The Winter Secret

by Lulu Taylor

‘Excuse me, I must have missed the part where Charles qualified as a doctor and specialised in obstetrics and gynaecology with a sideline in fertility problems.’ Hazel made a face. ‘I don’t mean to sound snide but what the hell does he know? If you’re anxious about it, then he should have been happy to go – no, scratch that – he should have been the one suggesting it.’ She sighed crossly. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

  Buttercup stared at her friend, startled by the strength of her response. There was a vehemence she’d never heard before when Hazel talked about Charles. ‘I’ve always felt you’re not that keen on him, but you’ve never voiced any criticism of him. Not to me, at least.’

  Hazel bit her lip awkwardly, then said, ‘Oh, honey. I don’t want to be unfair to him and I don’t want to stick my oar in when you’re so happy.’

  ‘Yes, I am happy and he treats me amazingly.’

  ‘Almost too well.’

  ‘That can’t be why you don’t like him! Is it because he’s divorced? Older than me?’

  ‘I do like him,’ protested Hazel. ‘But it’s more the way he’s so . . . all over you.’

  ‘He’s my husband,’ Buttercup said coolly. ‘And we’re only two years married. Of course he’s all over me.’

  ‘It’s more than just romantic. I mean – don’t you find it at all stifling? He keeps you sitting in that huge house all on your own, endless staff to run your life. I can’t reconcile that with my old Buttercup, that’s all. You were always so independent, so energetic . . .’ Hazel shook her head. ‘I’m worried that it doesn’t make you happy.’

  ‘That’s up to me, not to Charles. As it happens, I’ve been thinking about getting back to work. I’ve sent Lazlo an email asking if he’d like me to start networking for him in Dorset.’

  ‘Great idea. But what does Charles think about it?’

  ‘I haven’t told him yet. I’m sure he’ll be completely supportive though.’ Buttercup fought down a sense of rising irritation with her old friend and what she was implying.

  ‘I hope so. I just don’t like the fact that you’re afraid of his reaction to the fertility clinic.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she said obstinately, then suddenly remembered her anxiety when Rose told her that Charles would see the bank statements, and her bewilderment that he should ask about her movements. She pushed that quickly out of her mind.

  Hazel took a sip of her wine, then she said quickly, ‘Sorry, Buttercup, I’ve been totally heartless. What did your results from the clinic say?’

  ‘It’s good news. In a way.’ Buttercup bent down and pulled a sheaf of paper from her bag. She unfolded it and flicked through the attachments: scans and tables and graphs and statistics and all the conclusions they led to. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I should be getting pregnant. There’s no explanation as to why I wouldn’t.’ She passed the pages over to Hazel, who took them and flicked through with interest. ‘It seems I’m as normal as normal can be. So it’s unexplained infertility . . . we can only keep trying for now.’

  Hazel glanced up from the report. ‘Or it’s not you. It’s Charles.’

  ‘I think the fact of James and Charlotte rules that out. So I’m back where I started. We want a baby but I’m just not getting pregnant.’ Buttercup eyed the glass of wine she was sipping, and put it down. She picked up her water instead. ‘Not so far.’

  ‘You need to talk to Charles. Make sure he knows exactly how you feel. Tell him that you need his support and he’s going to damn well give it. You need to be strong with him. Explain that if you don’t get pregnant soon, you want more tests.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll tell him tonight. I know he’ll be fine with it.’ As she said it, she was certain she was right. She would explain, and Charles would understand.

  ‘Good. I want you to be happy, Buttercup, honestly I do. You deserve it.’

  Buttercup arrived back at the flat before Charles did, and went straight to bed, telling herself she would talk to him about the clinic in the morning. When he came in, trying to tiptoe but crashing about, smelling of wine and whisky, she was almost asleep in any case. She was only half aware as he threw his clothes over the back of a chair, pulled on pyjama bottoms and then snuggled up beside her, one arm snaking around her and pulling her tight.

