Tell Me A Secret

by Samantha Hayes

  Christ, I think, as my finger hovers over the block and delete button. I should ghost him, as Cath calls it, disappear without trace and delete my account. If it’s the police fishing, the last thing I need is to be associated with this.

  But what if Andrew is still alive? What if it’s really him?

  Abbi74: If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret any more, would it? Why don’t you tell me one instead? I type, trying to be evasive like before.

  As I wait, tears well in my eyes as I stare at Andrew’s thumbnail profile picture. It’s one of my favourite shots of him, taken at a gallery opening last year. I found pictures of it online after the event, scoured them for glimpses of him with the lodger to see if she was there with him, wishing he could have taken me instead.

  Then another message appears. I hardly dare read it but take a deep breath as I click on it, the blood draining from my head.

  Andy_jag: The only secrets I have to tell are yours, Lorna…

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Lorna’s Journal

  10 March 2017

  The point of a journal, apart from purging, is to show movement, change, the fluidity of ourselves and our lives. Feeling stuck, up to our necks, in at the deep end with no chance of a way out… these are all familiar predicaments in the human condition. But a journal takes those thoughts captive, saving them for later, bottling our feelings for a future time – whether that be in a week or a decade – giving a context to the movement and personal growth that otherwise might seem non-existent. That’s why it’s as important for a therapist’s self-development as it is for that of a client. It shows me how far I’ve come, how far I’ve got to go. A way of looking back to measure the distance between then and now. A change I wouldn’t otherwise see…

  What a load of fucking bullshit that was, I think, hiding the notebook under a towel that was left draped on the radiator as I sit, shaking, on Freya’s bedroom floor. I’ve got the towel over my knees, the journal hidden beneath. I only have a couple of minutes before I’ll have to go down for dinner but couldn’t resist coming in to see my little girl, give her the cuddles I’ve missed all day. She was in the bathroom when I came into her room, so I quickly prised back the carpet and pulled out the journal. There are only a few pages left to read and, for my own sanity, I need to finish it.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ I say as Freya comes back. ‘Did you wash your hands?’

  She holds them out, still slightly wet. ‘Do elephants eat cookies?’ she asks while holding a plastic zoo animal. She gives a quick look at the towel draped weirdly over my knees, the notebook concealed beneath so only I can read it.

  ‘Mmm, cookies are their favourites,’ I say, turning back to the handwritten pages as Freya sets out some play dough food she’s made. ‘Are you hungry, darling?’ I say. ‘Daddy’s been cooking something yummy. Can you smell it?’

  Freya nods, making some comment about fajitas being her favourite, but I’m already engrossed in the words again, taking myself back to last year…

  So much sex. Just sex all the time. It’s all we do. Whenever and wherever we can. I feel like the luckiest, dirtiest girl alive. I admit it, I get high on it. High on him. He always pays cash for the cheap hotels, never allowing me to fork out. Sometimes we go back to that place near the M25, but other times it’s just a grim boarding house with a wonky b. & b. sign somewhere south of the river. I think he likes the seediness of it, the illicit tinge that the unwashed sheets and grimy bathroom give our already illicit encounters. Once or twice it’s been a chain hotel near Euston, and we’ve even done it in his car a couple of times, as well as the wooded area of a park after dark.

  But it’s never been at his house. I’m never allowed there because of her. It burns into me, the jealousy cutting deep, reminding me of something I can’t identify. And of course, in return, he keeps reminding me that he can’t come to my house either.

  So I decided to change that, in the hope he might one day do the same.

  ‘You sure it’s clear?’ he said, standing in my doorway, glancing up and down the dark street. It was the first time I’d seen him vulnerable. Then his eyes flicked up and down the short, clingy dress I’d put on. It was actually lingerie – a classy grey satin thing Mark had given me for Christmas. I saw his eyes widen at the sight of my stocking tops, my ridiculously high heels, the scarlet lipstick I’d put on especially for him. I knew he loved it.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘So are you going to invite me in?’

