Concealment

by Rose Edmunds

  ***

  ‘Hoarding,’ said Lisa incredulously, as we sat in Daly’s after work. I’d finally got round to the Big Secret after a lengthy rant about my demotion, Greg’s disloyalty and Smithies’ vindictiveness.

  Gulping at my wine as though it was a magic potion, I spilled out my story as if I was in a confessional, including the antics of the meddlesome Hope woman.

  ‘But when you wouldn’t share with me, I figured it was something terrible.’

  ‘It was terrible.’

  ‘What—growing up in a messy house?’

  I sighed. The recent TV shows had helped people understand hoarding, but they didn’t show the full horror. I would have to take Lisa to the house for her to experience the smell and the stifling oppression of all the stuff inside it. And I couldn’t bring myself to mention the plumbing situation—the final taboo.

  Moreover, that was just the physical discomfort. How could I begin to explain the humiliation that was indissolubly linked with the mess? What words could adequately convey the pervasive shame, the sensation of being different, and the ever-present fear of discovery? Would someone with her brash confidence ever understand the aftermath, the enduring sense of unworthiness, the fear that the higher I soared, the further I must fall?

  ‘It’s easier to talk about it now,’ I explained. ‘But growing up, I had no word to describe the chaos, no support groups on the internet, no TV shows. I honestly believed we were the only family in the world who lived like that. I felt so ashamed. I’m still so ashamed.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Imagine you’d grown up somewhere so squalid you can’t ask your friends in. Suppose you had to invent excuses for why they can’t come over.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have made excuses—the mess was down to your mum, not you.’

  ‘True, but she always told me it was my fault, that I was such a bad daughter she gave up all hope. And I believed her. It’s not so easy as a kid when the person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally tries to manipulate you like that. And those stuck-up bitches at school would have been appalled—I couldn’t have faced them.’

  ‘That’s a posh school for you,’ said Lisa, as ever losing no opportunity to ridicule my middle-class background.

  ‘The fact is, hoarding is a form of child abuse.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’

  ‘No—it’s not. Kids have a right to a clean and safe environment and parents have a duty to provide it.’

  ‘But you’ve grown up alright, so it can’t have been too bad.’

  In that one disparaging sentence, Lisa had cut to the heart of the matter. Yes, I’d been desperate to have “grown up alright”—in itself a form of denial. Yet if I was honest, the hoarding had affected every aspect of my life.

  Sharing my insecurities with Lisa had never been easy, because I needed her to admire and respect me. But without explaining in more detail, she would continue to belittle my suffering, incapable of comprehending how fundamental my upbringing had been to the person I’d become. And how could I criticise her, when I’d scarcely begun to realise it myself?

  ‘Is this why you cut her out of your life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if that’s how she likes to live…?’

  ‘I can’t forgive her for forcing me to endure it.’

  ‘But you’ve left now.’

  ‘I don’t care to be associated with anyone who lives in a pigsty, particularly someone in denial about their illness.’

  ‘Well you are something of a neat freak,’ said Lisa, as if the fault lay with me for being too intolerant and judgmental.

  ‘Now you know why.’

  ‘I still don’t get it though. Why was it so difficult to tell me the truth?’

  She had stumped me there. Over thirty years, a routine of secrecy becomes ingrained and the reasons for it buried in the mists of time. Moreover, shame doesn’t disappear overnight.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘It seemed… impossible…’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t lied to me yesterday about being in a meeting. I mean, even as I was having a go at you for keeping secrets you were up to your old tricks. It’s starting to annoy me.’

  ‘It annoyed me that you grassed me up to Smithies.’

  ‘He asked where you were—how was I to know you were lying about it?’

  Fair enough, I supposed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘You keep saying sorry—I just wish you’d change.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Anyway, if you want my advice about the hoarding, you need to sort out your strategy. That woman expects action.’

  ‘I don’t care what she expects—I don’t have to do anything.’

