Love Is a Secret

by Sophie King

  ‘We’ll get you some of your medicine. OK?’

  Tabitha grimaced. The poor kid hated the medicine their GP had prescribed for her loose tummies and Susan didn’t blame her. It smelt horrible. It would also help if she could get the flipping top off. Child-proof, it said on the bottle. More like parent-proof.

  Susan tussled with the plastic lid and cursed softly as it came away, spilling the contents over her dressing-gown, the carpet and Tabitha’s clean pyjamas. It was sticky too. The kind of stickiness that didn’t always come out in the wash. She could have cried but Tabitha’s wary eyes stopped her. It was at times like this that she needed someone else around: someone to help her put spilt medicine into perspective.

  ‘See?’ she said, forcing herself to sound bright. ‘I’ve made a mess too!’

  Tabitha’s face relaxed.

  ‘Down it goes,’ said Susan, popping the spoon into her daughter’s mouth. ‘Good girl. Now I’ll just mop up this mess and we’ll have breakfast. OK?’

  Swiftly, she washed her hands, which were always red and raw from being in water so much. Her ring finger remained misshapen from the pressure of her wedding band, even though she hadn’t worn it for years. The bareness still startled her. In the distance, she could hear a tractor purring. In a minute, she’d turn on breakfast television, and maybe later she’d have a chance to explore the What Mums Know site.

  ‘Ready for breakfast, love?’ she said cheerfully.

  Tabitha nodded.

  Susan repressed the sigh that was fighting its way up her chest. Think of something nice. Thick wholemeal toast, oozing with butter and marmalade. Food. Meals. As Joy said, few pleasures came three times a day so they might as well make the most of it.

  3

  MARK

  06.40

  This little bear can make your dreams come true by Christmas!

  Delete, damn you. Delete!

  Mark’s finger stabbed the button on his laptop, but nothing happened. The bloody thing had frozen and he knew why. Florrie had been downloading music from one of those illegal sites again. Not only was it illegal but it also – according to the geek at the computer shop – introduced viruses that gradually crippled the machine: it got slower and slower until it ground to a halt.

  That was probably why he was getting rubbish like this. Someone really should do something about the amount of spam that got through, despite so-called filters. The only reason he’d got up at this unearthly hour was to check his inbox in case someone had sent him something urgent for work, not to waste time on rubbish – but you had to open these things to make sure they weren’t important. It only took a few seconds but they added up.

  Turn the machine off, then on again. Pathetically simple but it often worked. Sure enough, it was OK now.

  Mark stared at the screen, rubbing his eyes and making a mental note to get them tested. What was What Mums Know anyway? Probably some self-help group that had bought his address from one of the countless mailing lists he was on. That was one of the problems with being a self-employed public-relations consultant. You gave out your email address to all and sundry and ended up in address books across the world.

  Do not delete this email or your wish won’t come true.

  Mark snorted. He’d always hated Paris – at least since he and Hilary had had their honeymoon there.

  He drained his coffee mug and rubbed the stubble on his chin. You wouldn’t get a man writing stuff like that. Then again, you wouldn’t get a man giving you suspicious looks at the kids’ holiday club, which started – shit! – in precisely an hour and a half.

  He had to log off soon – there was so much to do. Get the kids up. Make their packed lunches, providing there was bread in the freezer. Stop off on the way to holiday club to fill up with petrol.

  His own Inbox of Life was so full he’d have given anything to delete the lot. Apart from the kids, of course.

  What Mums Know is a new website for mums everywhere! Some of us work and some of us are full-time mums. We want to share chat, tips and experiences. If you’d like to join us, please register below.

  Mark nibbled his thumb, as he always did when he felt uncertain. He had so much to do but the email was difficult to ignore. Take the ‘full-time mums’ bit. Not ‘dads’. Not even ‘parents’.

  Typical! As though only a woman could do the job! Which was exactly what the parents at the kids’ old school in London had probably thought when they’d cold-shouldered him every morning.

  We want to share chat, tips and experiences.

  He hesitated. It would be nice to do that with a faceless group of mums who wouldn’t make judgements or, as had happened once in the school car park, an unexpected pass and, on another occasion, a comment from a father that might or might not have been racist, depending on the interpretation. He’d like to know how to deal with Florrie’s moods, and whether it was relatively normal for an eleven-year-old to push other kids about or whether Freddy really did need help, as that irate mother had complained to the holiday club last week . . . God, he could write a book about what he needed to know.

  There was no one he could ask. Daphne, Hilary’s mother, did her best but she was of a different generation. And now he was no longer in an office environment, he had no one to take out for a drink and pump for parental advice. Besides, he didn’t know any other man who had full-time care of the kids.

  If you’d like to join us, please register below.

  He’d have to be a woman or it wouldn’t work. Dishonest? Yes. But useful. And refreshingly anonymous.

  Username? Mimi. A sort of derivative of his own, which meant it wasn’t really cheating. Children’s details? He’d be truthful about that or the advice wouldn’t be pertinent. Florrie, 12. Freddy, 11. Hobbies? No time. Work? Home-based public-relations consultant with quirky sense of humour.

  Send.

