The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  ANGEL: There’s a man in the bushes. I think it’s Chino from the restaurant.

  RECEPTIONIST (in Spanish): Take no notice. This one’s a Brummie dingbat. Thinks some random fancies her. Just talk any old shite back to me, thick bitch’ll believe anything.

  POLICEMAN (in Spanish): God! Dense wench or what?!

  RECEPTIONIST (in Spanish): Totes!

  And they more or less pat Angel on the head and then get off. None of us are any the wiser.

  But d’you know? I don’t ACTUALLY care about all or any of the above because . . . guess what?!

  O.M. Actual G.

  I’ve totally met a really nice guy.

  I know. And he’s not even a gayer. Not that all gayers are nice. Look at my loathsome jobsworthy brother.

  Although he was quite sweet about letting me stay in London.

  Oh, who cares?

  So. This guy.

  So there’s this family staying at the hotel and they’ve been here since before we got here and they’re like really cool and they’re from London and they like always come here for the Christmas break. Daddy’s in banking and Mummy wears really vile culottes, but she’s quite sweet really, and very fond of a straw hat. The oldest daughter has a little toddler only her husband can’t be here because he’s got to keep an eye on a hedge fund or something. And then there’s these two slightly potty younger sisters, and then the baby of the family, Luke.

  I know. Luke. Isn’t that a, like, totally gorgeous name?

  And their surname is Fenton-Mace.

  Fenton-Mace. I know. Amazing. Cally Fenton-Mace has a bit of a ring to it. Don’t you think?

  So anyway, he has this totally awesome fit body, he totally looks like he’s a porn star or something coz that’s the absolute best bit of holidays, everyone walks round practically naked, like there’s nothing wrong with it. (This doesn’t really work in somewhere honking like, I dunno, Skegness.) (Unless you’re in a nudist camp, natch.) (Does natch mean naturally? I really hope so.)

  And each morning I’ve seen him like paddling on a surfing board along the coast. It’s a really MESSED UP IMAGE actch. Coz it looks like he’s just floating past on water, like he’s walking on water, without moving his legs. I could tell Nancy fancied him coz she was really vile about him.

  ‘Oh, here he is. Poca-flaming-hontas.’

  Though that did actually make me laugh.

  Then on the day I wasn’t shooting I made sure I was nice and early for lunch and scooted around, sitting myself at the table where his family always sits. To make myself appear interesting and really high-IQ-y, I took a book from one of the shelves in the hotel drawing room and sat there doing pretend reading when his family came and took over the next table.

  And JOY OF JOYS OH YES THERE IS A GOD AND HE OR SHE IS TOTALLY INTO MAKING ROMANCE HAPPEN he sat at the chair nearest mine. Eventually he caught my eye as his family were ordering. He pointed to the book.

  ‘Any good?’

  I shrugged. And then said what I thought sounded really clever. ‘Really intriguing denouement.’

  To which he pissed himself.

  ‘What language is that?’ he asks.

  Which is the first time I realize I am pretending to read a book IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE.

  I have no idea what language. So I hazard a guess. ‘German.’

  Which garners more laughs from his table, and his sister pipes up with, ‘That’s Swedish.’

  ‘I always get the two confused.’

  And the boy winks at me.

  Over lunch he asks what I’m doing here, and I really enjoy showing off that I’m on a shoot for Vogue, and you can tell he’s really impressed.

  And by dessert, he’s asked if I want to go snorkelling with him that afternoon.

  I hate snorkelling, but I say yes.

  And snorkel we do. And we’ve pretty much been inseparable since.

  So anyway . . . tonight he’s coming round to my room to watch The Grand Budapest Hotel – or whatever it’s called – with me coz they’ve got it live-streaming on the hotel telly and I’m like . . . SO nervous. Coz although we’ve had the odd snog in the sea and at the door to my room at the end of an evening – when you’re alone indoors together, stuff happens.

  I’ve never really done stuff.

  Well, I’ve done bits.

