The Dangers of Family Secrets: From the bestselling author of The Ex-Wife’s Survival Guide

by Debby Holt

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  THE DANGERS OF FAMILY SECRETS

  DEBBY HOLT

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Copyright © Debby Holt 2017

  The right of Debby Holt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.

  ISBN 9781786154736

  eISBN 9781786154781

  ‘The worst families are those in which the members never really speak their minds to one another; they maintain an atmosphere of unreality, and everyone always lives in an atmosphere of suppressed ill-feeling.’ Walter Bagehot

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Doctors May Erskine, Audrey Ryan, and Nina Anderson for their advice and expertise. Also, thanks to brilliant holiday companions and fellow researchers, Fiona and Richard Mottram. And last but not least, thanks to Gina and Richard Pelham for introducing me to the Scottish Borders.

  For my friend Simon Lansdown.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Something happened at the balloon debate. Freya had no idea what it was, but over the next four months, she was increasingly convinced that whatever it was that had happened, started there.

  She hadn’t even wanted to take part. Vanity had been her downfall. When she turned down the invitation, Dulcie Makepeace had lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘We need some star quality on the panel,’ she explained, ‘and I immediately thought of you.’

  Later, Freya grumbled to Felix that the only reason Dulcie approached her was because she needed a token woman.

  ‘In that case,’ Felix said, ‘make a virtue of it. Choose someone who can make a rousing feminist argument for staying in the balloon.’

  It was a good idea and there were any number of admirable role models. She could be Florence Nightingale or Boudicca or that woman who pioneered birth control whose name she could never remember. But they were predictable choices. They were precisely the sort of women her audience would expect her to choose.

  Freya did not want to be predictable. She was queuing at the post office when the idea came to her. It would be difficult, it would be unexpected, and it would be more high-brow than Dulcie anticipated or wanted. So much the better, Freya thought. She still smarted from the ease with which Dulcie had persuaded her to perform.

  She decided not to tell Felix beforehand. It would be hard to explain what she was trying to do; Felix would offer a number of sensible suggestions as to why she shouldn’t do it; she would be discouraged and she didn’t want to be. She felt she was creating something difficult and fragile and fascinating. The slightest criticism would blow it all away.

  On the evening of the event she left Felix eating chicken salad – she was far too nervous to eat a thing – and went upstairs to change. She put on what she called her Glamour Outfit – a figure-hugging black dress and a matching bolero jacket with a fake-fur collar. She made up her face, sprayed her neck liberally with perfume and stared at herself in the mirror. At her age there was a fine line between dressing to make an impression and looking like a Joan Collins wannabe. She had forgotten how short the dress was.

  She applied a final coating of lip gloss to her mouth and went back down to the kitchen where Felix was loading the dishwasher. She put her hands on her hips, extended one leg in front of the other and adopted her Lauren Bacall look, a stance she had frequently plagiarised in her modelling days. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  Felix straightened his back and scrutinised her. ‘I think,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that every man in the room will want to take you home tonight. I know I will.’

  ‘Seriously. You don’t think I’m mutton dressed as lamb?’

  ‘If you are,’ Felix said, ‘then you’re very sexy mutton. You look beautiful.’

  ‘Oh Felix!’ Freya smiled. She had, long ago, been beautiful. Now that she was middle-aged she could see that. When she looked at old photos, she admired the tiny waist, the long legs, the blonde hair and the cheekbones. The waist had long since thickened, the legs were defaced by gristle-like knees and thin blue veins, and the blonde hair posed a constant dilemma: should any woman over fifty have long hair?

  The miracle was that Felix saw none of this. When they first got together, he described them as Beauty and the Beast. He had had tiny green eyes, a large if indeterminate nose, untidy short hair and a small scruffy beard and moustache. All of these features, apart from the beard and moustache, were still in evidence. The addition of laughter lines around the eyes, broadened shoulders and a bulkier chest provoked an irresistible comparison with a rumpled teddy bear. If Felix was a Beast, he was an endearingly attractive one.

  In the car, Freya checked she had her notes in her bag, took a few deep breaths and gazed out of the window. She loved the woods at this time of year. The green leaves on the trees continued to be a novelty and, even though it was almost June, there was a still-flourishing carpet of bluebells and pale primroses.

  The first time Felix had brought her to see the cottage, she had been taken aback by its rural solitude. Now she couldn’t imagine living in London again. Here, their nearest neighbours were a quarter of a mile down the lane and, as they passed Pam’s house, Freya noticed that her red Renault Clio was gone. Freya felt a slight easing of tension. Pam was one of the best by-products of moving here. She was loyal, kind, and utterly reliable.

  ‘She must have left already,’ Freya said. ‘I asked her to sit near the front. I need a friendly face to look at.’

