The Darkest Secret

by Alex Marwood

  ‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Lovely to see such loyalty, I must say. Sweet. Good old family secrets, eh? Always best when you keep them to themselves.’

  A silence as thick as mud has fallen on the room. He looks at each of us in turn. Waves the fork in the air. ‘Anyway, hypocrisy aside, I’m just reminding you, Robert,’ he says, ‘money can make people desperate. Or lack of it, anyway. Sean didn’t seem to have trouble understanding that.’

  That’s a threat. Of some sort. I look round the table. It’s plain to see that everyone recognises it for what it is. Even Ruby. She’s staring at her plate, but she’s not eating.

  He goes back to his food. ‘I’m pretty much brassic,’ he says. ‘Guess if I don’t find a way to sort it out I’ll have to start looking around for other ways to make a living.’

  ‘Like get a job?’ asks Joe, and his tone is no longer teasing.

  ‘Oh, very droll, sonny,’ says Jimmy. ‘And what are you doing to make a living?’

  ‘He’s at university,’ says Robert.

  ‘Well, good for you,’ says Jimmy. ‘You come back to me when you’re my age and see how smug you are then.’

  Noises in the hall. I see the whites of Robert’s eyes. ‘If you don’t shut up, right now, and behave yourself,’ he hisses, ‘I can guarantee you that there will be nothing, ever. Do you understand?’

  Jimmy shrugs again. He has quite the talent for shrugging, with those bony shoulders.

  Simone and Maria come back in. Maria is carrying a silver gravy boat. She puts it down in front of Imogen and gives her her sweetest smile, one that tells her how perfectly she understands her discomfort and would do whatever she could to relieve it. God, I like Maria. I can’t help it. She’s a true mensch. Imogen thanks her humbly and spoons some mint sauce on to the side of her half-emptied plate. ‘Delicious,’ she says. ‘Just perfect. Thank you so much.’

  Simone ignores her. She has a cardboard box in her hands. It once held a Dualit toaster, I notice. Of course. Nothing but top-end in this house. She comes over to Ruby and puts it down on the table beside her. Between her and Joe, I notice, not Jimmy. Doesn’t trust him not to steal whatever’s in it, I think.

  ‘There’s some stuff in here you might want to look at,’ she says.

  ‘What is it?’ Ruby stirs her food around some more. Nobody seems to have much of an appetite, apart from Charlie and Jimmy, who would eat through the zombie apocalypse. Perhaps I could send them up to Claire’s to clear some of those dining-room shelves.

  ‘It’s your father’s jewellery.’

  ‘Jewellery?’

  She looks impatient. ‘Oh, whatever you call it. I don’t know. Watches and cufflinks and stuff. Things made of metal that men wear. You need to go through it and take the stuff you want. I’m sure there are things in there you’ll find interesting.’

  Ruby looks uncertain. ‘Don’t you want them, Simone? I mean, I’d love… you know, something. A keepsake. But they’re yours.’

  Simone’s face hardens. Some resentment, some rage bubbling under that I don’t really understand. Or maybe I do. The humiliation must be appalling. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not this stuff. There’s plenty more, from when he was with me. This is the stuff from before. Take it. It’ll only go to the charity shop otherwise.’

  Ruby doesn’t hear the underlying message. ‘But surely Emma would like… I mean, when she’s older?’

  ‘No,’ says Simone. ‘Not this.’

  ‘I —’

  ‘Whatever,’ says Simone. ‘I just thought you might like them, that’s all. Go through them tomorrow and take what you want.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Ruby. ‘Sure.’ Then, humbly, ‘Just me, or me and Mila?’

  ‘Mila?’ Simone frowns.

  ‘Me,’ I say. ‘She means me.’ I’m touched that Ruby has taken my name on board, but I can see it’s going to cause all sorts of complications. I’ll always be Milly to these people.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Yes, of course. And you must pick out some stuff for India too, of course. Yes. Anyway. I don’t want them. Just take them, will you?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. I’ll talk to Ruby later. Might be best if we take the lot and keep some stuff back for Emma. If we even know her when we’re old. God, I’ll be forty by the time she’s Ruby’s age.

