Our Little Secret

by Jenna Ellis

  I’m not intending to have a great time with Harry Poulston. In fact, as I see him standing to greet me at a table in the corner, I have an overwhelming urge to turn on my heel and run away.

  But maybe he senses this, because he smiles warmly, his hands out in a gesture of surrender. He looks like he’s half-expecting me to go, and his eyes beg me to come forward. He looks less dishevelled than the last couple of times I’ve seen him. He’s clean-shaven, which makes his soft grey eyes more defined, and he’s wearing jeans and a cashmere jumper and cool sneakers, rather than his crumpled corduroy reporter look. The change of image makes him look younger.

  ‘Sophie,’ he says. ‘It’s great to see you.’ He smiles, like he means it, and takes my hand. Then, to my surprise, he leans in to kiss my cheek. He smells of nice aftershave. Different from Edward – more clean and soapy. ‘I know we haven’t hit it off before, but I’m hoping we can start over? I’m not going to mention the Parkers. I absolutely promise.’

  His eyes search out mine and I nod and smile, despite myself. It’s such a relief that the Parkers are off the agenda. I’m not altogether sure I want them to be, but I’m grateful to Harry that he’s left it up to me how much I reveal. I still can’t process last night. I know that now, right here, I’m not ready to talk.

  I’m certainly not going to think about last night, in front of Harry. He’s a journalist. Surely he would be able to sniff out the colossal secret I’m keeping, if I gave even the tiniest hint?

  I squeeze onto the little stool on the other side of the candlelit table. I have to admit that it’s so nice to be mingling amongst ordinary people, to not be trapped with my thoughts. I say ordinary, but the bar is far from my kind of ordinary, back home. Behind us, the Empire State Building is lit up in coloured lights. Funky music plays. The people around us look like actors and musicians and film people. It’s how I imagined New York to be. Vibey and fun.

  Harry orders cocktails, and mine comes with a wisp of dry ice swirling from its tower of lime and strawberries. It’s delicious. I tell him about the clubs I go to back in Manchester, and he surprises me with his knowledge of The Smiths and The Charlatans, who were my favourite bands, growing up. He tells me a funny anecdote about interviewing Shaun Ryder from the Happy Mondays, and the more we banter and quote song lyrics to each other, the more I realize the colossal level of stress I’ve been living under for the past few weeks.

  As the first hour easily slips into two, it dawns on me how pleasant it is to be having a conversation that’s not about Marnie or Edward. It’s so great to be able to prove to myself that I can function as an entity independent from them. And the longer Harry doesn’t mention them, the more I respect him. It’s an elephant on the rooftop, so to speak, but I can live with it.

  At some point in the evening we order delicious Thai food and I discover that I’m ravenous. I haven’t eaten properly for days, and it’s fun to share food with Harry. He tells me about a disastrous trip to Thailand with his ex-girlfriend. He always struck me as quite sneery and hardnosed, but the more he talks, the more I see that he’s just a regular guy trying to make a living as a journalist. As the moon comes up high in the sky and the bar starts thinning out, he tells me about his unfinished novel about a man trying to investigate his own dreams.

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ I tell him. ‘Would you like to see my suite?’

  84

  I haven’t intended to sleep with Harry, but the second we’re in the door, I lean in and kiss him. I’m drunk, wrung out and flying by the seat of my pants, but it feels like I’ve got nothing to lose. Besides, it’s cathartic: to have sexual power over someone else.

  He’s clearly up for it, although he’s surprised I’ve been so forward. He starts to talk, to discuss what it means, but I silence him, taking off his shirt.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting . . .’ he mumbles, between kisses. ‘I mean, I thought you were with Edward Parker?’

  ‘Well, I’m not. I’m right here with you.’

  It’s the right thing to say. For him and for me. I’ve dealt with the Edward Parker issue without making a big deal of it, even though the fact that I’m admitting there’s nothing between me and Edward – that it’s over, whatever it was – stabs me deeply.

  Harry kisses me gently, tentatively undressing me. He fumbles with my bra, laughing at himself, until I help him.