  ‘You’ll feel guilty if you don’t,’ she said, unwittingly echoing Smithies.

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ I said, although in truth my conscience still troubled me.

  ‘Even so, why don’t you draw a line under this once and for all—hire a firm to have it all cleared out while she’s in hospital?’

  ‘There are firms to do that?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, as though I was a cretin. ‘Something needs doing. You have money, someone will be happy to take it and sort it out.’

  What a great idea. During the previous clean-up, my mother had been at home, and I’d been obliged to pussyfoot around her, picking through the crap item by item. I’d endured three weeks of histrionics and resistance. This time, I would decide what to chuck out—in fact, I’d pretty much decided already—almost all of it must go. And I could hire someone to do the legwork, an idea I hadn’t considered previously. It sounded so easy, and yet it was impossible.

  ‘She’d never agree to it.’

  ‘So don’t ask her.’

  Was that really an option? I asked myself.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘No—don’t think—do it. You’ll feel better afterwards and who knows—once the place is tidy she may keep it in order.’

  Little Amy would cling to that hope, I knew, but the adult Amy didn’t believe in miracles anymore.

  ‘I’d be surprised.’

  ‘But won’t you visit her in the hospital?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Not as an expression of hope in the future?’

  ‘Especially not as that.’

  ‘But she’s the only mother you’ve got.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  There was little more to be said about the hoarding, but Lisa wasn’t done with dispensing her advice.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning,’ she said. ‘But I do think you’re being a bit paranoid about Smithies.’

  I did mind, because she’d obviously miscalculated the strength of the man’s will to bring me down.

  ‘Paranoid? Not a chance. First, he leaves me to deal single-handedly with the media. Then he gossips about me and Ryan. After that, he drops me in it with Bailey, demotes me, and spreads snide rumours about my drinking. I’m convinced he’s trying to destroy me.’

  ‘Hm,’ she said.

  ‘And don’t forget, he tried to block your promotion.’

  ‘Well, he is a total scumbag,’ Lisa agreed. ‘But you’ve done yourself no favours. If you hadn’t slept with Ryan there wouldn’t be anything to gossip about. If you hadn’t mouthed off at your mum’s neighbour, she wouldn’t have called Bailey. And let’s face it, you do drink a bit too much.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be my friend.’

  ‘A friend tells you the truth, hon, even if it’s not always what you want to hear.’

  ‘Yeah—sure. And you’d never tell a lie, would you?’

  It was a standing joke between us. She’d written the exact phrase “I never tell a lie” in her partnership application papers. I’d tried to exercise my editorial control and change it to “I have a refreshingly honest approach”, because to claim never to lie subtly suggested that others did. But she’d batted awa
y my suggestion—this was her submission and she’d word it her way.

  ‘Fact is,’ she told me sternly, ‘you’d be better off getting Smithies on side than making an enemy of him.’

  ‘What, like you are?’ I said in sarcastic tones.

  ‘Point taken, but seriously…’

  ‘I can’t—he’s not just a scumbag. He’s a truly evil person.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think he killed Isabelle.’

  She was so astounded at this, that she knocked over her wine glass.

  ‘In the name of God, why?’ she asked, mopping at the spillage dripping from the table.

  ‘Because she found evidence of fraud at the slate mine, he murdered her to save his brother-in-law’s skin.’

  She eyed me sternly as she grabbed another wad of napkins.

  ‘Now you have to admit that is nuts.’

  ‘It isn’t. Why did Smithies go to Bailey and tell him I was spreading rumours?’

  ‘Because he thought you were?’

  ‘No—he expected Bailey to blow up and scare me off delving into this any further.’

  ‘There is nothing to delve into though—you spoke to Greg and there’s nothing in it. Let it go, Amy—believing your boss is a murderer reeks of paranoia.’

  After completing the clean-up, she refilled her glass with the remnants of the wine, then held up the empty bottle.

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Like you said, I’m drinking too much.’