  Simone sits down. Starts to eat, mechanically and silently, ploughing through her cold food without any apparent enjoyment. She’s set the tone for the evening now. She and Jimmy between them. I don’t think anyone wants to say anything much, in case they set someone off. If I were the Clutterbucks, I’d be longing to get to that hotel.

  Jimmy finishes scooping up his couscous and pushes his plate away.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘how about a toast to absent friends?’

  Everyone looks at him, silently.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  2004 | Saturday | Simone

  There’s a level of determination to their high spirits. The row between Sean and Claire has made them step up their game, show the world – show the party-pooper – what having a Good Time looks like. The women are leading the pack, giggling and glittering and flirting as though life itself were at stake. And Claire sits at the foot of the table, all hurt dignity and single-word responses and the oh-very-funny two-hit chuckle when someone addresses her directly. Her eyes are perpetually on her husband, the way a cat watches a bird in a cage.

  Poor man, thinks Simone. And on his birthday, as well. She really is a pill. He’s put on this magnificent spread for us, and she’s doing her best to spoil it. She’s not even made much effort with her clothes. Everyone else has dressed in their best, but she looks as though she’s fished that frock from the back of the wardrobe and accessorised with her eyes closed.

  She’s heard of meals like this, but this is the first she’s ever attended. Sean has booked the entire terrace of the Canard Doré and it feels as though they have the whole harbour-front to themselves. Longing eyes gaze at their luxurious unused space through the smoked-glass doors that lie between them and the air-conditioned interior, but no one else will get a sea breeze tonight. Her menu card tells her that they are on the third course of nine, but the amuse-gueules in between have been as sumptuous as the main events. A little pot of caviar each, two fat, buttery oysters with horseradish on the side to make them squirm, a nid d’escargot, which proved to be a vol au vent filled with garlicky snails (she wasn’t so sure about this, but the adults wolfed it down with relish so she followed suit; the point, of course, being to reward their host’s largesse with pantomime enjoyment), followed by a shot glass of an exquisite sweet-yet-savoury basil ice cream to clean the palate. Now she’s looking at an oblong of slate on which four slices of jewel-coloured sashimi rest next to a tiny spire of something green, three perfect pea shoots, a little china cup of sake and a pair of elegant gilt-plated chopsticks.

  In her gold shift dress and her peep-toe sandals, an array of borrowed bangles on her wrist and seed pearls dropping from her ears, Simone feels more sophisticated, more adult, than she has ever felt before. And Sean has honoured her with the seat at his left hand, Linda Innes to his right. She glows with pride at the compliment, even though he is giving most of his attention to the older woman. It’s not that surprising. His manners are exquisite, and of course he has to make Linda feel wanted. Simone can see nothing to dread about the state of adulthood. A few more years to gather conversation and learn the skills, and she will be a butterfly.

  Claire pushes her chair back and stands up. ‘I’m going to go and check,’ she announces.

  The conversation dies back and they all look at her. Among these glittering beings, she looks self-consciously dowdy in her cover-all dress. It’s deliberate, thinks Simone. A deliberate humiliation for her husband, showing him how little she values him. She doesn’t deserve him. She doesn’t deserve the things she has.

  ‘If you must,’ says Sean.

  ‘It’s been over an hour. We said every half-hour.’

  ‘Let us know
if the house has burnt down.’ He picks up his chopsticks and turns his attention away. Claire looks confused for a moment, as though she’d hoped for more of a response. ‘Well what with Ruby being ill,’ she says, then picks up her bag and her shawl and leaves. They all wait as she crosses the terrace, lets herself in through the sliding door and pulls it closed.

  ‘Phew,’ says Charlie. ‘We can start having fun now.’

  The table explodes with laughter.

  ‘Happy birthday, Seanie!’ cries Charlie Clutterbuck, and the guests laugh again and clink their glasses together.

  ‘Oh, good,’ says Sean. ‘I was beginning to think no one had noticed.’

  I noticed, thinks Simone. Oh, Sean, darling, I noticed. Only an idiot would fail to spot how badly she treats you.

  ‘I think it won’t be long before our Seanie gets his marching orders,’ says Jimmy, and everybody stops laughing with a gulp. Imogen chokes on her champagne, needs a slap on the back from Robert. He’s completely tone-deaf, thinks Simone. Then Sean raises his glass once more and clinks with him. ‘Bring it on,’ he says. ‘Though I don’t hold out much hope. She has some qualms about the girls. Doesn’t want to leave them without a father or something.’