  I stepped aside without saying a word. Kicked the door shut behind him as he lunged for me, throwing me back against the wall. We staggered, bumping against the hall table, knocking off the lamp (the one Mark bought for me. I had to pretend I broke it while vacuuming), me walking backwards towards the stairs with him holding my head, my breasts, kissing me so hard I couldn’t breathe. I tore his clothes off as we went, leaving a trail of them in our wake. But we only made it halfway up the stairs before he’d had me, making me feel like an animal.

  When we finally did make it to the bedroom to start all over again, he paused for a moment, pulling open the wardrobe doors.

  ‘Andrew, don’t,’ I’d said, looking away at the sight of Mark’s shirts hanging there – all arranged neatly, evenly spaced, the way he likes. His underpants and socks were on a couple of shelves to the right, and I always smiled when he commented that I didn’t put them away neatly enough, laughed when he told me I was untrainable. Then Andrew looked in my side of the wardrobe – equally as neat, but sparser. Mark sorts through my stuff several times a year, getting rid of the things he doesn’t like to see me in, making me to do a fashion parade for him, telling me if I look frumpy or not. The stuff he hates goes to charity. Nowadays, I’ve learnt it’s easier to ask him if he likes an outfit before I buy it.

  I closed my eyes, dropped back on the bed. Then I heard the door click shut. ‘Why did you do that?’ We lay between the sheets, him on top of me. My body was on fire again and I could hardly talk.

  ‘Do what?’ he said, breathlessly, clawing at the pillows behind us. Mark’s pillows.

  ‘Look in the wardrobe?’

  Andrew said nothing but went at it harder then, owning me, making me forget myself. Perhaps that’s what it is about him: he takes me away from the person I am. The person I don’t know. The person I don’t want to be. Since forever, there’s been someone hiding inside. A terrified child. Never speaking up.

  Afterwards, we lay together – entwined, exhausted, me sweating guilt – but only briefly because Mark was due back any time. ‘You have to go,’ I said. ‘I need to shower.’

  He looked at me, hoisted himself up on his elbows, kissed me. ‘Don’t shower,’ he told me. ‘And don’t change the sheets.’

  ‘I remember that night,’ I say quietly. ‘What a fucking idiot I was.’

  ‘Ummm… you swore,’ Freya says, covering her ears and giving me a stare.

  ‘Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to. Look, why don’t you be a really helpful girl and go downstairs and set the table?’

  ‘OK,’ she says, standing up to go.

  ‘I’ll be down in a few moments.’

  She scampers off, and when she’s gone, I put the journal back in its hiding place, taking a few moments to compose myself before I go downstairs too.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Nikki

  ‘You want onions with that?’ I ask, glancing down at him from inside the sweltering van.

  ‘Please, love,’ he says, pulling some cash from his pocket. ‘And a can of Coke.’

  ‘Cheese as well?’ I say, scraping the blackened griddle as a waft of smoke billows up. ‘It’s a pound extra.’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ he says, beckoning over his mate. I assemble his burger and wrap it up in a neat packet of waxy paper, putting it in a box. I grab his drink from the fridge behind.

  I’ve only got an hour before my shift ends, before I’m not squashed in this tiny space with fat Denny. Denny’s Burgers, that’s what the sign on top
of the van says in lurid ketchup-red and mustard-yellow scrawl. Denny’s OK, treats me well and pays me in cash. And even though we’re stuck inside this tiny space for hours on end, he’s never once put his hands on me. He even urges me to get home safely when I’m on a late shift and puts me in an Uber if it’s past midnight. But I try to do as few hours as possible now, just enough to pay the rent.

  Not that paying my rent matters any more.

  ‘Five eighty-five, please,’ I say, handing across his food. He gives me fifteen pounds.

  ‘Can I get another one for my mate? The same again please, love. Take it out of that.’

  I nod, eyeing his friend who’s approaching the van. A couple of builder types on their lunch break. They’ll probably come every day for a week or two, then I’ll never see them again when they move to a different site. It goes like that. Faces coming. Faces going.

  And then I spot him.

