Want to Know a Secret? (Choc Lit)

by Moorcroft, Sue

  ‘No.’ Diane began to flip through the rails for her own stuff.

  Rowan made his way over. ‘I don’t have time to look at your things right now.’

  ‘I haven’t brought you anything to look at.’ She carried on scraping the hangers methodically along the top rail.

  He threw her a baffled look and turned back to the lady in the long cardigan, now at the till with aubergine capri pants in one hand and credit card in the other.

  Diane worked through the wall rails and then the floor-standing ones while Bryony settled herself in the chair for customers.

  When the shop was still full but Rowan was no longer actively serving, Diane opened her green corduroy shoulder bag and pulled out the dress that Natalia had bought in The Monkee Box. ‘Look,’ she said to Rowan.

  Rowan’s eyes flicked to hers. He shrugged. ‘What?’

  ‘A garment that I sold to you.’ She made sure that her voice was audible all over the little shop. She waved the cuff under his nose, the one with a price ticket from The Monkee Box for £209. ‘Look!’ she repeated. ‘It was on sale in Covent Garden Market.’

  He hesitated, eyes narrowing. Then he smiled and tried to take her elbow. ‘Come through for a chat.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She folded the dress and returned it to her bag. ‘How have garments I’ve sold to you ended up being sold elsewhere at an enormous mark-up?’ Every prospective shopper had paused to listen by now. ‘You’ve paid me peanuts for years. You pretended that you had difficulty selling my stuff and I ought to be jolly grateful for what I got. Yet you’ve been selling it on to The Monkee Box and pocketing a big profit.’

  A couple of shoppers drew in breath. One tutted.

  Diane held up her hand. ‘And don’t pretend that you haven’t, because I’ve had a frank chat with Amelia from The Monkee Box, and she’s been kind enough to share the figures with me.’

  Rowan’s face turned a dull puce. ‘I don’t have to be spoken to like this in my own shop.’

  ‘I don’t know how you’re going to avoid it.’ Slowly, Diane smiled. ‘I’m telling the truth and you can’t lay hands upon me because all these nice people are witnesses. You could ring the police, I suppose.’ She folded her arms. ‘Why don’t you? You ring the police and I’ll ring a reporter, and we’ll see how it looks in the paper.’ Her smile grew into a grin. ‘Or you could ring Amelia – but I think you’ll find that you’re blacklisted as a supplier so far as she’s concerned. From now on, when Diane Jenner Originals appear in her shop, Diane Jenner will be making the profit out of it. Not some talentless third party tosser.’ With a defiant flick of her plait, she spun on her heel.

  ‘Like your husband?’

  Diane halted in mid-stride. Turned slowly back. ‘What?’

  ‘Like your husband.’ Rowan’s lips twisted.

  Diane’s lips went numb. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

  His face shone with spite. ‘He walked past one day and recognised the stuff I was loading into the van. It took just thirty quid for him to keep his mouth shut. Thirty measly quid for every batch.’

  The blood in her cheeks boiled. Her ears sang. Diane heard a couple of customers murmuring. Sympathy! She despised it. She clawed her tattering dignity around her. ‘I don’t know why you expect me to be surprised. He’s as big a shit as you are.’

  Outside she put her arms around Bryony, who was white, even her lips, and guided her out of the arcade over to a black-painted bench where the fresh air might revive her. ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry you heard that.’

  Tipping her head to rest it on her mother’s shoulder, Bryony sighed. ‘I’m a big girl, Mum, I can handle it – like you. I just feel a bit … wobbly.’

  Diane debated her next move. She didn’t want to leave Bryony here, the bench was cold metal and the breeze had enough edge to chill a body through. She needed somewhere warmer if she were to even consider leaving her alone for an hour while she put her business plan before Ms Rhianne Andrews, at the bank.

  It’s never far to a café when you’re in a city centre and in five minutes Diane had Bryony drinking hot tea.

  Bryony was still shivering. ‘It can’t be right, can it, what Rowan said? Dad wouldn’t?’

  Diane hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I hope not.’