  As we walked in silence to the Tube station, I found it impossible to suppress a growing conviction that Smithies’ poison had spread to Lisa. But didn’t that reek of paranoia too?

  ***

  There’s a good reason everyone advises you to delete your ex’s number from your phone.

  Far from making me more chilled about the day’s events, the wine had stoked my anger. And as I strolled home from the Underground I found myself dialling Greg’s number.

  He amazed me by answering. He was no Einstein, but even so he ought to have anticipated a furious outburst.

  ‘Yes, Amy.’

  I caught an edge of weary resignation in his voice.

  ‘What possessed you to tell Smithies about Ryan?’ I demanded.

  ‘He sensed something was up—said you’d been hopping around like a cat on a hot griddle every time he mentioned Ryan’s name. He actually thought it was much worse than a one-night stand, so I helped you out by setting him straight.’

  ‘Yeah—I’m so fucking grateful.’

  ‘Amy—are you drunk?’

  ‘No, I’m stone cold bloody sober. Why does everyone think I’m a complete soak?’

  The silence at the other end of the line answered that question as eloquently as anything he might have said.

  ‘And why mention what we discussed on JJ? Smithies shouldn’t have any involvement on that client. Plus, he got onto Bailey pronto and I’ve had a severe bollocking, which I totally didn’t need right now.’

  Despite my efforts to stay calm, the pitch of my voice had risen by an octave or so.

  ‘Amy, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you seem a bit overwrought.’

  ‘Unlike you—cool as a cucumber. Your brother’s being held on a murder charge—no sweat. Isabelle’s killed because she finds some dodgy stuff on one of your clients—what the heck? You and that audit guy with the intellect of an ape agree that it’s easier all round to ignore any problems. Easy to see where your priorities lie, Greg.’

  ‘That’s simply not true. Can you imagine how hurtful it is when you suggest I’d let my own brother go to the wall? Amy, I promise you there’s nothing untoward going on at JJ. Now, if you’ll excuse me we have guests.’

  ‘We—yes—Tiffany — that stupid little tart of a secretary you married.’

  ‘Well, it’s a damned sight better than being married to all your secrets. Why the hell didn’t you ever tell me about your mother?’

  ‘Smithies shouldn’t have told you. He promised he’d keep it confidential.’

  ‘Dammit, he assumed I knew,’ Greg replied. ‘Jesus—we were together for three years—what sort of marriage did we have with that coming between us?’

  ‘You were always such a judgmental prick—perhaps that’s why I kept quiet.’

  ‘Amy,’ he said, ‘listening to the way you’re talking, I’m feeling you might benefit from some professional help. Would you like me to…?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Piss off.’

  As I hung up, I spotted Little Amy lurking in a shop doorway. She said nothing, but smirked triumphantly.

  21

  I hadn’t yet hauled myself out of bed and into the shower when my phone rang. It had been another uncomfortable night in the hoard house, this time trapped with a fire raging and no means of escape. Now I lay dozing quietly in an attempt to regain my equilibrium.

  I came to with a jump. Shit—Smithies—at 7.02. Didn’t he realise how these early morning calls unsettled me? On second thoughts, maybe that was his intention.

  ‘Hi there,’ I said as brightly as I could manage.

  ‘Just calling to check how you’re holding up after the shocking news.’

  ‘What news?’ I asked, my stomach tightening.

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Ryan Kelly’s committed suicide—hanged himself. It’s breaking on Sky.’

  ‘Oh God—no.’

  I sank back into the pillows, shaken to the core. I hadn’t seen this coming at all.

  ‘I thought you’d be shocked,’ he said, sounding pleased.

  Shocked didn’t even come close to describing it.

  ‘Why yes. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Obviously,’ he said breezily. ‘Although, I must admit this does bring the whole episode to a nice tidy conclusion, doesn’t it?’

  The most loathsome aspect of this statement was its accuracy, and it applied to me even more than Smithies. Ryan’s death meant I wouldn’t have to regale the court with an account of my drunken one-night stand. Even better, any potential charge as an accessory had surely died along with him.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ I agreed.

