The Secrets Women Keep

by Fanny Blake

  But Jess had a million and one things to do in the hotel – ‘Some of us have to work, you know’ – Eve suddenly needed to go into Truro for some last-minute bits and pieces, the cousins had to erect their tents in the back field, Terry disappeared on a walk, and Adam took Dylan off for his morning nap.

  Rose imagined Adam putting his hour’s free time to good use by finishing the spalted beech bowl that he’d shown her. When Daniel was alive, she would never have spent so long in Adam’s workshop, astonished by his small arsenal of tools, listening to him explain his craft, confused by the unfamiliar language of skew chisels and spindle gouges, cup chucks and spigots, being shown the various pieces of wood at different stages of preparation. Being there would have only invited disparaging comments from her husband. But as she traced the lines and patterns made by fungi in the wood, she had listened to Adam entranced. At last she could begin to understand what he was trying to achieve: gallery exhibitions, a future as a woodturner, a craftsman. She couldn’t help reflecting how her own professional life as a painter had stalled for ever after she put it on hold when she had children. Private daubings for her own enjoyment were not the same as the exhibitions and recognition that she had once wanted.

  In fact, Simon had said as much when they went to the Hockney exhibition together, admiring, discussing, dismissing. Afterwards, over coffee, he had asked her again about her own painting, and since then he had been encouraging her to take up her brushes. ‘You owe it to yourself. You once wanted to exhibit; well, why not now? It’s never too late.’ She had just laughed, dismissive, but his words had struck a chord. Nor would he let the matter drop. As a result, she had begun to see the world with an artist’s eye again, often imagining how she might translate it to canvas or paper – even this beach that she knew so well.

  Since he had first taken her to the Opera House, they had met up several times, and each time they had become a little closer. She and Daniel had always preferred the easy enjoyment of a good film, a concert given by a band from their glory days, or just being together at home. Going to the theatre or the opera with Simon was a different kind of pleasure. In return, she had suggested a couple of exhibitions they then saw together. He was both interesting and interested. He didn’t mind if she wanted to talk about Daniel over dinner or a drink, and listened attentively to what she had to say. Her kind, long-suffering friends had heard it all before, so she appreciated a new and sympathetic ear, surprised by how quickly they had become such good friends. Yes, Simon had entered her life just when she needed him. What was more, he had put some fun back into it. Only the other day, they’d stayed far too late in her local Italian, spaghetti and cheap plonk, as he regaled her with an account of his thwarted attempts to ‘bag’ a couple of Scottish Munros with a bunch of obsessive hill-walkers. She hadn’t laughed like that since Dan . . .

  A shriek made her look up, ready to run forward with the towel. But it was only a couple dipping their toes in the surf, squealing at the cold. All she could see of Anna was her head, bobbing above the water. Rose gazed up at the fragmented clouds, returning to her thoughts, this time about the day ahead.

  Back at the hotel, the modest marquee was ready, the tables laid, the path across the lawn marked by tea lights in glass jars. Twenty-five years of marriage. One hundred guests to celebrate, all scattered around the local B&Bs and hotels. How Eve and Terry had survived this long she would never know. Children, dogged determination and their own peculiar kind of love for one another, she guessed. The party had been booked at Trevarrick a year ago, at Dan’s suggestion. That generosity was so typical of him. If only he could have known what would happen. Without his death, Eve would never have met Will again, would never have embarked on this crazy whirlwind affair, about which Terry knew nothing. Rose only found out when Eve tripped up in conversation, eventually admitting that she’d been seeing him regularly since they’d once bumped into each other at the National Portrait Gallery. But here they all were, gathered to celebrate their long-lived marriage. Only Eve and Rose knew the truth. And Rose wished she didn’t. Hearing both Eve’s and Terry’s confidences put her in an impossible position. Tempted as she sometimes was to spill the beans and get their problems in the open, she couldn’t betray the trust of either.

  At that moment, Anna rose from the water and stood still for a nanosecond, shaking her dripping hair back off her face, before she started to run towards her mother.