  ‘I’m a friendly face,’ Felix said.

  ‘You’re too friendly. You’ll be nervous for me and that’ll make me nervous.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’re brilliant at these things.’

  They were coming into Darrowbridge now. Felix drove past the railway station and then the garage. Freya stared into her bag to check she had her phone. ‘I told the twins I was dreading this,’ she said.
‘I thought they might have rung.’ She felt a little hollow-chested. She should have eaten something earlier.

  Her phone gave two little bleats and Freya took it out of her bag and studied it.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Felix said. ‘It’s from one of the girls?’

  ‘“Off to Scotland tomorrow! Hurrah! Good luck tonight, love Tess.” Now I feel bad.’

  ‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Felix murmured.

  Freya sighed. ‘Tess does love Scotland. She’d move there like a shot if a job came up.’

  ‘I rang Ma to wish her happy birthday the other night. She’s so excited about Tess’s visit.’

  ‘They’ve always been close. I hope I’ll be close to my grandchildren. If I ever get any.’

  ‘Of course you will. People take longer to settle down these days, that’s all.’

  ‘Most twenty-seven-year-old women have at least had a few long-term relationships.’ Freya swallowed hard as Felix turned into the town hall car park. ‘Oh God, it’s almost full.’ She watched him slide the car into one of the few remaining places. ‘I wish it was all over.’ She opened her door. ‘Dulcie told me to go in by the side entrance. Wish me luck.’

  ‘You don’t need it,’ Felix told her. ‘You’ll be terrific. You look terrific.’ He switched off the engine and reached across to kiss her mouth. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

  ‘Tell me that when it’s finished,’ she said. She climbed out of the car, straightened her dress, hoisted her bag over her shoulder and went through the side door into a room with walls covered in alphabet posters. Her four fellow-panellists were there and, as she accepted a glass of wine from Dulcie, one of them, an ex-editor of the Darrowbridge Gazette, came over and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Freya, my darling, you look good enough to eat!’

  If the girls were here they would roll their eyes but Freya could never resist a compliment.

  ‘Thank you, Roland, I hope I’ve not overdone the party look.’

  ‘I love your party look,’ he assured her. He enjoyed his reputation as a ladies’ man and took great care of his teeth, which were now fully in evidence, in all their radiant regularity.

  Dulcie’s phone let out a shrill screech and she clapped her hands together. ‘That’s my alarm. It’s time we went in.’

  And so, in they went. Freya felt a flutter of apprehension as she took her seat and noted with gratitude that Pam sat right in the middle of the front row. The hall was almost full, a testament to the formidable organizational powers of Dulcie, who stood up and waited for the excited chatter to subside.

  ‘Tonight,’ she proclaimed, ‘we have five local celebrities who have given up their time to bring you this entertainment. Each of them will take on the role of someone they admire. Each will give a brief talk in which he or she will try to persuade you to keep him or her in the balloon. Your job is to vote one of them off. The remaining four will then speak again, you will vote another one off and so it goes on until only the victor remains. So, without further ado, we will begin the proceedings with our first celebrity. Most of you will know her as Freya Eliza Cameron, one of Darrowbridge Life’s favourite columnists. Every month, she gives us regular insights into the complexities of ancestral research. An experienced genealogist, her website, RevealingFamilies.co.uk is extremely popular and I would recommend it to you all. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Freya Eliza Cameron!’

  Freya stood up and acknowledged the applause with a modest smile. She was aware of the adrenalin charging round her brain, firing up synapses and sharpening her memory. This happened every time she spoke in public. Beforehand, she would feel nervous and unwell, but as soon as she started to perform she’d put aside her notes and enjoy herself.

  ‘Before I start,’ she said, ‘I have an admission to make.’ She shut her eyes for a few seconds. ‘I am . . .’ she paused for dramatic effect ‘. . . an unfaithful wife.’

  There was a slight, nervous rattle of laughter, a reaction Freya had anticipated. ‘I am Madame Bovary,’ she continued, ‘and I want you to keep me in the balloon despite my reputation as a fallen woman. Some of you may have read my story as told by Gustave Flaubert. He is famous for his insights into the female mind and for his compassion towards me. I can tell you now: his reputation is undeserved. I am the victim of a stitch-up!’

  A mobile in the front row exploded into action. Its ringtone, the first few chords of ‘Under My Thumb’, provoked a ripple of laughter in the audience. The owner, a middle-aged man with a limp ponytail, muttered an apology and turned off his phone. Freya threw him an understanding smile, an Oscar-winning performance in itself, and took a deep breath.