  Right. A quick flick through his other emails. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Check out History. Nothing. That meant the kids had deleted the websites they were on last night, which also meant they probably weren’t suitable. Mark did his best to check what they were on, usually by walking in unexpectedly, but otherwise he had to hope the NannyOnline system was up to Mary Poppins’s standards.

  Spyware Search and Destroy. Do you want to update?

  Definitely. Awful how saddos with nothing better to do could penetrate your messages unless you had the right protection. A bit like sex. Not that he’d had any, recently.

  Delete email wish from What Mums Know, even if it did bring bad luck, and wake up kids.

  ‘Morning, Florrie, time to get up.’

  There was a whiff of cheap scent as a half-dressed Florrie, in a little pale blue bra and pants set she’d bought last week, glowered at him. ‘Dad, I’ve told you before. Knock first!’

  She was right. Embarrassed, he turned his head away. ‘Sorry but we’re late.’

  When had she started to get breasts? How did she know the bra fitted properly? He’d have to ask Daphne. She’d love that. ‘Freddy, are you up?’ No danger of bras here. Just legs and stale air. ‘For Chrissake, Freddy, don’t kick! It hurts. And don’t think you can hide under the duvet like that. It’s time to get up.’

  ‘Fuck off, Dad.’

  His hand tightened on the doorknob. ‘Don’t talk to me like that!’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  In his day, ‘language’ had meant French. Nowadays kids seemed fluent in Obscenity. Angrily, Mark yanked open the striped blue and yellow curtains, which Hilary had put up in another life, letting in the morning sunlight. ‘Right. You’re banned from the computer tonight and for the rest of the week.’

  ‘So?’ Freddy’s spiky hedgehog hair, bearing the remnants of yesterday’s gel, made him seem even more defiant.

  Ignore him. It’s a stage, gut instinct told him, for what it was worth. ‘Give him a good smack,’ was Daphne’s view. Maybe What Mums Know could suggest a compromise.

  Mark flung his son’s jeans on to the bed. They were fraye
d and grubby at the hems, reminding him that he should have washed them ages ago. His own weren’t much better, but working from home meant he didn’t have to worry too much about that. ‘I wish you’d behave for once. It would make my life so much easier. No wonder—’ He stopped, appalled at what he’d been about to say in anger.

  ‘No wonder what?’ said Freddy, from under the duvet.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No wonder we’re late for holiday club,’ said Mark.

  ‘Don’t want to go.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but you have to. I’ve got to work. Now come on. And please, please, don’t lose your temper with the other kids today or we’ll both be in trouble again.’

  Freddy scowled.

  When had his little boy started to do that? At what age did children’s unlined faces develop frown lines?

  ‘Dad!’

  Florrie was calling him from the kitchen. A smell of burnt toast floated up to him.

  ‘My legs are upstairs. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  If he could have divided himself into two, he could have got things done so much faster. It used to annoy him when Hilary said she only had one pair of hands, but now he knew what she’d meant.

  ‘Freddy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you could make one wish, what would it be?’

  ‘What are you on, Dad?’

  ‘I’m serious, Freddy.’

  Something flickered in Freddy’s blue-green eyes and, for a second, Mark saw the little boy he had been.

  ‘I’d wish Mum was here.’

  Of course. Mark wrapped his arms round his son. ‘She will be soon.’

  ‘Get off, Dad.’ Freddy lashed out with his fists, just missing him.

  ‘And get out of my room.’

  Hurt, Mark moved away. ‘Not till you turn that music down. What the hell is that rubbish?’

  Freddy’s eyes flashed. ‘My band, actually – Space Cadets.’

  Mark gulped. Before they’d had to move here, Freddy had formed a band with his London friends. He’d been happy then, had lived with his guitar strapped to his hip. They had made a demo, and Mark was going to help them send it to some music companies. (It might not get anywhere but the boys were so keen, it seemed wrong to dampen their enthusiasm.) Now he’d destroyed what had been possibly the last vestige of his son’s confidence.

  ‘It’s only that it’s a bit loud,’ said Mark, hastily, in an attempt to repair the damage.

  Freddy turned away from him, face to the wall. ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘Well, the lyrics are quite rude, aren’t they?’

  ‘We'll put a Parents Advisory warning on it,’ mumbled Freddy.

  ‘Well, how about guitar lessons again, instead of the trumpet?’

  With any luck, it might be less invasive on the eardrums.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I can’t be arsed. Get out, Dad. Please.’

  Suddenly there was a sound like a wardrobe crashing to the floor. Where did they get ring tones like that and how much had it cost? ‘Your phone,’ said Mark, wearily. ‘I’ve told you before not to have it on at night next to you.’

  He picked it up and Freddy snatched it. ‘Give it here.’

  ‘OK, OK! I wasn’t going to read your text messages. Now, change, will you?’

  Permanently, he added silently. Not just out of your pyjamas but with a lobotomy on top. ‘Then come down for breakfast.’

  Freddy put his head under the pillow. ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat or you won’t get through the day.’

  ‘How are you going to make me? Feed me like a baby or some spastic?’ His voice was muffled.