  ‘Christ! That was freezing.’ She grabbed the towel and started rubbing herself vigorously before wrapping it around her shoulders. ‘But it was good. I can’t believe Charlie and Tom didn’t come down. Ten years ago, they wouldn’t have thought twice. You should have come in.’

  Rose laughed. ‘In May? You’re joking. Wild horses couldn’t drag me in there.’

  ‘You should be more adventurous, Mum. Nothing to lose.’ Unembarrassed by being in public, Anna quickly stripped off her bikini and, taking her clothes from her mother, got dressed. ‘Taking chances. That’s what life’s all about.’

  As she rolled up the legs of her jeans, Rose watched her, momentarily envious of her firm young body, of her undimmed lust for life. Perhaps she was right. ‘Is that what this garden centre’s about?’ she asked. ‘Just a chance?’

  They began their walk back up the beach together, arm in arm.

  ‘No. This time I’m going to make a go of it. I want you to come and see how it’s working out. It’s so perfect. We’re putting the outdoor plants in the vacant lot, and then indoors we’ve got the house plants, fresh flowers and eventually a café. I think Liz is going to move in upstairs with me. You remember her? We met in Morocco years ago.’

  Rose had the haziest of memories of long hair, long skirts and the overwhelming scent of patchouli oil.

  ‘I’ll be living over the business! Mum, you won’t believe it! I know what you and Dad think of me, but this is different.’ She squeezed Rose’s forearm to show that she accepted their judgement.

  ‘Think’ – still in the present tense, as if . . . Rose turned to look her daughter in the eye. ‘Darling, we don’t – didn’t – well, I don’t think badly. Never have. And nor did Dad. You and Jess are just so different.’

  Anna’s arm dropped to her side, then she bent down to pick up a stone, its smooth grey shape circled with a continuous white band. She examined it, weighing it in her hand. ‘A traveller’s stone. Look, the circle’s unbroken. That means you’ll come back here.’ She put it in her mother’s pocket.

  ‘I hope so . . . But don’t take that the wrong way,’ Rose went on, running her thumb over the stone. ‘I’m glad that selling the Canonford meant I could buy the property for you. I could never have sold all three hotels, especially not Trevarrick, but thank God Madison Gadding were happy to buy just the one. Now you and Jess both have something of your own to work for and to remember Dad by. I think he would be pleased.’

  Anna slipped her arm back where it had been, her other hand gathering her wet hair and sweeping it over her left shoulder. ‘Would he really? I know I’ve been a bit flaky in the past. But this time will be different. I absolutely promise. Thank God Uncle Terry’s so good on the numbers side of things. I couldn’t have done it without his help.’

  Rose smiled but said nothing, enjoying this rare physical closeness between them. At the same time, she couldn’t help but think of her brother. His reaction to the news that she would agree to sell the London hotel had been ungracious if not sullen, but there was nothing he could do but accept it. He’d received more than enough to keep his creditors at bay, but she refused to realise any more cash for him until he confessed all to Eve, something he was still refusing to do. Didn’t she understand? He didn’t have a problem.

  ‘Really,’ Anna insisted. ‘It will. Rick’s so on it.’

  Rose had met Anna’s business partner several times before she agreed to support their plans. He was Anna’s age, Australian and disconcertingly tattooed, but apparently sensible and clear-sighted about the centre and its p
ossibilities. She had been struck by how close the two of them had become in such a short time, glad that Anna had someone on her side at last. She had been too much of a loner for too long. Rose was impressed with the seriousness with which they approached the garden centre and their determination to make it work. Perhaps Rick would be enough to make the difference between success and abandonment this time. She hoped so.

  ‘Having him on board is genius,’ Anna continued. ‘We make a good team. Even though we did the same courses, I’m better on the landscaping side of things and he’s got a much better business brain than me. And he’s got the muscle, of course. But wait till you see the plants we’re ordering and the way we’re arranging the space. It’s going to be brilliant. All we have to do is persuade Uncle Terry about the café. Such a great idea, but until he’s done his flow charts, or whatever they are, he won’t let us do anything remotely risky.’ She sounded impatient.

  ‘I know he won’t.’ Rose’s smile was knowing. ‘If there’s a genius in any of this, it’s me for suggesting he got involved.’