  Cigarette Man. Or Nigel, as I now know he’s called. He’s holding me to my word.

  He strides up to the van, giving me a broad smile, flashing his missing teeth.

  ‘Y’all right?’ he says cheerfully.

  ‘Yeah, not bad, thanks.’ It’s a lie, of course, though since my session with her, I’ve been mulling things over, thinking about everything she said. I didn’t expect it to go like that, for it to actually make sense. For me to see things differently. For her to help me.

  ‘Come for the free burger you promised, ain’t I?’ Nigel gives another toothless grin, clapping his arms around his body, shifting from one foot to the other. There’s still a chill in the air, despite the spring flowers and buds everywhere.

  ‘Denny’s are the best,’ I say, making sure Denny hears as I give him a playful nudge. ‘And don’t worry, Den, it’s on me,’ I say. ‘Nigel’s my friend and I owe him.’

  And that’s true. I really do. Nigel has turned out to be one of those rare people who senses when someone’s in need and doesn’t ask questions. Probably because he’s been in the exact same situation himself.

  ‘Just paying it forward,’ Nigel told me when he first took me back to his new place on Saturday. I couldn’t possibly have gone back to my lodgings; couldn’t return to where it happened. And even after only one therapy session, I know I did the right thing.

  ‘I’ve only been living here a few days meself,’ Nigel had said. ‘So it’s not up to much yet. But it’s a roof and four walls, right?’ He said I could have the couch for as long as I needed. I didn’t tell him why I’d suddenly left my place and he didn’t ask, just like I’d never ask where he got all those new watches from or the couple of boxed TVs over in the corner.

  ‘Want cheese and onions on it, Nige?’ I say after I’ve wrapped up the other man’s burger and they’ve left. Several others are waiting in the queue now. When we’re parked here, there’s always a steady flow of customers.

  ‘Yeah, please,’ he says, still fidgeting.

  He cooked for me my first night at his flat. Well, I say cooked. We had microwaved pasta. But I was grateful for anything – anything other than homemade mushroom soup or whatever else he used to tempt me with, trying to make our situation seem OK, acceptable, normal, when I knew he was playing me for a fool. No one gets away with that.

  What was it Lorna said towards the end of our session? You need to re-parent your inner child, Nikki. Learn to love her again… It was as though she really understood, almost as though she’d experienced my pain first hand. It wasn’t sympathy. It wasn’t pity. It was compassion, empathy, understanding. Of all people, I hated her for giving me that.

  Anyway, as soon as I’d left my room – hurriedly packing up all that I owned and getting the hell out – I’d headed for the little park opposite the clinic. It wasn’t to watch her this time – it was Easter weekend, after all – it was to find Cigarette Man. The only friend I had in the world and I knew he’d be there at some point, meeting a mate or two. He never judged or asked awkward questions, and I always made sure to give him some smokes or a half bottle of something from the corner shop. It was a hopeless bond, really, and all the stronger for its desperation.

  When Nigel arrived, I told him I had nowhere else to go, which was when he offered me a place to stay, saying his flat had come good a couple of days ago.

  ‘Here you go, Nige,’ I say, handing across his burger. ‘Enjoy.’ I give him a wink and go to put a five-pound note in the till on his behalf, but Denny stops me.

  ‘Any friend of yours,’ he says, folding my fist around the money. ‘On the house.’

  I feel the tears prickle my eyes at the thought of having two friends now. ‘Thanks, Den,’ I say, and get on with serving the other customers before I break down completely.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Lorna

  I am receiving messages from a dead man.

  Last night, as Mark and I watched the late evening news, there was a short local report on Andrew’s death. As soon as it came on, I went out to make tea, get water, go to the loo – anything so I didn’t have to hear the details or see the news crew standing outside his house. Especially not with Mark sitting beside me.

  ‘That was terrible. Did you hear about it?’ Mark said after I sat down again. ‘Some poor sod got it mid-fuck, by the sound of it.’ He sprayed out laughter. ‘Still, if you’re going to go, it’s gotta be the way.’ He sipped the large whisky he’d poured for himself, flicking the channels. ‘Shame we don’t have any of his art. Prices will shoot up now.’