  ‘It’s been a while, since . . .’ he says, apologetically.

  ‘Don’t worry. Me, too,’ I lie.

  And what a lie. The biggest I’ve ever told. Last night is still physically with me, but doing this with Harry now feels painfully right. Like I’m deliberately trying to erase what happened and, in doing so, inflict some of the pain back onto Edward and Marnie.

  Soon Harry is naked. He’s more stocky than I thought and more hairy, too. He has a tattoo on his hip, which he admits was a drunken teenage mistake. He hasn’t the aesthetic beauty of Edward, but I don’t care; I just want to be in his arms. I need to be held. I need to feel physically tethered to someone – anyone – to stop myself drifting off into misery.

  He goes down on me straight away, quickly taking off my lovely new black knickers and diving enthusiastically between my legs. I try to get turned on, but as I watch the shadows criss-crossing the ceiling, I can’t help remembering Marnie and her beautiful wet softness against me, and a tear leaks out of my eye and drips into my hair. I grab Harry’s head and force him away, up towards me.

  ‘You want to stop? I like giving you head,’ he grins, like a schoolboy who should be given a medal.

  ‘I need you to fuck me now,’ I tell him.

  He seems surprised by my seriousness, and so am I. I’m not usually like this. Never so matter-of-fact, but this is a practical matter. I need him.

  He sorts out a condom and I realize how little I’ve thought about contraception, or STDs. I remember Edward in the porn movie, Marnie with the black dancer in the club. God knows how many people they’ve been with. How many others they’ve fucked, then fucked over?

  I lie on the bed and Harry thrusts inside me, but it’s like he can’t get to me. Like I’m numb. Because all I can think about is Edward and Marnie. It’s not that I can connect with them sexually, which I thought would happen, now that I’m having sex again. Instead, a film of memories plays through my head. Edward’s smile when he saw me stepping out of the car in the gallery; Marnie squealing with laughter as I gunned Edward’s car down the road; Edward drawing a sketch of me on the yacht; and Marnie teaching me to twirl my nipple-tassels.

  And God, how I want to hate them, but my heart is breaking.

  85

  Afterwards we half fall asleep and I’m shocked when I wake up, spooning next to Harry. His arm is across me, holding me tight, and for one fraction of a moment I think I’m in bed with Scott and the whole thing has been a dream. But then my eyes flick open and I see that we’re in a hotel room and it’s Harry’s hairy arm. I see the watch on his wrist ticking. How is time still marching on, after everything that’s happened? What is this new today going to bring?

  He stirs and, when I turn, he smiles at me. His hair is rumpled.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, softly.

  I half-smile at him, but I know immediately that I want him gone. I don’t want Harry here in this room. I don’t want a post-coital conversation, or for him to suggest that this may be the start of something. I’ve used him. Used him as much as I needed to, and now I need to face the shame alone.

  I swing my legs out of bed and grab the robe, covering myself as quickly as I can.

  ‘I have an early start,’ I croak.

  Harry sighs and rubs his face. ‘Ah,’ he says, understanding the code.

  He gets up and pulls on his trousers quickly. I don’t look at him. I wish suddenly that I smoked. This would be a perfect time to light a cigarette.

  ‘So I guess you’re still busy, then,’ he says.

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘Being Edward Parker’s latest muse,’ he says, a leadi
ng edge in his voice.

  Now I stare at him and he stares back. He’s no longer Mr Nice Guy, but a hard-nosed journalist who has me cornered.

  Latest muse. What does that mean? Am I just one of many?

  ‘I’m not his muse. Actually, I’m . . .’ I pause, jutting out my chin. ‘I’m the Parkers’ nanny.’

  ‘Their nanny?’ Harry checks, pulling on his jumper.

  ‘For their boys. Their twins,’ I tell him, defensively, bunching up the robe in my fist to cover my chest.

  There’s a long pause as he pulls on his sneakers. Long enough for the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. Then he stands and faces me.

  ‘What?’ I snap.