  ‘Flaubert begins the story – my story – with a description of my husband as a little boy, jeered at by his schoolmates because he has been given a ridiculous hat to wear by his mother.’ She stopped to glance around the room. ‘Do you see what Flaubert does? Despite the fact that Charles grows up to be a dangerously inadequate doctor and an oafish husband and lover, he remains a figure of sympathy because of that first childish episode. The odds are stacked against me from the start!’

  Freya’s idea had seemed so clever when she’d planned it. Now she was aware of a big, shimmering question mark hovering over the heads of the audience and, worse, it was hovering over her head too. She had wanted to reclaim Madame Bovary as a victim, a woman trapped in a loveless marriage and starved of romance. She knew as she stood on the stage that she’d lost her audience with the story of little Charles in his ridiculous hat. Everyone felt sorry for children who were bullied. She felt sorry for children who were bullied. Felix was right. She should have gone for an obvious heroine, someone like Florence Nightingale or Boudicca or the woman who pioneered birth control.

  She struggled on, trying to paint Madame Bovary as a universal symbol of downtrodden women, but when she finally finished she knew she was as confused as everyone else. She had wanted to portray Flaubert as a misogynist and instead, she had ended up supporting his silly, self-absorbed creation. She felt she could weep.

  The applause was polite. Freya attached a calm smile to her face and let her eyes wander over the audience, her expression only faltering when they settled on her husband. Felix was not clapping, he was not even looking at her. He was staring down at his phone, his attention fully engaged on the small screen in his hands. Freya wanted to wave her arms and shout out, ‘Felix, what are you doing? I’m here! I’m humiliated! I need your support!’

  The rest of the evening was a gruelling ordeal. Freya listened to a wise-cracking Casanova, a sing-along Walt Disney, an unlikely Sir Winston Churchill and a hip-swerving Elvis Presley. Freya was the first to get voted off by a large majority. Elvis Presley won. Freya knew she had entirely misjudged the nature of the evening. She had come across as humourless, inarticulate and, worst of all, dull.

  When the event finished at last, Freya made her excuses, found Felix and murmured that she had to go now. In the car, as he negotiated his way out of the car park, she broke the silence with a loud groan. ‘I was a disaster,’ she said.

  She waited for Felix to do what he did so well: reassure her, make her laugh, put things into some sort of perspective. When he didn’t respond, she glanced across at him. ‘Was I really terrible?’

  He kept his eyes fixed on the road. ‘Perhaps your speech was a little too subtle. I couldn’t understand what you were trying to say.’

  She waved a hand in the air. ‘Oh I can’t bear to think about it. I totally failed to get my point across.’ The truth was, Freya could no longer remember what her point was supposed to be. She folded her arms together. ‘And you were looking at your phone. You hate people looking at their phones!’

  ‘I’d forgotten to turn it off,’ Felix said. ‘I had a text and I was trying to switch it off.’

  ‘Did you even listen to my speech?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course I did.’

  ‘I feel so stupid,’ Freya raged. ‘That’s the last time I will ever take part in one of Dulcie’
s fundraising evenings. Not that she’ll ask me again after this.’

  In her bag, her phone made itself heard. Freya read out the message. ‘“Good luck, Mum, love Anna.”’ She shuddered. ‘At least the girls weren’t here to witness my humiliation.’

  ‘Freya,’ Felix protested. ‘You’re being melodramatic. You weren’t that bad.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Freya said. ‘That’s very encouraging.’

  Back at home, she stood in the hall and made a face at her reflection in the mirror. She turned in time to catch Felix staring at her with an expression of almost clinical disinterest, as if he wasn’t sure who she was. It disconcerted her. It was unnerving. She said, uncertainly, ‘I can see what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Can you?’ He seemed surprised, almost guilty.

  ‘I could see it in your face. How could Freya get it

  so wrong?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ He took off his jacket and hung it on the coat-stand. ‘I think I’ll watch the news. Do you want some tea?’

  ‘Only if you’re making some. I shall go to bed and read my book.’

  When she woke in the morning, Felix had already left. She couldn’t remember a time when he’d set off to Bristol without first saying goodbye to her. She presumed he must be preoccupied by something at work.

  She had planned to spend the morning at her laptop but it was impossible to study dusty old census records when she felt so frazzled. She had made a fool of herself last night and she had no one to blame but herself. She should try to stop thinking about it. She was aware that, these days, her emotions were dangerously incontinent. A brief, bland call from Anna could reduce her to tears followed by an afternoon’s soul-search as to how she had failed her children. A new liver spot on her hand plunged her into a gloom accompanied by sinister presentiments of mortality. Middle age was a frightening place for anyone cursed with the sin of vanity.

  Vanity, she thought suddenly, had been responsible for Felix. How could she resist a man whose first glance was one of startled adoration, particularly since his shyness had forced her to do the running? She remembered the odd way he’d looked at her last night, and then rolled her eyes. She would get nothing done if she carried on like this.