  Here’s what I’ve done:

  1. Seen an actual real penis when Phoebe Scarfe’s big brother did that thing at the school Christmas Fayre last year where he came to our stall with a plastic cup and was like ‘Does anyone want this tea?’ and I said ‘I’ll have it’ – but when I looked in it, he had cut a hole in the bottom of the beaker and his actual penis was inside the cup. Gross.

  2. I gave Michaela Warburton a love bite once, but that doesn’t make me a lesbian because she gave me one too and we were just practising for when we have to do it on lads.

  3. I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey. Filthy.

  4. Snogged four lads. I can’t even be BOTHERED to give their names as none of them were that memorable.

  5. Although one groped my left boob so hard he bruised it. But he was really apologetic afterwards, and he’s gay now anyway.

  So I am feeling a bit ill prepared for Luke coming round tonight, truth be told.

  Maybe I should watch some porn online or something. But Mum says that will give me totally unrealistic expectations of sex. And of how long it takes for a plumber to come out. So I decide instead to just . . . play it by ear.

  He comes round about seven. He looks really handsome in these totally cool cut-off denims, some less cool Adidas flipflops, and an orange shirt that he hasn’t bothered to button up. I can smell that he’s cleaned his teeth when he quickly pecks me on the cheek on arrival. We order some room service and then watch the movie, but get bored about ten minutes in, and Luke suggests we go for a swim.

  I look out of my room and see that no-one is about. It’s dark. The sun has fallen into the sea. And so I say yes. We rush to the black water’s edge. And then he surprises me. He rips his shorts off, drops his shirt, and throws himself in naked. I find myself following suit and soon we are both paddling around. COMPLETELY STARKERS. We’re splashing each other and chatting and giggling and holding hands every now and then when suddenly he grabs me to him so that I’m like totally sitting on his lap, facing him. And OH MY GOD he has the most massive erection I have ever felt in my life.

  OK, so it’s the first one I’ve felt.

  And I didn’t expect to feel it for the first time riding up the back of my bum crack.

  ‘I don’t really want to do anal?’ I say.

  And he’s like ‘Fuck, sorry.’ And he lifts me up and schlops it to the front of me, so it’s grazing my belly button.

  And then he kisses me. And we float about for a bit, necking. Like teenagers. Well, we are teenagers. But you know, like this is IT. And it feels special. And beautiful. And the moonlight’s making the sea look like it’s littered with glitter and stars. And I reach down and put my hand round his doodah. And it feels hard and soft at the same time. Like . . . like . . . like nothing else I’ve ever touched before, actually. But that’s probably a good thing. Coz imagine if loads of things in life felt like penises. It’d be really disconcerting. Like, I dunno, like an Evian bottle. That’d be really off-putting if every time you picked up an Evian bottle it totally felt like you were bringing someone off. GROSS.

  I’ve literally only had it in my hand for about ten seconds when I feel Luke tense up, and whimper in my ear, ‘God, you dirty bitch,’ and then he lets out this yelp.

  Which is when I realize he’s thingied. Ejaculatado’d. Come.

  I really don’t like that word. Come.

  I don’t mind it so much when you have to say ‘come here.’ But, you know, when it’s referring to what Luke just did. It leaves a really funny taste in my mouth.

  I’m just crouching there in the sea, bouncing up and down on his knees thinking that ‘God, you dirty bitch,’ isn’t exactly the
sort of thing you could imagine Katherine Jenkins’ boyfriend saying, when he suddenly goes a bit limp and pushes me away from him. I’m just thinking it’s all a bit aggressive when he starts giggling and says, ‘Race you to the beach, Cal!’ and we have a swimming race back to shore.

  Oh God. Imagine if anyone was watching from their hotel rooms. The shame!

  But wait. There is more shame when we hit the beach.

  ‘Where’s my . . . ?’

  Where we left our clothes . . . mine are there . . . but his aren’t. We look everywhere. Which is a bit embarrassing because I’m dressed now and he’s staggering about completely naked. His penis is limp and tiny now, possibly because he’s starting to feel the cold. He starts getting quite ratty with me.

  ‘Have you moved my bloody clothes?!’

  ‘Luke, you know I haven’t! I was with you the whole time!’

  ‘For fuck’s sake! I’m gonna have to put your dressing gown on or something.’