  ‘Oh, man,’ he says. He brushes his hair back. ‘You don’t know . . .’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Edward and Marnie Parker are childless. Famously so. She couldn’t have kids and—’

  ‘What?’ I gulp.

  ‘She had several miscarriages. Then they tried to adopt, I think, but it didn’t work out.’

  ‘But they have boys. Twin boys,’ I say, but my voice is shaking. ‘They employed me from England to look after them and . . .’

  Harry laughs. ‘And did you ever actually meet these so-called twins?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘So they got you. Huh! Go figure,’ he says smugly. He doesn’t say, ‘I told you so’, but it’s implicit in his tone. ‘So, right now I guess you’re about ready to tell me what you know. I know a breakfast bar around the corner?’

  He knows. He knows that I’ve been done over by them. I get a horrible sense that he’s been waiting for this revelation all along. I swallow hard. I’m desperate for Harry to be wrong, but my mind is whirring back to the interview in London and back further . . . to the advert for the job. An exclusive domestic position . . .

  There was never a mention of any kids. Ever.

  It was one long sexual fantasy right from the beginning.

  Oh my God.

  They invented this whole scenario and I went along with it, until they’d reeled me in and I’d made the choice.

  They lied about the kids. They lied time and again. Lie upon lie.

  I remember Gundred and how confused she looked when I asked about the kids, and how Laura avoided every question . . .

  ‘Sophie?’ Harry says. I glance at him. He has a triumphant glint in his eye.

  ‘Just leave,’ I croak.

  86

  I’m still boiling with rage as I persuade the yellow cab driver on the Manhattan street to take me to Thousand Acres. The cabbie has never heard of it. Upstate New York is about as specific a detail as I have. He has to make a call to his operator, before he finally works out where it is and how far. I promise to pay him extra. When I show him the cash, we begin the long journey.

  How amazing cash is, I think, riffling my thumb along the edge of the bank notes. How powerful. I never realized before just how powerful, but how easily it makes life slide along. Everything falling neatly into place in front of you. Every problem solved. I can see how being rich must be addictive. How you must want to make your cash buy you more and more outrageous things. How the thrill of just being able to buy an expensive dress quickly turns into furniture, houses, cars, yachts – each cash ‘fix’ getting more and more outrageous.

  Like buying a young girl from England to fulfil a sexual fantasy, for example.

  The cabbie asks me for more details about Thousand Acres, and I feel like a fool for not being able to tell him exactly where the Parkers live. I spent all that time in their home, but I don’t know even the most basic facts about it. I didn’t once open my eyes.

  I stare out of the window, thinking everything through in the cold, hard light of Harry’s revelation – Edward and Marnie’s letter playing over and over in my mind on a loop.

  I have to see them. I have to hear their explanation. I don’t care if they don’t want to see me – I just need them to know that I know. That I know what they’ve done. How they’ve used me.

  Finally the cab stops at the gatehouse to Thousand Acres. I get out and am so relieved to see the security guard inside. It’s the same one. The balding guy with the moustache, whom Marnie charmed that day after our joyride.

  I tell him that I’m here to see Edward and Marnie in the end house, but he stares at me blankly.

  ‘Who?’ he snaps.

  ‘Marnie Parker. You know, you talked to her that day. That day we drove up the road,’ I say. ‘I’m their nanny. You know that. You recognize me, right?’

  ‘Miss, I’ve never seen you before in my life,’ he says, looking me dead in the eye.

  For a moment I think he’s joking, but his look doesn’t change.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I laugh, outraged. ‘Marnie and Edward Parker live here. At the bottom of this road. The big house. The house with all the art . . .’

  ‘I don’t know to whom you’re referring, Miss,’ he says.

  I can feel the discomfort of the cab driver behind me, who is listening in. He coughs, embarrassed.

  This is unbelievable. Impossible! How can he be lying like this? Who has paid him to lie to my face?

  ‘But you must know. They are in the final house along this road,’ I protest one last time, but he shrugs and looks through his computer system.