  ‘Or something,’ repeats Linda, sarcastically.

  ‘Besides,’ says Sean, ‘it’s not like she won’t be insisting I do access visits every five minutes, like Heather does.’

  Oh, thinks Simone, it really is like that. Poor Sean. I suppose he has to give them children. It’s part of marriage, isn’t it? People seem to have children without even thinking about it, and then the children become blackmail, to make them stay.

  ‘I know,’ says Imogen, oblivious, ‘children are awfully resilient. It’s not as if Indy and Milly have suffered much, is it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Sean, magnanimously. He always wants to be fair, Simone thinks. Always tries to see the other person’s view. ‘I’m sure they have their grievances.’

  ‘We all do,’ says Imogen. ‘Time to grow up, frankly.’

  ‘Poor little sods, dealing with the pony shortage,’ says Charlie, and everyone laughs again.

  ‘Not much grazing for ponies in Maida Vale,’ Simone ventures, and is rewarded with another burst of laughter and a clap on the back from Charlie Clutterbuck that makes her very skeleton rattle.

  Maria smears a dot of green stuff on a lump of something that’s a pale creamy yellow and pops it into her mouth with her chopsticks. Closes her eyes as she chews, swallows. ‘My God, you’ve pulled out all the stops tonight, darling,’ she says. ‘What is this?’

  ‘That was sea urchin,’ he says. ‘The others are carp, otoro and a nice fat scallop. I tried to get hold of a fugu, but finding a chef who will prepare it is pretty much impossible outside Japan.’

  ‘What? No larks’ tongues?’ asks Jimmy.

  ‘Fugu?’ asks Simone.

  ‘Puffer fish. One wrong slice and it’s —’ He draws his chopsticks across his throat, dramatically.

  ‘My God. Have you ever eaten it?’

  ‘No,’ he says, sadly. ‘I’d hoped tonight would be the night.’

  ‘Aw. Poor Seanie’s yet to lose his fugunity,’ says Jimmy, but no one laughs this time.

  ‘And where on earth did you get hold of carp?’

  He hoots with laughter, picks up his sake and swallows it down. ‘Bought it live from a koi dealer in Wilmslow. Didn’t tell him what it was going to be used for.’

  Charlie bellows. ‘You’re incorrigible!’

  ‘It’s all fish at the end of the day, isn’t it? I couldn’t exactly get it flown in from Kyoto and still have it fresh enough, could I?’

  Sushi. She’s seen it through windows, but no one’s ever taken her, yet, not even to one of those conveyor-belt places. Gavila family outings tend to be constructed around Joaquin’s tastes, and she can imagine the gagging sounds if someone tried to feed him raw fish. She feels slightly nervous about it herself, but everyone around her is smacking their lips over the stuff as though it were sweeties. And after all, she’s eaten two oysters today, and if she can manage snails she can manage this too.

  Sean glances at her slate. ‘Go on,’ he says, ‘try it. It’s a great delicacy.’

  So are hundred-year-old eggs, she thinks. And duck web.

  ‘My first sushi,’ she says, in a low voice.

  ‘Sashimi,’ he corrects. ‘I can guarantee it won’t be your last.’

  He reaches across with his own chopsticks and smears a little of the green stuff on to what looks to her like a piece of tuna. ‘Wasabi,’ he informs her. ‘The real thing, not that fake stuff you buy in tubes.’ He picks up the morsel and holds it in front of her mouth. ‘Take.’

  She takes it whole into her mouth, imitates Maria by closing her eyes as she tastes. The pungent wasabi fills her nose, makes her want to sneeze, makes tears spring up behind her closed eyelids. She almost spits it out, then – boom! – the pain passes and her senses are consumed by the glorious fatty richness, velvet and cream together, not as fishy as she’d expected, not salty, as she imagined a sea-fish would be. Exquisite.

  She opens her eyes. He is watching her, a half-smile playing on his lips. So is the rest of the table. She’s made uneasy by the expression on Jimmy’s face: a sort of greed combined with amusement. She ignores him. He’s creepy. Creepy and drunk. She flutters her eyelashes at Sean the way she’s seen Linda do. ‘Delicious,’ she says. ‘My God, that’s wonderful. I had no idea.’