  A chalky Bryony fell silent. Even after two cups of tea, she was shaky.

  Diane rang the bank and rescheduled her appointment with Ms Rhianne Andrews for the end of the week. She tried not to sigh, remembering that she’d meant to use the excuse of reporting on how the business plan had been received to ring James that night. To hear his voice. To check that he was coping.

  ‘Shall I take you home?’ she asked gently.

  Bryony blinked. ‘I don’t know. Dad will be there –’

  ‘But Dad will be downstairs until I help him to bed, later. I think you could do with a few hours chill time, snug in your own room. Buy a magazine on the way back to the car and you can put your feet up.’

  Compared to the cheery, chatty journey into the city earlier, the journey home was a wet weekend. The parkways were busy and Diane knew from experience that it was easy to want to leave one and inexplicably find herself still on it. She concentrated on the traffic and left Bryony to stare silently at the scenery.

  Until they reached the quiet of the Fen lanes, the land stretching flat on either side of the road. Then Bryony burst out, ‘Are you staying with Dad for me?’

  In her surprise, Diane almost let the car run into a ditch. For safety’s sake she pulled over, half on a humped grass verge. ‘That came a bit out of the blue!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Bryony paused to feel around for her inhaler and use it on a big in-breath. She paused before letting the breath out again and gave a little cough. ‘It’s dawning on me exactly how crappy Dad’s been to you. And I bet I don’t know the half of it. Because people’s relationships are private and mostly others don’t see the real picture? Sometimes people inside the relationship don’t. Like I thought my relationship with Inacio was so cool and that he always came to my area because he didn’t want me crossing the city at night. But it wasn’t cool, it was crappy, because he was actually going home to his wife.’

  She coughed again and paused over another puff of her inhaler. ‘And I don’t want anything to do with Inacio, because he lied and lied and lied. And I just thought … well, Dad’s lied and lied to you and you’re still with him. So I wondered if there was a reason. And then I wondered if the reason was me. But I suppose I shouldn’t have asked because it’s your relationship, yours and Dad’s.’ Bryony rubbed her eyes, like a child. ‘I still love Dad.’

  ‘I know.’

  Diane stroked Bryony’s cheek, unsure of what she could say to make this less hard on her daughter. Because she was staying with Gareth for Bryony’s sake – but she didn’t think it was necessarily the best thing for Bryony to hear.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Troubled that she’d somehow let her daughter end up in the middle of things despite all intentions to the contrary, Diane didn’t immediately notice anything missing when they trailed silently into the house.

  It was Bryony, dragging her bag as if even that little weight was too much, who said, ‘Where’s Dad?’

  His chair in the sitting room was empty, his crutches gone. They looked in the workroom and checked the downstairs loo. Both empty. Slowly, they moved towards the stairs. Diane took the lead. For a reason she didn’t examine too closely, she trod as quietly as she could.

  The doors to the bathroom and the other rooms were wide open, showing empty rooms. But the door to Bryony’s room stood only a little ajar, and through the gap Diane could see Gareth sitting on Bryony’s bed, his back to the door, hunched over something in his lap. She hesitated.

  With a mew of distress Bryony thrust past her, hurling the door back on its hinges. ‘Dad, how could you go through my things?’

  Gareth’s head flew up, his face pulled wide with horror. One of his crutches lay across the duvet, t
he other was propped against the wall. The large drawer beneath Bryony’s bed was open next to his feet. A black leather box was open inside the drawer.

  And Gareth’s lap glistened with the jewellery that had belonged to Diane’s mother and grandmother.

  Beside him sat a blue canvas money belt, the one he took on holiday to keep their spending money safe. Several pieces of jewellery could be seen through its gaping mouth.

  Bryony swayed on her feet. Diane guided her hurriedly into the pink basketwork chair. ‘Sit down, sweetie.’ All they needed was Bryony fainting.

  Gareth’s hunted gaze flicked from daughter to wife. He cleared his throat and looked down at the brooches and chains laid out neatly across his legs like bizarre decorations. ‘I –’ He cleared his throat again.

