Secrets Between Us

by Valerie Keogh

  He could check through all the emails to see what he’d missed, he could even ask Maisie but he didn’t do either. Instead, he sat staring into space until it was time to leave.

  He started preparing for his appointment with Professor Grosschalk that evening. They’d got into the habit of having dinner in front of the television in the sitting room, leaving the living room to Mary. Tonight, when Ellie brought dinner in, he reached for the remote and switched off the television. He caught her surprised glance and smiled to himself.

  ‘We never get a chance to talk any more,’ he said. ‘I thought we could chat over dinner. The way we used to.’

  ‘Just the two of us,’ she smiled, handing him his plate.

  ‘Exactly.’

  He waited until she sat before asking, ‘What do you think of the election campaign so far?’

  To his surprise, she shook her head. ‘Remember,’ she said firmly, ‘we said we’d never discuss politics over dinner again after you got so animated you broke that lovely china vase a friend gave me.’

  He laughed. ‘Gosh, I’d forgotten about that,’ he said. ‘It was one you particularly liked too.’

  ‘You bought me another,’ she said with a smile, reaching for her wine glass, ‘but you promised, no more politics at dinner.’

  He lifted his fork and waved surrender. ‘No more politics,’ he agreed. Remembering the vase reminded him of the friend. ‘Are you still in contact with her…Miranda, was it?’

  ‘Amanda,’ she corrected him. ‘I haven’t seen her for a long time. She moved to Cardiff when she got married.’

  ‘Perhaps you should contact her, go for a visit. You were very close.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said without much enthusiasm.

  They chatted until the conversation flagged. With a sigh, Will reached for the remote and switched the television on. From the corner of his eye, he could see her relax. Nothing wrong with that, he was doing the same himself.

  By the day of his appointment with Professor Grosschalk, he had nothing written on the A4 pad he’d put aside for his notes. There was nothing definite to say. She hadn’t forgotten anything recently or said anything inappropriate. She was quiet, less assertive than she used to be and there was a certain indefinable something about her that was missing.

  ‘How are you feeling these days,’ he asked her two days before he was due to go for the appointment. ‘It’s a couple of months since the crash, do you think you’re back to yourself?’

  She looked at him, surprised but slightly wary. ‘Don’t I appear back to myself?’

  He heard the slightly sarcastic note in her words and knew he needed to tread warily. ‘You seem a little quiet at times,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Maybe you need a vitamin or something?’

  ‘Quiet?’ She looked at him for a long time.

  Long enough for colour to rush to his face. ‘Just a little,’ he tempered.

  She picked Bill up and jiggled him on her hip before picking up the bottle she’d heated for him and settling into the sofa. ‘Quiet,’ she said again, slipping the teat into the child’s mouth. When he was sucking away happily, she looked back at him. ‘You don’t think I have reason to be quiet?’ she asked.

  The colour still high on his cheeks, he nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course you do,’ he said and, after a few minutes, left the room.

  If he’d given any consideration to bringing her along to the appointment with the professor he certainly wasn’t going to do so now. If she was changed since the accident, she either didn’t want to face it, or was in denial. He’d go on his own, see what the man had to say.

  He went by train again, settling into his seat and trying to relax as he watched first London and then rolling fields pass by. The train, chugging gently, lulled him to sleep before they were halfway. He woke when it pulled into Brighton, brushing off the initial disorientation from waking in a strange place and stepping off the train onto a crowded platform.

  A taxi took him to the private hospital where Professor Grosschalk had his consulting rooms. He arrived twenty minutes early, checked in with his secretary, and sat drinking excellent coffee while the minutes ticked by. He checked his watch when it reached the appointed time and the secretary made no move to call him. Waiting five minutes for politeness, he approached her. ‘My appointment was for 2 p.m.,’ he said, nodding to the clock behind her head.

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Armstrong,’ she said, ‘unfortunately, he is often delayed. You’re his first appointment, as soon as he arrives, I’ll direct you in.’