  ‘You felt sorry for him, though. And he is your brother. But . . . OK, he’s just what we need,’ Anna conceded. ‘Except he’s such a miserable old sod these days – not the way I think of him at all. Do you remember how he’d read us stories every night on holiday?’ A razor shell crunched under her foot.

  Rose laughed. ‘God, yes. Eve and I would sneak into the kitchen, open the wine and leave him to it. Nobody else would do.’

  ‘But he was wicked at it, that’s why. He acted out all the different characters, with all their different voices. The six of us were sprawled all over the bed, begging him for just one more chapter. And he always said yes.’ Anna looked up towards the hotel, just visible on the clifftop, as she reminisced. ‘Hard to imagine now.’

  ‘We’d have to beg him to come down for supper. You were the worst. I remember you crying when I suggested Eve or I read instead. Dad knew better than to even try.’ A silence fell between them, as those favourite family memories pressed in again. Sometimes Daniel would insist that he and Rose took the girls somewhere other than Trevarrick or Casa Rosa – ‘Or they’ll never know what the rest of the world looks like,’ he’d say – but they were always happiest holidaying with their cousins in the two places they loved best.

  Anna jumped over a dead jellyfish. ‘And what about Auntie Eve, then? She’s looking amazing, these days. Losing that weight really suits her. What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rose was immediately on the defensive. ‘Nothing, as far as I know.’

  ‘I thought she might be having an affair or something.’ Anna stopped to put on her pink Converses, tucking in the laces rather than doing them up.

  ‘Anna! Don’t be ridiculous. What a thing to say on the day we’re celebrating their silver wedding anniversary.’

  ‘I was only joking. As if! I wonder if any more guests have arrived. Come on, let’s get back and see what’s happening.’ Anna began to run towards the back of the beach. Rose, for once thankful for her daughter’s gnat-like attention span, picked up her own pace, annoyed with herself that she had overreacted and almost given the game away. However, Eve’s secret was still safe – for the moment.

  They walked up the grassy path from the beach towards Trevarrick. The large country house was so much part of the local landscape with its weathered walls and grey slate roof. Built in the nineteen twenties, it had since been extended on one side to allow for a total of thirty rooms, some tiny bolt-holes, others luxurious suites, something for every taste, quirky but always comfortable and the majority of them looking towards the sea.

  Jess was waiting for them, standing on the terrace, looking down over the beach towards the path. She looked smart, businesslike in her straight skirt and shirt, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. But beneath the pleasant exterior, Rose could sense tension. Something more than the arrangements for Eve and Terry’s party was troubling her daughter.

  ‘You’ve been so long, I thought you must have drowned.’ Jess came towards them, stopping to pull a weed from one of the huge plant pots of pansies.

  ‘Hoped, more like,’ muttered Anna as she slid past her sister to hang her wet towel on the back line.

  ‘Girls, girls,’ protested Rose. ‘Do you think we could have just one day without an argument? Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Don’t blame me.’ Jess turned away, rubbing her hands against the cold. ‘There’s still so much that needs doing. Including the flowers.’

  Anna whipped round. ‘I told you that I wasn’t picking the cow parsley and stuff till the last minute. But if you’re fussed, I’ll do it now.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Jess, turning her back to go into the hotel lounge. ‘This seems pretty last-minute to me. Chef’s going crazy because the lobsters haven’t been delivered yet – the driver rang to say the van’s had a puncture. They’ll get here but it’ll just mean a horrible rush for the kitchen.’

  Rose stood between her warring daughters, wondering what she could do to help. She didn’t want to add to Jess’s evident stress.

  ‘Oh, and by the way . . .’ Jess tossed the words back over her shoulder as she went through the door, ‘Simon is coming after all.’

  ‘Did he phone?’ Rose was taken by surprise as her heart lifted a little at the news. It would be good to have a disinterested friend here with no involvement in her family’s domestic problems. She hadn’t argued when Eve and Jess suggested he came, but a work commitment meant he’d had to refuse.

  ‘Yeah. Said some client meeting had been cancelled. So he’ll be at St Austell at about two.’

  ‘I’ll pick him up then,’ Rose volunteered, eager for a task that would take her away from the pre-party tension.