  ‘You know, Freddy, today’s politically correct term is “special needs”. You and I are very lucky to have the use of all our limbs, and one day you might just realise it. And, in answer to your question, yes, maybe I will feed you, if that’s what it takes to get breakfast down you.’

  Mark knew he was descending to his son’s level but he had a cousin, now in a home, who had never been able to walk or speak and his son’s comments had disturbed him. He’d always tried to explain social compassion for others but it looked like he’d failed.

  Again.

  ‘Dad. Dad!’

  Florrie was yelling up the stairs now. Always yelling. Never coming to find him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are flames coming out of the toaster. Quick!’

  4

  LISA

  08.40

  This little bear can make your dreams come true by Christmas!

  ‘So sweet! Do you hear that, Rose? One wish! But we need more than that, don’t we, to make you the prettiest girl in the world? Especially if we’re going to Paris!’

  Lisa turned her belly stud three times to the right for luck and drew her knees up to her chest, clasping them with her arms because it was more comfortable that way. Eyes closed. Ready.

  ‘I wish . . . that you’ll have strawberry-blonde hair, like, that I can tint with pink streaks when you’re older so everyone looks at us and says, “I can see you’re mother and daughter!” I wish that you’ll sleep well at night because we both need our beauty sleep. I wish that you’ll be clever as well as beautiful because I want you to do better at school than me. I wish you’ll always love me. I wish you’ll be happy. And I wish you’ll be healthy . . .’

  She shivered at the thought of her baby being damaged like those poor kids at the centre. Touch wood. Quick. Maybe she shouldn’t sit so near the screen. She ought to get one of those computer guards that were meant to deflect the rays but they cost enough.

  Just send him to six friends and then make a wish.

  Six? Blimey, that was a lot. Real friends stayed with you when something bad happened. Real friends didn’t betray you.

  She could send it to Mum, but she probably wouldn’t reply. Lisa stroked her stomach lovingly. ‘She won’t be much of a nan, I’m afraid, love.’

  There was Dad, but he might try to get some money out of her. True, he didn’t know where she lived but it might be possible to track down someone’s real address from their email.

  Her heart quickened. She really mustn’t worry herself – it might send bad vibes to the baby. Nasty thoughts could do that. It said so on What Mums Know.

  It also said you should avoid germs if you were expecting.

  She was a bit worried about this keyboard, even though she’d cleaned it carefully. Wonder who’d had it before? She’d had a real stroke of luck, finding it on the tip like that. It had taken her three trips to get it all home and each time she’d been convinced that someone would nick the rest before she’d got back.

  But they hadn’t. Even better, it had all fitted together. Lisa hadn’t thought she’d be able to do it but it hadn’t been that difficult in the end. A bit like an electronic jigsaw, really. The hardest part was getting online but the man at the other end of the helpline had been really nice when she’d told him she was pregnant. His own wife had just given birth so he’d been ever so patient.

  Lisa rubbed her hands with a baby wipe from the tub she kept by the computer. Nice smell. The kind that made you want to sniff it again. Summery. Babies’ bottoms. Soft, brand-new skin, crying out to be kissed.

  There had to be someone she could send the bear to.

  Impatiently, she scrolled down her address book. The billing department for her internet provider. That could be one. And eBay, although she’d had to cut back after the last letter from her credit card company. Maybe even Donald Duck – couldn’t be his real name – who kept sending attachments that her virus system promptly quarantined.

  Definitely not the doctor. She wasn’t going back there again.

  Send.

  Now all she had to do was wait for her wish to come true. Superstitious, her mum used to call her. But she had reason to be, didn’t she?

  Lisa continued to scroll down the page. She�
��d discovered What Mums Know through a magazine article that someone had pinned on the noticeboard at work. Some websites were boring or downright silly but this one had some good stuff on it. Like this:

  WHAT MUMS KNOW - THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

  Misfortunes are opportunities wrapped in parcels.

  Made her feel a whole lot better, that did. Lisa stroked her stomach tenderly. Sometimes she felt the baby – it had to be a girl – was trying to tell her something. ‘OK, Rose. Why not? We’ll log on. See what everyone else is doing, like.’

  Enter username. Expectent Mum. She was pleased with herself for having thought of that. It summed it up nicely. And the great thing about usernames was that it was all totally anonymous so you could say exactly what you wanted.

  Was there a message after yesterday’s chat about epidurals? Yes! Earth Mother had replied!

  From Earth Mother to Expectent Mum: If you don’t want an epidural, put it in writing and give it to your consultant on your next antenatal visit. If they still give you one, you might be able to sue them.

  Well, she never knew that! Earth Mother was so nice. Always asking if she was eating the right food – no one else had told her about soft cheese and pâté.

  Lisa leaned back on her chair and stretched to get rid of the pins and needles in her toes. Sometimes you could sit for so long at the computer that you forgot how to move. But it was worth it. It was like having a whole load of instant friends who were always there for you. It would be even better when she had her baby. Then she would always have someone to love her.

  Lisa felt a warm glow run through her. ‘You know what?’ She addressed her stomach. ‘I feel lucky today, Rose. Just like my horoscope said. And something tells me that we might just win that prize draw to Paris . . .’