  And with that he had to be satisfied.

  It was two thirty before the professor arrived. He came in without the appearance of rushing, taking his time to greet his secretary and listen to the messages she had for him. Will, he ignored, walking past the waiting area and opening his office door.

  It was another five minutes before he heard the words he’d been waiting thirty-five minutes for. ‘Mr Armstrong, you can go in now.’

  Professor Grosschalk sat behind his desk, a pair of narrow glasses perched on his nose. He looked over them at Will. ‘Mr Armstrong,’ he said pleasantly, ‘please take a seat. My apologies for keeping you waiting. Now,’ he said, sitting back, forearms resting on the arms of his chair, the slim manicured hands that Will remembered noticing in the hospital, dangling. He wondered how hard he had to work at appearing so relaxed.

  Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to say. He’d hoped to have facts; what he had were vague suspicions and the opinion of a woman who’d only known his wife a few weeks.

  ‘You looked after my wife when she was in hospital after her crash,’ he said slowly, ‘we had a few words about her at the time.’

  Grosschalk nodded but said nothing.

  Will wanted to take out a handkerchief and wipe his brow but was afraid of what it might show so he ignored the beads of sweat he could feel ping on his forehead. ‘You said, at the time, that it was impossible to say if she’d sustained any long-term damage from her concussion.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ The professor moved to pick up a file. ‘She recovered very quickly, I gather,’ he said. ‘I sent her notes to your GP but no further information was requested from me.’

  Will nodded. ‘She has been fine,’ he admitted. ‘It’s just that…’ He stopped, realising suddenly that he couldn’t tell this man everything. He was aware of the physical damage Ellie had sustained, and would guess at some of the mental damage that would have affected anyone involved in an accident. But he couldn’t tell him about the baby, about what he’d put her through beforehand.

  ‘It’s just that…? The professor encouraged him, his eyes flicking conspicuously to his watch.

  ‘She’s different,’ he went on, ‘quieter, more docile.’

  The professor opened the file and took out a report. ‘Really,’ he said, putting it down, ‘her concussion was relatively minor. She was breathing on her own. Her observations were stable the whole time. An EEG was done, it was normal. Before we discharged her from ICU she had a brain scan, and it showed no damage.’

  Will hadn’t known about the EEG or brain scan; the doctor who’d come to see them had never mentioned them.

  The professor closed the file. ‘Your wife had a bad car crash, Mr Armstrong. But her physical injuries weren’t serious. However,’ he added with a sympathetic glance, ‘sometimes the mental damage takes a lot longer to heal. You’ve heard, I take it, of post-traumatic stress?’

  Of course, Will had. His face cleared. ‘You think it could be that?’

  Grosschalk shrugged. ‘It’s more common than people like to think. And, of course, there is the issue that she was driving the car in which her sister died. Her twin sister, wasn’t it? That has to have had an impact.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a card. ‘This is the number of the British Psychological Society,’ he said, handing it to him. ‘They will be able to direct you to someone who is an expert in PTSD.’ He waited a second and then stood, holding one of his slim hands
out to Will. ‘I hope it all works out for you, Mr Armstrong.’

  Armed with the card, Will took the obvious dismissal lightly. He felt better than he’d felt in weeks.

  It wasn’t until he was on the train home that reality hit him. Could Ellie go to a psychologist and not bring up all the lies, the secrets? And if she had to hold back on them, what would be the point in going? He stared at his reflection in the train window. He’d speak to her, at least give her the choice.

  He waited until after dinner to bring it up, reaching for the remote to switch off the television, ignoring her look of irritation.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said, looking across at her. ‘I was a little worried about you so I went to see that neuro-consultant who looked after you in Brighton. Professor Grosschalk, remember him?’

  When she didn’t nod, just kept staring at him, he went on, ‘I was concerned you were still suffering from effects of the crash. He doesn’t think there’s any physical problem but he did suggest you might be suffering from post-traumatic stress.’