  In slow motion, Bryony stooped awkwardly for the box and held it out. Like a naughty child, Gareth put everything back. First the pieces from his lap: gold, silver, diamonds, emeralds, jet, amber; then from the pocket of the belt. Bryony checked inside. ‘Is that everything? Or do I have to frisk you?’ Her voice trembled.

  Gareth nodded. ‘Everything.’ He picked up his crutches and threaded them onto his arms. Then he sat, silent, staring at the carpet, caught red-handed and stuck for an explanation.

  Gradually, colour began to return to Bryony’s face. Her eyes glittered and Diane recognised anger. She was glad. Anger would serve Bryony better than shock and horror.

  ‘Mum, do you think Uncle Freddy will put these things back in his safe for me?’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go over there now.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. Probably better if you’re not alone.’

  Gareth turned quickly. ‘Bryony, darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been looking without asking but …’ He scrabbled for words. ‘I was only looking. The stuff in my belt – you don’t think I was going to take it, do you? No.’ He halted, licked his lips. ‘I was just going to get it valued.’

  Bryony shook her head, her eyes as big as pansies. ‘Don’t expect me to believe your crap. Who needs a father like you? Not me – in case you were wondering.’ She turned her agonised eyes to Diane. ‘I mean that, by the way.’ Bryony made it from the room before she began to sob.

  Diane hovered, not knowing who was the more devastated, Bryony or Gareth.

  For herself, she was shocked. The implications of Gareth’s latest perfidy were almost too huge for her to dare to believe and she felt as if, for once, the light at the end of the tunnel could be daylight, rather than an oncoming train.

  ‘Why do you have to be so greedy?’ she whispered. ‘Why couldn’t you be satisfied with everything you already have? We’ll talk more, later, but I want you to move out of here in the next few days. You can live in your cottage. I don’t want your money and if you go without a fuss I won’t ask for any.’

  ‘How can I? I can’t live alone,’ he answered, gruffly. He flicked a glance her way. His eyes were … what? Not hurt. Worried? Probably, a bit. But angry, too; annoyed with himself for being careless.

  ‘Well,’ she said, preparing to follow her daughter. ‘Whether or not you can live alone, I think it’s time we lived apart. Maybe you could go live with your dad for a while, he could use the company. Or you could hire a nurse. Spend some of the dosh on yourself – you seem to be able to do that OK.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Diane’s footsteps pattered down the stairs and her receding voice called after their daughter, ‘Bryony, I’m so sorry ...’

  Painfully, heart thumping, Gareth laboured to his feet. Found his balance with his crutches. Punting himself out of the room and across the landing he could still hear Diane’s voice, then Bryony’s, high and tearful. His heart gave a massive squeeze.

  ‘Bryony?’ He sagged against the doorjamb of what used to be his and Diane’s room but was now his, leg and hip throbbing.

  He blinked fiercely. Bryony had looked at him with such pain and repugnance in her eyes. ‘Bryony!’ he shouted hoarsely over the banisters. ‘Bryony!’

  But there was no pause to show that Bryony was listening. Her voice ran on in her sweet, over-emphatic way. High and rapid with emotion. Then Diane’s again, lower, soothing.

  He heard the back door open. And shut, snipping the voices off mid-sentence.

  With a heave, he lurched and limped to the window to watch Bryony and Diane heading for Bryony’s baby blue KA, a real girly car, as cute as his daughter. Bryony throwing her hands around, talking, talking. Diane, skirt swinging as she walked, resting a calming hand on Bryony’s shoulder. Bryony pointing her key unit at the car, a flash from the indicator lights as it unlocked. Both women climbing in.

  The car was small enough to turn in the lane. The engine note climbed. Then they were gone.

  After a minute, he backed away from the window. Dropping his crutches to the carpeted floor he lowered himself onto the bed, swung his legs around in stages and then inched up the mattress until he could lie with his head on the pillow. He wouldn’t go downstairs yet. The stairs were murder without help. It had been painful to get up here on his own without Diane to hold his crutches and steady him as he went up one step at a time on his backside. Going down on his backside was a proper bastard, his healing limbs shrieked whenever he tried to use them to haul himself forward.