  ‘You sure? I could send the minibus.’ But Rose could hear Jess wasn’t keen on the idea.

  ‘No, no. Dave’s got enough on his plate tonight, ferrying people to and from their B and Bs. I’ll go.’

  A couple of hours later, Rose was in the Citroën, crawling behind a great green tractor almost as wide as the road. The drive towards the main Truro–St Austell road always gave her pleasure but never more so than at this time of year, when the hedgerows were so crowded with wild flowers. The daffodils were long over, the bluebells were on their way out but instead froths of cow parsley set off the red and white campions. In the distance she could see fields containing drifts of buttercups bruised with bluey patches of speedwell. But none of this could keep her mind from the object of her drive.

  She tapped the steering wheel in time to Figaro’s aria from The Barber of Seville, the second opera she and Simon had seen together. Simon. It was a long time since she had met someone with whom she had felt such an instant connection. Their separate situations had thrown them together: she newly widowed, needing support; he new to town, with few friends. He was impulsive, amusing, intelligent – qualities he shared with Daniel. Like Daniel, he was genuinely interested in her opinion without being afraid to offer one of his own. They enjoyed discovering the similarities in their tastes, often being entranced or left cold by the same paintings or pieces of music. They could talk about anything together – and did. She had begun to look forward to their outings.

  Only the previous week he had taken her shopping, something Daniel would never have contemplated. They had been talking about Eve and Terry’s imminent celebrations. ‘Perhaps I could wear this,’ she’d thought out loud, staring down at Daniel’s favourite black dress, now on its fifth outing in as many weeks.

  ‘No,’ Simon had said, gentle but firm. ‘You need something new, summery. I know! I’m going to take you shopping. I know just the place.’

  Against her better judgement she had let herself be persuaded. He even anticipated her second thoughts by arranging to pick her up and take her there. Dreading the hell of a busy department store, Rose had been pleasantly surprised when they fetched up at a small shop off Westbourne Grove. ‘I know the owner,’ Simon explained as he swept he
r inside. On either side of the poky space were two rails so crammed with clothes Rose immediately felt panicked by the amount of choice. But when she suggested they went out for a coffee before they began, Simon had been adamant. ‘Oh no you don’t. We’re not leaving until you’re sorted out. I’ll introduce you to Jan, who’ll get you started, and then I’ll go out and bring the coffee to you.’

  Her escape tactics comprehensively thwarted, Rose had no choice but to give herself up to the two of them. In the changing room Jan sized her up as if she was a heifer going to market, then disappeared. Five minutes later she was back with an array of dresses, soon followed by Simon and the much-needed coffee. Then came the excruciating experience of the fashion parade. Rose had to hand it to Simon, he’d been brilliant: decisive, matter-of-fact and helpful. At first she emerged from the changing room in a sweat of self-consciousness, wishing she’d never got herself into this, but his businesslike approach to the matter in hand meant her embarrassment soon vanished. Lounging back on the red velour sofa, he was quick to give an opinion: ‘No. Love the colour, but too short.’ ‘No. OK, but the neck’s wrong.’ ‘No. Almost, but the colour’s not quite right.’ Each time, Jan had happily scurried off to find something else more suitable as the choice was fast narrowed down. Finally, when Rose emerged wearing a sophisticated but simple number in cerulean blue and green printed silk, he said: ‘Yes. That’s the one. Great shape and brings out the colour of your eyes. Perfect.’ And he was right: it was.

  As she pulled into the station car park, she saw him standing by the ticket office. In his suit, with his neat overnight case, he stood out among the holidaymakers, anoraks over their shorts and T-shirts, lugging overfilled cases into the waiting taxis. He resembled the eye of the storm, quite still while everything else was a whirl of activity around him.

  She found a space by the platform wall, jumped out of the car and waved, shouting his name. He turned, his face immediately lit with a smile, and bent to pick up his case. At that moment, one of the seagulls perched on the station roof took to the air with a loud squawk. By the time Rose reached Simon, he was busy trying to wipe off the bird droppings that adorned the back of his jacket. Beside him, several schoolchildren were hunched in hysterics. She couldn’t help smiling at this slight to his image.