  He waited for a reaction, any reaction.

  Her voice, when she did finally speak, was cold, ‘You went to see him about me? Without asking me?’

  ‘I was worried about you,’ he said.

  ‘A couple of days ago, you accused me of being quiet. Now I have this…this whatever it is.’

  ‘Post-traumatic stress,’ he said, keeping his voice level. ‘It’s very common.’ He hesitated before continuing. ‘Professor Grosschalk just suggested you might be suffering from it.’

  When she said nothing, he ran a hand through his hair in frustration and moved to sit beside her, pushing her legs out of the way. ‘I thought I was doing the best for you, Ellie,’ he said. ‘You have to admit, you haven’t been the same since the accident. You’re giving up the job you loved without a blink. You’ve not been out with your friends, in fact you rarely leave the house.’

  He reached for her hand but she pulled away, her face set and hard. ‘I read up about it when I got home,’ he went on, trying to get through to her. ‘One of the ways PTSD can manifest itself is in the person withdrawing and becoming isolated, giving up things they used to enjoy. It’s called emotional numbing, Ellie. You don’t want to think about the crash so you’re dealing with it by trying not to feel anything about anybody. Even me,’ he added.

  She blinked. ‘What do you mean, even you?’

  He shook his head. ‘You have to admit, Ellie, our sex life has taken a bit of a nosedive. It used to be fun and passionate, but nowadays…’ He stopped abruptly as she turned away from him. He knew he’d hurt her but he needed her to face reality. ‘You need to get help,’ he said. ‘Grosschalk gave me a number for the Psychology society but you can go to your GP first. There’s medication that helps as well, antidepressants.’ He waited for her to say something. When she did, it wasn’t what he expected her to say.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ she said, turning back to look at him, her upper lip pulled up in a sneer. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. You, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about. Since you fucked Tia, you’ve been sucking antacids like they’re smarties. And just how many days have you taken off work, using me as an excuse but really because you couldn’t get out of bed, eh?

  She got to her feet and stood, arms crossed, looking down on him. ‘I’m not the one who is constantly stressed and whose clothes are hanging off them because they’ve lost so much weight. Just how much weight have you lost, Will? A stone, two? It isn’t me who needs help, it’s you.’

  He stood shakily and faced her, his mouth opening and closing as he desperately sought words to defend himself.

  But she wasn’t finished. ‘You screwed my sister and you can’t get over it, can you?’ She jabbed her finger at him, stopping before she came in contact. ‘You talk about emotional numbing, Will, just when was the last time you picked up your son?’

  He felt his knees grow weak and collapsed heavily back onto the sofa and looked up at her stunned, feeling a shiver running down his spine. My God, was she right? When was the last time he’d picked Bill up? Blinking rapidly, he realised he couldn’t remember.

  He ran a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. It would explain the strange looks he’d been getting from his colleagues at work and the numerous times people had asked if he were okay.

  She was right about it all. He had lost over a stone in weight and he’d been aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he wasn’t staying home for her benefit. He faced the truth now. Sleepless nights had left him so tired he didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. And, when he did, when he dragged himself into work, he couldn’t focus. No wonder he was left out of meetings. And hadn’t his workload become a lot lighter just recently?

  He cupped his face in his hands and rubbed it before looking at her.

  It all made sense now. There was nothing wrong with her. He was just looking for someone to blame, for a way out. Because guilt was eating him up, the awful, gut-rotting secret that he had slept with his sister-in-law and was glad, yes, he could admit it, he was glad she was dead because now, it would never come out.

  All his suspicions about Ellie were a smoke screen to hide what he really believed: he was to blame for Tia’s death.

  ‘Oh God, Ellie,’ he said, his voice thick, ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.’

  53

  Watching him for a moment, she sat beside him and held her arms out, an invitation in her eyes. His face cleared, just a little, and he moved closer and buried his head in her chest.