  At which point we hear some glass breaking. And then, a few seconds later, some raised voices.

  ‘That sounds like my mum,’ he says, and hurries into my room to put my dressing gown on. He hurries out without saying anything. The film is still playing.

  I don’t know how I feel about the evening, really. Except it was all over very quickly. And I don’t know what to make of a guy who calls you a ‘dirty bitch’ on your first sexy time.

  Maybe it’s OK. Maybe he felt comfortable enough with me to be living out some kind of fantasy like in Fifty Shades.

  Or maybe he’s a bit of a twat. One of the two.

  I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt coz he’s just so dreamy. And up until the skinny dipping, it was all going so sweetly.

  I step outside onto the sandy bit outside my room. Which is when I hear him shouting at the top of his voice, ‘Oh, I do not BELIEVE this, Mother!’

  And I venture back inside. I think I might have had enough of him for one night.

  The next morning at breakfast his family have clearly been up late rowing, as you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Angel informs me that Luke had his room broken into last night and some of his stuff taken. I go over to tell him I’m really sorry. But he’s all monosyllabic and shruggy, so I just let him be.

  I decide to go to a yoga class on the beach with Nancy for a laugh.

  I tell her what happened with Luke last night, and what he said when he was you-know-what-ing, and she looks horrified and then throws her head back and laughs, before saying, ‘Oh my God, he’s Rapey Luke!’ Only she says it really loudly, and the yoga teacher’s like, ‘I have asked for silence, girls.’

  So I was like, ‘Sorry, Jaschinta.’

  Halfway into our yoga lesson, we’re just starting to get into it. I’m feeling quite perky as I do a thing called the pigeon. Or something. And the combination of the gentle music Jaschinta is playing, and the view of the ocean . . . it just makes me feel so relaxed.

  But then our peace is shattered by the sound of a man yelping in pain. He yelps and yelps and yelps some more. And then shouts: ‘CAN SOMEONE GET ME A FUCKING AMBULANCE?!’

  And that’s when I realize it’s Luke.

  I’m too scared to go and look right now, coz Jaschinta’s a bit of a bully. But minutes later we hear a siren. And then a commotion. Then, ‘THAT FUCKING HURTS, MATEY BOY!’

  And a further, ‘I’M GOING TO SUE THE ASS OFF THIS SHITHOLE!’

  And then, ‘YOUR HOTEL! THAT’S THE SHITHOLE TO WHICH I’M REFERRING, MY FRIEND!’

  The aggression in his voice scares me, actually. And really puts me off my yoga.

  Later, Aba informs me that Luke had gone down to get his surfboard as he does every day. Same place. Same time. Same old same old. Only he didn’t see that someone had put a trap out to kill a wild animal. And basically he got his leg clamped by these big metal teeth. He’ll live, and he’ll walk, but he will have these big metal teeth-mark things on his leg. He’s back from hospital. With, like, a zillion stitches.

  No-one has any idea who would have left it there. Or for what purpose.

  I’m just pondering how he hasn’t had much luck in the last twenty-four hours when my mobile rings. It’s Mum. Has Aba told her? Oh GOD.

  I answer. ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Hi, love. How’s Mehico?’

  ‘Mehico is great, thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Aha?’

  ‘How d’you fancy staying on for a few more days when you finish?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t I come and join you for Christmas?’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yep. Just spoke to the hotel and they’ve had a cancellation. I could come and join you on Saturday.’

  Blimey. Life. My mum. Everything and everyone is full of surprises.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I thought you’d jump at the chance.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you. I said I wouldn’t keep any more secrets from you . . .’

  ‘Cally?’

  In for a penny. In for a gram of coke I never toke (past tense for take) (somewhere).

  Oh GOD. SHE’S GONNA HATE ME.

  HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I tell her. The line goes silent.

  What she says next really, REALLY surprises me.

  Danny: The Noughties

  Whingeing grid

  ‘I can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Us two. Seeing each other.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Danny.’

  ‘No, Mims. What’s not fair is you putting pressure on me. I’ve always told you, Natalie comes first.’

  ‘You don’t love her.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘If you loved her, what you doing here?’