  ‘I’m afraid you must have made a mistake. That house has been empty for a year. The owners are abroad.’

  ‘They’re not. They’re here,’ I yell at him, exasperated. ‘I live there.’

  ‘Hey, lady, I’m just doing my job.’

  I know he is, and I know he’s lying and he knows I know he’s lying, so in the end I resort to bribery. For the princely sum of 300 dollars he tells me that the cab is allowed up for five minutes, and then he’s calling the police.

  Fucking bastard.

  87

  I get to the gates of the house, but they’re locked and, when I press on the buzzer, nothing happens. I stare at the security camera above the gates. Are they watching me? Are they deliberately not letting me in?

  I make the cab driver promise to wait and, ignoring the insects that buzz around the hedge, squeeze through the bushes at the side of the gate and then push through the undergrowth until I’m on the other side.

  I run up the grass verge of the drive, desperate to get to the house. But when I get there, it is closed and shut up. They aren’t ignoring me. They just aren’t here.

  No one is here.

  I run up the front steps and try the front door, but it’s locked.

  Desperately I run around to the back, but the house is locked.

  Where is everyone? Where are the Parkers? Where are Gundred, Laura, the gardeners?

  I race along the back terrace and cup my hand against the window of the sitting room and my heart suddenly thuds.

  At first I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.

  The room is empty. The white shelves are there, but the books have gone and the drinks cabinet and record player, the sofas, table and sculptures. Even the rug has gone.

  What’s happened? Where have they gone?

  I’m shaking with frustration and fear. I have to get in there. I have to find out what’s going on.

  I yank the handle of the French-window doors, but they’re locked. I stare through the glass again and see that the key is in the lock. Desperately I heave one of the stone pots of hydrangeas over and thrust it into one of the lower glass panels. The glass shatters and I reach in and turn the key. I snag my T-shirt on the sharp shard of glass and feel my skin puncture beneath, but I don’t care.

  I run through the sitting room and into the corridor.

  ‘Edward? Edward?’ I call, but the house is eerily quiet. I run to the end of the corridor to the stairwell, and the glass door of the gallery doesn’t slide back. The walls beyond are empty. All the pictures have gone.

  I feel a sob escape me as I race up the stairs, two at a time. My arm is hurting. Blood runs out from under the
sleeve of my jacket, and drops run off my fingertips onto the black-and-white tiles.

  I get to the first floor. My floor. All the furniture has gone. All the art. Even the bronze nudey man.

  I race to my room. The door is open and the round waterbed has gone. The side table, lamp and dresser have gone.

  There’s only one familiar thing. The pencil drawing that Edward did of me on the yacht is abandoned on the window-seat cushion.

  88

  When I get back to the cab I can see a police car arriving slowly over the brow of the hill.

  ‘Just get out of here,’ I yell at the cab driver, thumping myself into the back seat. I’m trembling violently. ‘Just take me into Manhattan.’

  I’m going to find Marnie and demand an explanation.

  ‘Hey, you’re bleeding,’ he says. ‘Don’t bleed over my seat.’

  The police car is getting closer. The driver can see we’re about to move off. I hear the siren sound briefly.

  ‘Oh, man,’ the cab driver says, ‘I knew you were trouble.’

  The policeman doesn’t know that I’ve broken into the house, but he wants to know why my arm is bleeding. I make up a lie about knocking off a scab from an old wound, but the officer doesn’t believe me. He’s looking at me like I’m crazy. I’m bleeding badly, but I don’t care. I can’t feel it. I’m too shocked.

  ‘Can you call the owners of this house?’ I beg the policeman. ‘It’s very important that I speak to them. Please, Officer.’

  He finally strolls to the police car and I see him picking up the radio. He seems bored and annoyed as he talks into it. We wait for an age, as I explain that I live at the house, but the owners have forgotten to give me a key. He clearly thinks I’m nuts.

  The radio inside the car comes to life and the policeman walks to get the message. I see him nodding and then he comes back.

  ‘The owner of this house lives in Singapore. It’s managed by an agency.’