  Tears pricked suddenly. He hadn’t cried since his mother had died. And then it had been only one hot, fat tear as the coffin was lowered into the ground. What would Wendy have had to say about all this caper?

  Closing his eyes, he tried to hear her voice. Look after ... Look after your brothers. Look after yourself. Look after your family … Shame melted him into the bed, spreading itself over his limbs and weighing him down. He shifted, uncomfortably. He would’ve been on the wrong end of one of Wendy’s tongue lashings for this because he hadn’t looked after his daughter.

  Not like Wendy, who had looked after him until it had become time for him to look after her.

  She wouldn’t have minded that he hadn’t looked after Diane. Wendy had never been fortunate enough to find a man who put her first, so why would she want it for Diane? Women had to be strong and look out for themselves. That way they’d never be disappointed.

  He’d often seen Diane disappointed.

  But Diane was strong, in her quiet way. Damned woman, you could push her and push her and she’d bend to your will, but you could only ever bend her so far. She’d never break – just suddenly rebound and slap you in the mush. And it stung.

  He knew better than to expect her to calm down and retract her decision. Yes, she was angry but anger wasn’t driving her. She would be as composed and positive about leaving him as she had been about marrying him. If Diane in a temper was a comet, she was just about as likely to change course. He might as well resign himself to moving out or, he was quite convinced, she’d make it her business to take as much of his money as she possibly could, even if she didn’t want it. Bloody woman. Bloody woman.

  Bryony would be different. He could work on her, in a while; get her to see that he’d been stupid, not dishonest. Bryony would forgive him in the end.

  His painkillers were downstairs. Shit. He settled his bad arm gingerly on his chest and the good one over his eyes to block the light. The sun had muscled through the clouds to glare into his window, making him sweaty and uncomfortable. He didn’t feel like putting himself through the pain of getting up to close the curtains. His hip throbbed. Daggers shot through his leg.

  That fucking helicopter. It had taken everything from him. Valerie, Diane and, at present, Bryony; he’d lost them all as a result of the crash. Chadda-chadda-chadda, how that noise used to excite him! Sitting in the left-hand seat with Valerie in the right doing the hocus pocus of the pre-flight check before flinging that whirly bird up into the sky. It had been brilliant. Racing their shadow over trees and fields, houses and roads, chatting through the headsets. He didn’t suppose he’d ever get into a helicopter again and feel the vibrat
ion shaking through him as they sat on the ground waiting for clearance.

  There was so much still to heal. Bones that had thickened, joints that would never move as they had.

  And Valerie had gone.

  The helicopter that she loved so much had snuffed her out.

  He missed her. He’d known her for such a short time, but she was in the compartment in his heart marked Family, just like Ivan and Melvyn.

  He felt in his pocket for his mobile. In his phone book he hesitated over Ivan, then scrolled past. Melvyn. He hesitated longer. He thought of his brothers, each living in a nice little semi full of family. He tried to envisage himself moving in for a while, just until he was well. Being looked after by a sister-in-law.

  Being stuck in the house all day with a sister-in-law.

  His sisters-in-law were OK, as brothers’ wives go. But not bright, not snappy, not interesting company.

  He scrolled down once more. STM. His thumb hovered over the green button. He missed Stella. He let himself think for several moments about Stella’s soft little hands stroking his clunky, painful limbs. He really missed her.

  He pressed the button. ‘Oh God, Stella! I miss you.’

  And her voice, breathy and sexy, surprised, incredulous. ‘Gareth.’

  Two hours later he was swinging himself down his garden path with Stella wobbling beside him in shoes that sank into the grass. ‘Can you cope with getting into the car? I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re really leaving home. I had to pretend to my boss I felt ill, to get away.’

  The car journey – in another titchy girly vehicle – was a bit teeth-gritting, even worse than getting back downstairs had been. But he’d taken his Tramadol and they were making the pain fuzzy at the edges.

  Stella was taking him to her flat for now. He’d arrange the move into the cottage from there. Stella’s apartment block had a lift, there were no stairs at all. Bliss.