  ‘Good night, my darling,’ he murmured, kissing her hair. ‘My sleeping beauty. Good night.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Buttercup and Charles had breakfast together the next day, and although she meant to raise the subject of her tests, in no time he was standing up to leave. ‘I’m off to work, my love. Meetings, meetings, and then a trip to Geneva again.’

  ‘Another one? When will you be home?’

  ‘I’ll be back for the weekend.’

  ‘That’s good. I had a message from Cathy Tranter. They want to open at the weekend, with a Bonfire Night party. I said we’d go.’

  Charles made a face as he put on his jacket. ‘A Bonfire Night party? Oh.’

  ‘I think we should support them.’

  ‘Let me think about it, darling. I’m sure it will be brilliant fun but I don’t know if it’s quite my cup of tea . . .’ He put his hand to his forehead suddenly. ‘I forgot to tell you! I bumped into Lazlo last night, quite by chance. He said to say thanks for your email but he’s not planning on expanding the business at the moment, he has more than enough to keep him busy.’ He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Were you thinking of going back to work?’

  Buttercup felt obscurely disappointed, not just that her idea would come to nothing but that Lazlo hadn’t bothered to write to her himself. Still, she reminded herself, he was always rubbish about getting in touch. That’s why he needed me. ‘Just an idle thought. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Fine. Don’t forget to text me when you get home.’ He picked up his coffee cup and drained the last of the liquid. ‘By the way, Charlotte isn’t coming to Charcombe at half-term. She’s meeting me in Geneva instead, I’m going to take her for a few treats while we’re out there. That’s okay, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er – yes. Of course. It’s a shame not to see her though.’

  ‘You will soon.’ He kissed her. ‘Bye, darling.’

  And he was gone.

  It was just after 9 a.m. when there was a knock at the door and Rose put her head round. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Come in, Rose, come and sit down.’ Buttercup beckoned her over to the long low white sofa with its view over the terrace to the rooftops of London. ‘Would you like a coffee or something?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She came over, smart in a navy dress, her eyes a little apprehensive behind her spectacles. ‘Is everything okay? Elaine said you want to ask me something about the flat?’

  ‘I do want to ask you something, but not really about the flat.’ Buttercup sat down and Rose did the same, smoothing her dress underneath her as she perched gingerly on the edge of the sofa. ‘But it’s about the talk we had the other day.’

  Rose looked a touch uncomfortable but said airily, ‘Fire away, Mrs R.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve realised that I don’t understand the office, or how you and Elaine work with my husband.’

  ‘Elaine does all the personal stuff,’ Rose said quickly. ‘I just do admin.’

  ‘Yes. But what does that entail? How does it affect me? I suppose I thought that things were just ticked off, filed away . . . I knew that the bank statements would be looked at, of course, but I didn’t realise that it’s all so scrutinised. I don’t have anything to hide, but I’d like to know what goes on.’

  A worried expression flitted over Rose’s face. ‘I just have to be careful, that’s all. I can’t talk about it.’

  ‘Even to me? I only want to know about the bits that pertain to me, can’t you talk about that?’

  ‘No, only to Elaine and the boss. I’ve had to sign some pretty strong confidentiality agreements.’

  Buttercup frowned, puzzled. ‘Let me get this clear. You can’t tell me t
hings that are about me? To do with my life?’

  ‘I would need to clear it, that’s all. I’m happy to ask what I’m allowed to disclose. But they’re going to want to know what you’ve said to me and why you want to know these things.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I know them?’

  ‘Because there’s no need.’ Rose looked pleading, locking her hands together around one knee, and knitting the fingers. ‘It all goes on so nicely. You get everything you want, we do everything for you. Honestly, it’s just . . . admin.’

  ‘Then what’s the harm in telling me about it?’ Buttercup was surprised; she’d imagined this would all be straightforward – Rose would tell her the procedures around her personal admin. What was the big secret? She hadn’t expected such a reluctance to say anything at all.

  Rose sighed, and looked away, biting her lip.