  ‘No, I… I didn’t see it,’ I said quietly. All I wanted to do was sob and punch the cushions. And I wanted to deactivate my phone too – close all accounts, erase it, stamp on it and throw it in the river. Anything to go back to how things were.

  Because Andy_jag is still contacting me, knows my name. Which means, whoever he is, he knows my secret too.

  The last message came in today just before I left work. I hadn’t heard anything since last night, a message I was too scared to reply to. Now he says he wants to meet me, take me out for a coffee, have a meal, lunch, a walk by the river…

  I have no idea who it is.

  My hands shook as I tucked my phone back in my bag and left the clinic for home – a part of me still hoping it really was Andrew. Either way, the nightmare I thought was over, isn’t.

  ‘I really am going mad,’ I say, not meaning to, covering my mouth quickly. The others are all chatting away and I don’t think they heard. We’re at Charlotte’s this week, her perfect living room looking as though it’s straight out of an interiors magazine. You can tell she doesn’t have kids.

  ‘Oh the irony, Lorn,’ Cath replies, pulling her socked feet up underneath her. We all have to take our shoes off when it’s book club at Charlotte’s. ‘There’s no hope for us lot if you think you’re going mad,’ she says, laughing. ‘More wine is the answer, love. And a good fuck.’

  I’m about to reply, cover myself by saying that it’s because I nearly put the cereal in the fridge this morning, or was about to fill my petrol car with diesel – that everyday kind of ‘mad’ we all know – but Annie chips in. ‘Sounds like the dating site’s going well, then – eh, Cath?’ My skin goes cold at the mention of it.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she says through a wide grin, rubbing her hands. ‘And yes, actually, it is.’

  ‘Oh, do tell,’ Megan says, the others all focused on Cath now.

  But Charlotte moves closer, her eyes fixed on me. ‘Going mad?’ she says, laying her hand on my arm. ‘Lorna?’

  She’s pressed up beside me on her huge white L-shaped couch. We never bring red wine to Charlotte’s.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reply quietly as the others carry on talking, whooping and laughing at Cath’s recent dating stories. ‘It’s nothing.’ I’m so used to saying this now, I almost believe it myself.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like nothing to me,’ she says, squeezing my arm with a perfectly manicured hand. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but you don’t look well. Is…’ She hesitates. ‘
Is everything OK at home, between you and Mark?’ I’m sure she’s noticed the dark circles under my eyes, my crumpled top – the first thing I grabbed off a pile of discarded clothes in the bedroom – and my unwashed hair, pinned up to hide the fact.

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ I say. I know how close she and Mark are, know they talk regularly.

  ‘It’s just that Mark and I had a little chat,’ Charlotte says, shifting even closer so I can smell her perfume. I breathe in deeply, hoping to achieve the same sensation as when I was with Andrew, pick up on the same earthy, woody notes of whatever it was he wore. But there’s nothing. Nothing at all except a pleasant smell.

  ‘He’s worried about you too,’ she continues. ‘He mentioned about…’ She glances down, reaches out and touches my tummy. ‘I’m so happy for you both,’ she says. ‘But I’ve heard it can send your hormones crazy, making you behave like a different person—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The baby,’ she whispers in my ear.

  ‘But there is no baby,’ I say, not meaning to snap. My jaw is tight, my teeth clenched. Though I almost wish there was. Andrew’s.

  ‘That’ll just be your hormones talking.’ She laughs excitedly. ‘Mark’s so happy but we’ll keep it in the family until you’re three months gone at least and—’

  ‘Charlotte, read my lips,’ I say, more loudly now. ‘I… am… not… pregnant. OK?’

  Everyone looks around.

  ‘Oh,’ Charlotte says flatly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You’d better tell Mark that you lost it or something, then. He really thinks you’re expecting.’

  ‘But I didn’t lose it,’ I say. ‘I didn’t lose anything.’

  Except myself, I think, escaping to the loo.