  His smile widens. She glances up the table and sees her father watching them. His expression is unreadable, but she suspects that not everything it contains is good.

  ‘Hurrah! A new experience for you!’ says Sean, and turns abruptly to Linda. Before the older woman rearranges her features, Simone catches something speculative on them, a trace of annoyance. Is she jealous? she wonders. Of me? And she feels a tiny shiver of triumph run through her body.

  They pick up their chopsticks and continue to eat.

  The amuse-gueule this time isn’t food at all. It’s a tiny glass of eau de vie from, he says, the southwest of France, where the best foie gras comes from. The alcohol content is so ferocious it takes her breath away, makes her cough, and the grown-ups laugh at her consternation. She doesn’t mind. The waiting staff haven’t even blinked as they’ve served her her drinks. For the first time in her life she stands among the adults unchallenged.

  A couple of minutes later, the alcohol hits her brain like a speeding train. She actually sways in her seat, grips the table-edge for fear that she is about to fall off. No one looks as though they’ve noticed, or have responded to the drink as she has, but an invisible hand has suddenly turned up the volume on the conversation.

  The first wave passes, leaves her garrulous and smiling. Jimmy and Linda light cigarettes – Marlboro menthol – and Linda offers her one. She takes it.

  ‘No.’ Robert raises his voice from up the table. ‘Absolutely not, Simone. No.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ says Charlie. ‘It’s a party. What is this, the New Labour conference?’

  ‘She’s fifteen,’ says Robert, and everyone cranes around at once to see if anyone from the restaurant has heard. But they’re alone on the terrace. Indoors someone is pan-frying foie gras while someone else pours out nine glasses of Monbazillac to go with it.

  ‘Typical lawyer,’ sneers Jimmy Orizio. ‘Always parading the letter of the law when it’s in public.’

  Linda reaches across her host and sparks up her lighter. Simone, delighted with the outrage she’s caused in her father, sucks on the cigarette, suppresses the urge to cough then holds the thing in the air between index and third fingers the way Bette Davis does in the movies. She pouts a stream of smoke out into the warm seaside air. She can’t claim that she’s enjoying this particular experience all that much – it’s making her head spin again – but tonight is clearly a night for rites of passage. It will all be different tomorrow, she thinks. Everything will have changed. She puts the filter to
her lips again. It seems to have become damply cool against her skin.

  ‘I can’t say I much like the sight of a little girl smoking, myself,’ says Sean, and the minimal pleasure is gone. She takes one more drag, just to show that she has a mind of her own, and then she stubs it out. Sits back in her chair, feeling slightly squashed, but then feels cheered by the rush of all the adult pleasures she’s experienced tonight.

  ‘This is the most fun time I’ve ever had,’ she declares.

  Another ripple of laughter. ‘Plenty more to come,’ says Sean. ‘Don’t worry. I envy you your youth.’

  The foie gras arrives. Charlie leans over and helps himself to Claire’s. One by one, the women take theirs off the slices of toasted brioche on which they sit, and push the bread aside.

  ‘I suppose,’ says Imogen, ‘we should draw lots as to who’s going to go next before Helicopter Mother comes back.’

  Charlie groans. ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Charlie,’ says Maria. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s going to be asking you to go.’

  ‘But really. It’s so disruptive.’

  ‘I know,’ says Sean. ‘What on earth possessed us to have them?’

  ‘You know she’ll just go herself if one of us doesn’t,’ says Imogen.

  Charlie harrumphs. ‘So? Look, if people want to impose their values on everybody else they need to understand that they won’t be absolved of the consequences. If she wants to hover over them while they’re asleep, let her.’

  Simone sees her chance. ‘I’ll go!’ she chirps.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ says Sean, and she feels warmed by his concern. ‘You did far more than your fair share last night as it is.’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t mind. She’ll miss this beautiful dinner.’

  She’s looked at what’s coming up and seen that it’s chateaubriand with truffles. After the next inter-course treat would be a fine time to duck out and earn her brownie points. It won’t take that long to do what she needs to do, and the following course is only mangosteen sorbet. She doesn’t much care for truffles and has no idea what a mangosteen is. She won’t really miss it if she never finds out.