  She held him for a long time, until his sobbing stopped and she felt him relax, then she lifted his head and looked at him, her brown eyes serious. ‘I love you with all my heart,’ she said, ‘we’ll get through this. Tomorrow, I’ll make an appointment for you to see the GP. You need to get some help, Will.’

  Waiting until he nodded in agreement, she went on, ‘You’ll get better and then it will be back to the way it used to be.’

  A few minutes later, she sat back. ‘I think I’ll head to bed,’ she said, ‘I’m shattered.’

  ‘I’m going to stay up a while.’ He smiled up at her, his eyes full of gratitude, and then he said, ‘I love you, Ellie.’

  Blowing him a kiss from the doorway, she closed the door. She should go and say goodnight to Mary and Bill, but she’d had enough for one day. She hadn’t lied, she was absolutely shattered.

  Still, there’d be no more talk of her being quiet or of visits to psychologists or doctors. Not for her anyway. She smothered a laugh, holding her hand quickly over her mouth, and then headed upstairs.

  He wouldn’t come upstairs for a while, she guessed, it was safe to go into Tia’s room.

  She’d not visited as much recently but for the first few weeks after the crash she’d spent some time there every day. It helped keep her life in order.

  It was tidy, she’d kept it that way. ‘Like a shrine,’ Mary had said the only time she’d gone in. She’d asked her to leave it alone and, as far as she knew, the woman had done so. She’d be gone in a few days, it would be better without her. Safer.

  Will never visited. He’d thought it was maudlin to keep her room as it was, suggested they should clear it out, but she’d dropped a hint in Mary’s ear that it was important to her and that seemed to have worked. There’d been no more talk of it.

  Sitting on the bed, she looked around. It was a pretty room, decorated nicely for the poor simple woman from St Germaine’s. She should have been happy here, shouldn’t have wanted anything else. Certainly, shouldn’t have wanted Will. But she had, from the first day she’d met him when he’d mixed them up and thought she was Ellie.

  That was when the idea first came to her. That she could live as Ellie, be Ellie.

  With a smile, she took a folder from the shelf and opened it. All the letters, neat and tidy in their own poly-pocket, every letter from the very first. There was a whole shelf of them. Twelve folders.

&n
bsp; She turned page after page, all the intimate details of her sister’s life, all the secrets, things she guessed even Will didn’t know. She supposed Ellie believed she had burnt them, she’d never asked. Her lip curled. How little insight she had to ask her to do such a thing! Did she really think her simple sister had access to matches?

  She had tried to destroy them, however, every week going to the office and asking permission to use the shredder, every week chickening out. Did she know, even then, that they’d be useful some day?

  Closing the folder, she put it back on the shelf with the others. She knew she wasn’t clever, but she had an excellent memory for stories and knew the ones in these letters like the back of her hand. When she’d woken in the hospital after the crash, she’d seen him there beside her and her mind had raced through them all. It’s a bit different to that hospital in Italy. It was a perfect reference, convincing him, if he’d ever had a doubt, that it was his wife lying there and not her twin.

  He would never know. And she’d make him happy. She went a little wrong for a time but his criticism that she wasn’t making an effort had been enough to make her understand she wasn’t playing it quite right. But now, she was doing better. Soon, Mary would be gone and it would be just the three of them.

  She bit her lip. She still wasn’t sure about Bill. The life in the letters, the one Ellie and Will had lived, that was the one she’d wanted. But he seemed to really love the child so maybe it would be okay.

  Maybe she’d learn to play happy families.

  First, though, she’d help Will to get over this guilt trip he was on. Poor man, to go through life thinking he’d seduced his simple sister-in-law. What a shame she could never tell him the truth.

  Secrets and lies. Guilt and regrets.

  She had listened to Ellie’s whinging apologies and the promise that she’d never try to make her leave again and realised she had the perfect opportunity. She might be simple, but she wasn’t stupid.