  ‘Tryina finish it with you, you daft mare.’

  ‘That’s mental abuse.’

  ‘Fucking hell, man, you’d test the patience of a saint.’

  ‘I don’t want it to finish, Danny.’

  ‘You might not have much choice in the matter, love.’

  ‘I’ll go to Natalie and tell her.’

  ‘Well, then it’ll defo be over.’

  ‘OK, then, I won’t.’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Mims. I just don’t see any other way.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to be the other woman, Danny.’

  ‘I know, and that’s not fair.’

  ‘OK then, leave her. Come to me.’

  ‘You’re doing me head in, Mims.’

  ‘You used to say you liked me doing your head in.’

  ‘Wearing a bit thin now, love.’

  ‘Your mum thinks we’re good together.’

  ‘Not being funny. But my mam doesn’t know which way up she is half the time.’

  ‘She gets me. I get her. And she thinks I’m better for you than Natalie.’

  And so it went. On and on. Round and round in circles. The same conversation, week in, week out. Why did I let her have this hold over me? And why could I never end it? Me, who had no problem lashing off a dodgy barman at the club, back in the day. Me, who’d have a barney in the street if someone was getting on my tits. Reduced to rubble by Miriam frigging Joseph.

  ‘What time’s your flight tomorrow?’

  I was off to the States. Taking our Owen to see another tournament. I was looking forward to it this time, if I was honest; anything to get away from her whingeing grid.

  I told her. Well, I lied. I made it earlier, so she wouldn’t expect a phone call or a visit or anything daft like that.

  ‘Only, I was thinking.’

  ‘What?’ And then I realized what was coming.

  ‘I could come over and surprise you.’

  ‘I think our Owen’d get the bigger surprise, love.’

  Although would he? Really? Bearing in mind the reason we had to go to those tournaments in the first
place?

  ‘He wouldn’t need to know.’

  ‘No, Mims. This is father and son time. Anyway, we share a room.’

  She looked like she didn’t believe me. As well she might. But my message was clear: no fucking way.

  She made moussaka that night. From scratch. Funny the things you remember.

  The biggest loser in Loserville goes thrill-seeking

  Why, you might ask yourself, was I prepared to lose everything by dipping my ink with the most bonkersest woman in Manchester? Well. Coz I was clearly the biggest loser in Loserville. And she hadn’t seemed that bleeding bonkers when I met her. Every time I accused her of being bonkers, she reckoned it was me that had sent her over the edge. And maybe she had a point. But the truth of it was, she hunted me down and found me. I didn’t know that at the time. But she did.

  We’d opened our new place in Manchester, Milk. We’d had some very generous funding from a very polite man in a suit who was cautious but ultimately helpful. We hit the crest of a wave up North, as the Hacienda was in its heyday, and it politely squeezed up and made room for another similar spot. And with the buzz of us being from the infamous China Crisis, our railway arches round the back of Deansgate soon became a destination venue. We kept it small, but soon there was interest from other venues round the country wanting in on the name. With some careful planning from our accountants and contacts, and our nice suited man, Milk started to leak round England, hitting Bristol, Brighton and even London. We were a franchise, baby, and six or seven years later, the money was rolling in.

  Me and Nat were nightclub stars.

  We had it all.

  Two beautiful kids, Owen and Cally. And what felt like a million and one party palaces all over the world.

  Even if it was only Manchester, Bristol, Brighton, London and Ibiza in the summer.

  My ugly mug was on the cover of magazines. The Big Issue loved me – homeless boy makes good. What’s not to love? And that’s how Miriam Joseph found me, I guess.

  I just thought she was some nice piece who crossed my path and tipped me the wink at a time when I wanted to take a few risks in my life, and that was that. But the truth was weirder than any kind of fiction. When I found out, a million alarm bells should’ve rung, only they didn’t. Coz her obsession with me appealed to my vanity. I’m not afraid to say it now, but she had some sort of Messiah complex about me, and she was Mary whatsername, wanting to wash my feet. And instead of going, Hang on a sec love, that’s a bit of a weird one, I was like . . . Yeah, go ’ed, babe. I’ll just kick me trainers off. Sorry about the smell.