  ‘I’m heading into the office now and I’ll do what I can to calm the troops. No need for you to rush in though—I expect you’d like some time to compose yourself, given how close you were to Ryan.’

  ‘Thank you for thinking of me,’ I said tartly.

  I flicked on the television. The media gloves were off. No trial meant no contempt of court, and you cannot libel the dead. They enjoyed complete freedom to say what they liked about poor Ryan, and they made the most of it.

  The consensus was that he’d been guilty and unable to live with the crime he’d committed. Nobody suggested that following a wrongful arrest he’d had zero faith that justice would be done. I sat on the arm of the sofa, mesmerised by the commentary, and weighed down with guilt.

  I should have done more to defend him—should have promoted him. Hell, if he’d been given his promotion he would have been with Isabelle that night and she would have been safe. Instead, he’d spent the night with me and then I’d betrayed him too. In my heart, I knew he hadn’t left my house at the critical time, yet I’d capitulated quickly under pressure to save my own skin.

  There were no tears though, because I don’t do grief. The sudden death of a parent leaves you with few illusions as to the transient nature of life. Grief is a silly, selfish emotion. The dead person has gone and is indifferent to your feelings, so your misery is wholly centred round your own inability to adjust to the loss. Me—I can adjust to anything.

  In truth, if I was able to stomach the guilt, Ryan’s death brought an opportunity for closure and rebalancing my life. I would clear out my mother’s squalor then move on, and I would stand up to Smithies instead of allowing him to bully me. Finally, I would forget any ideas of uncovering any double-dealing at JJ—better to let it lie, whatever the truth. It would be a neat and tidy end to everythin
g, just as Smithies had suggested.

  But as you must realise by now, life is never neat and tidy for me.

  22

  Pearson Malone sent a sympathy card and a wreath—Smithies’ doing, of course. Although Ryan hadn’t quite been posthumously transformed into Employee of the Year, he’d graduated from being public enemy number one. His death had erased most of the complications preceding it, not least the need to fire him.

  Smithies suggested I should attend the funeral on behalf of the firm ‘as you’ll presumably be going anyway’. Purely because I couldn’t think how to refuse, I agreed.

  I was determined not to let the depressing corporate hypocrisy around Ryan’s death drag me down. I had much to do.

  First came ‘Project Mother’.

  As Lisa had suggested, if you have the money, there’s no task that can’t be delegated. I was stunned by the number of clearance outfits in the London area, offering comprehensive solutions to an obviously widespread issue.

  Clearall described themselves as “hoard clearance specialists” on their website, with particular expertise in trauma situations and council properties. Why a council house should be any different from any other property mystified me—maybe I should ask them. They claimed, somewhat brazenly, to provide a solution to any situation. That remained to be seen, but agreeing to meet me the same evening was a promising start.

  Unquestionably, my main motivation was to fulfil other people’s expectations. I felt more comfortable with my subsidiary motive, which was to capitalise on a unique opportunity for action, and to ensure I never found myself in the same position again. This time I would foot the bill, but if my mother re-hoarded, she’d have to face the consequences on her own—there would be no repeat performance. And if she didn’t—perhaps our relationship might be salvaged. But I didn’t hold out much hope.

  My cheeks flushed as Andy, Clearall’s managing director, coldly appraised the level of squalor. Alongside my lingering embarrassment, I wrestled with a sense of inadequacy. Even as a child, my failure to keep the house presentable shamed me, and the blame my mother heaped upon me did nothing to allay my distress. Little Amy could be exonerated, but grown-up Amy found it tougher to disclaim responsibility. I wasn’t even an average adult, but a high-flier who cut a swathe through complex challenges every day. It seemed ridiculous to have allowed matters to reach this stage. But as Andy bluntly pointed out, if the families could sort their hoarding relatives, he wouldn’t make a living.