that one was totally unprepared for life as a soloist. Most of her friends were Felix’s friends too. What would they do with a Felix-less Freya? Their Freya was a successful woman with a fascinating career, a loving husband and two clever daughters. The truth was that Freya’s career provided her with just enough income to buy nice dresses and good haircuts. The truth was that her husband didn’t love her and her daughters never talked to her about anything remotely personal. The truth was that Freya was an abject failure. She couldn’t even indulge her misery by crying since a young woman with plaits sat opposite her. The woman was reading Anna Karenina and was directly responsible for the thoughts in Freya’s head. Freya hoped she’d get off soon. She did, at the next station, smiling at Freya as she did so, which made Freya feel bad.

  By the time she got off the train she had formulated a plan. If Neil wasn’t there – and she was now pretty sure he wouldn’t be – she would find a B&B for the night and send a message to Felix. Why should she move out of her own home? She’d done nothing wrong. He could go and live with his new woman in some horrid flat in Bristol. She would go home tomorrow and insist that he sit down and tell her the truth.

  A kind man helped her get her suitcase out of the train. She wheeled it along the platform and through the ticket barrier. She planted herself near the stationery kiosk and scanned the people on the concourse. She tried to school her expression into one of calm and ease and slight amusement.