  Buttercup said gently, ‘I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, Rose. And I won’t tell anyone what you tell me.’

  ‘But if they find out, they’ll know it was me.’ She turned to face Buttercup. ‘You don’t understand – if there’s any suspicion that I’ve broken a rule, I’ll be out. Just like that. No excuses, no second chances. They’ll sack me so fast, I won’t have time to unpack my desk drawer. I’ve seen what the boss is like. He won’t be disobeyed, and he doesn’t like mistakes. And he hates disloyalty.’

  Buttercup stared at her, a strange feeling turning in her stomach. This didn’t sound like Charles. She knew he put a high price on loyalty, but that was a good thing, wasn’t it? He wasn’t the way Rose was making him sound: ruthless and unforgiving. He was fair, she knew that, and a great boss. How could he inspire such loyalty from the people around him if he wasn’t? It wasn’t just that he paid good salaries, surely.

  I am loyal, I know that. But what if Charles decided I wasn’t?

  ‘I don’t want to be dramatic about this,’ Rose said in a low voice, ‘but I’m getting married in the summer. There’s a wedding to pay for, and we’re saving up for a deposit on a flat. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’d rather say as little as possible.’

  Buttercup leaned in towards her and said in the same quiet tone, ‘Rose, do you trust Jacob? Do you intend to be open and honest with him all your life, and want him to be the same?’

  Rose hesitated and then said, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you surely understand that Charles would not mind me knowing what goes on with my information here in the office.’ Buttercup watched Rose absorb this. ‘Or do you know differently?’ She studied the other woman’s face and saw her chance. ‘Please, Rose. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.’

  Rose looked as though she were wavering.

  Buttercup said, ‘I know Charles keeps track of where I am. That’s only natural. I can see his online diary whenever I like. But is there more to it than just the diary? I have a feeling that there is . . . I think I’m more monitored than I know, and you’re all in on it. Is that right?’ She leaned forward even closer. ‘And is that how you would want to be treated, Rose?’

  Rose stared at the floor, evidently thinking. Then suddenly she looked up. ‘Okay. I can’t see that it will do any harm but I can’t tell you much because I don’t know much. All the information that concerns you is passed to Elaine, who collates it into a file and makes a weekly report that goes to the boss. I’ve never seen a report but I think it includes a timeline of your movements, plus all the financial information about what you’ve spent, where and when. There’s a database with the details of your activities – hairdressers, beauticians, trainers, memberships, clubs, friends . . . everything.’

  ‘A database?’ echoed Buttercup, shocked. ‘Really? But why?’

  ‘It’s for security reasons.’ Rose looked at her solemnly from behind her spectacles. ‘You must know that you’re a potential kidnap target.’

  ‘That’s why I’m monitored?’

  ‘Of course. Mr R would do anything to protect you. It’s all for your own safety.’

  Buttercup let out a breath, perplexed. ‘How does it protect me? I don’t think I’m threatened that much, am I? We’re not famous or royal or anything. I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s just what happens. I don’t know the reasons. It’s for security, that’s the only thing I’ve been told.’

  ‘Am I being followed?’

  Rose shook her head, smiling. ‘No! It’s nothing like that. Honestly. It’s my job to go through statements that come in from the accountants, approve them for payment or flag up anything unusual. That goes to Elaine and I supposed she puts it in the report.’

  The report. On me. It sounded so odd. But it’s to keep me safe, that’s all there is to it.

  Rose went on: ‘And I will have to give her the statement we discussed quite soon, or she’ll ask questions.’

  Buttercup sat back against the sofa cushions. ‘I haven’t told Charles about my appointment at Barrett Singh yet. I’m picking my moment and he’s away so much. Can you just approve the payment and not flag it up to Elaine? That way I’ll have time to discuss it all with Charles. I don’t want him to find out before I can tell him myself, I’m sure you can understand that.’

  Rose looked wary again. ‘If she notices, she’ll ask me why I didn’t mark it for her attention.’

  ‘Can you risk it for me, please, Rose? What would she do if she found out?’

  ‘Not much, I suppose. Remind me of my job.’

  ‘So . . . you will?’

  Rose hesitated, then said: ‘All right, I will. Just this one time, okay? I don’t want to get involved in any secrets.’

  ‘No. I promise. Just this one time.’

  Buttercup showed Rose out and then went to stand at the terrace windows, looking out over the London skyline.

  He wants to protect me, like any caring husband. What’s wrong with that?

  Perhaps he was taking his duty to look after her a bit too seriously. He knew she had no parents, no family that she was particularly close to; he clearly felt that he was her guardian as well her husband.

  I must talk to him about that. He doesn’t need to be intense about me. If we discuss it, I’m sure he’ll understand. All I have to do is be honest with him and everything will be fine.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fifteen

  Xenia found, to her surprise, that she looked forward to Agnieska’s visits. She couldn’t think why, as they barely spoke to one another and her English was too bad to have a real conversation, but having someone else in the house was a pleasurable novelty, and it broke the sometimes shattering loneliness of being by herself so much.

  She didn’t go out often, and certainly avoided the kinds of activities that other women her age were doing: the craft clubs, the gentle rambles, the history society. She doubted that she would be welcome at the over-60s lunch club, even if she wanted to attend such a thing. The villagers did not have much to do with her. When she went into the shop at the other side of the village, they went quiet and wouldn’t look at her. She was served with a cool politeness.

  She knew why. She had brought it upon herself by speaking her mind and refusing to let them succeed in their quest to break her and force her out during the worst times, when Papa was gone and she was forced to care alone for her mother.

  The villagers had not helped. They had turned against her, starting up petitions to have her removed and Mama taken away. Nasty letters arrived, berating her for the state of the house and the grounds, demanding she cut down trees or clear thistles or whatever it was that annoyed them. They sent social services and council officials – bossy people who had told her what to do and what regulations she had to obey, what stipulations she must fulfil.

  Me. One woman against all of them, the only thing between Mama and—

  Something awful. Being taken away and being shut up and having all her hopes ruined. As if she could have survived that!

  ‘He’ll come back to us, won’t he?’ Mama used to ask plaintively.

  ‘Oh ye
s,’ Xenia would say firmly. ‘He’ll come back one day.’

  When busybodies came around to see what conditions they were living in, Xenia learned how to deal with them. She had found that epic rudeness worked well, particularly with the timid-looking young women who knocked on the door.

  ‘Get off my property!’ she would shout. ‘You’re trespassing. Get off or I call the police!’

  ‘Mrs Arkadyoff, please—’

  ‘Mrs Arkadyoff!’ Scorn filled her voice. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to? I am Princess Xenia Arkadyoff. My grandmother was second cousin to the Tsar of Russia! Who are you? Nobodies! How dare you presume to tell me what to do! Get out of here – go away.’ She would stand, eyes flashing, in front of the door, arms out like the angel at the way in to Eden, refusing them entry. Sometimes that was enough to send them on their way. At other times, they would persist, barging inside with their clipboards and prying eyes, looking about and making notes. She would shout and scream until they could take no more, and left.

  Afterwards, letters would arrive in their horrible brown envelopes with their computer-generated labels, her name always misspelt. She ignored them. Things must stay as they were: just her and Mama, alone again, waiting patiently for the day when Papa would return, as he had promised.

  That was years ago. These days, she had learned to hold her tongue more than she used to, especially now that she had no choice about where she could shop. The car sat unused in the garage because she didn’t dare drive; she couldn’t see what was right in front of her. So she couldn’t go to the supermarket and shop in peace; she had to use the village shop or starve.

  Agnieska did not know any of the past hostilities and would not understand if someone tried to explain them to her. She turned up, did her work and went away again. The only thing she did not do was say when supplies were running low. She never mentioned that at all, which Xenia found frustrating. But where once she would have berated her, told her exactly what she was doing wrong, she kept quiet. She had a sense that she might need this girl’s help and it would not do to alienate her, as she had the others.