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

by Debby Holt

  It took three cups of coffee, a long bath and strong painkillers to repair the excesses of the night before. She took her case through to the spare room and slowly packed the clothes she’d put out on the bed.

  When Freya boarded the train, she fell asleep almost at once and only woke when it reached its final destination. As she walked towards the Tube she glanced around her and wondered how many jettisoned wives there were on the concourse. She felt a new, strange rage well up in her. If Felix were to come up to her now, she would hit him. She had been a good wife, especially in the last few years. She had responded to his moods with sympathy and understanding and where had it got her? Didn’t Jesus say that the meek would inherit the earth? Boy, did he get that wrong! Meek people just got trampled on! Freya felt better already. She wanted to embrace her rage. It was better than self-pity any day.

  She arrived in Putney at six and was greeted with a hug by Sylvie who said it had been far too long, they must have a drink at once and how was she? Freya was about to tell her but was distracted by a book on the coffee table – How to Make your Life (and your Garden) Happy. The cover showed Xander sitting serenely on a bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him. On either side of him there were wide herbaceous borders full of lupins, delphiniums, Michaelmas daisies and gypsophila. Xander, dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, appeared to be the embodiment of masculine perfection: a strong man at peace with his spiritual side.

  Sylvie noticed her interest and smiled. ‘It was an impulse buy. He looks so gorgeous, don’t you think?’

  ‘I happen to know he is gorgeous,’ Freya said. ‘Xander Bullen was our gardener in Wimbledon!’

  ‘No! Really? You lucky woman! What was he like?’

  ‘Well, actually,’ Freya said, ‘he had quite a crush on me.’

  ‘Men always have crushes on you,’ Sylvie said. ‘It’s very boring for the rest of us.’

  ‘Oh Sylvie,’ Freya sighed, ‘you have no idea…’

  But Sylvie’s phone had started ringing and it was clear within seconds that something was very wrong. When she came off the phone, she stared anxiously at Freya. ‘We have a family crisis, I’m afraid. Candy and Amelia are on their way. Candy’s in a terrible state.’

  Candy was in a terrible state. The last time Freya had seen Candy was two years ago. Freya had gone to Putney for lunch and Candy and her daughter arrived. For the rest of Freya’s visit, the conversation had been exclusively concerned with the state of Candy’s marriage and the all-round brilliance of Amelia who was an unprepossessing two-year-old with a nose that produced unlimited quantities of green slime. Freya had been unsurprised when Sylvie told her a few months later that the marriage had collapsed. Now, according to Sylvie, the husband had suggested a marital resuscitation and Candy was distraught.

  This was not the time to confide in Sylvie about her own marriage. Freya took on the preparation of the potato salad while Sylvie made a watercress soup and agonised over her daughter’s state of mind.

  Candy and Amelia arrived at seven. Amelia was half-asleep and Candy took her straight upstairs.

  ‘How do you think Candy looks?’ Sylvie asked in a hushed whisper.

  ‘She looks rather good,’ Freya said. ‘She’s lost weight.’

  ‘I know. I’m terrified she’ll get anorexia.’

  ‘I’d say she has a long way to go before she looks anorexic.’ Already, Freya regretted her decision to come here.

  Candy came downstairs and attempted a tremulous smile. ‘Magnus says…’ She took a deep breath. ‘I am trying so hard not to cry…’

  She wasn’t trying that hard, Freya thought, watching Candy burst into tears.

  The entire evening was given over to Candy’s dilemma: should she take Magnus back? Who would believe that such a simple question could produce four hours of soul-searching? Freya never wanted to hear the name Magnus again. It was a stupid name, designed for a Roman soldier not a chartered surveyor who’d just left a girl called Tamsin. As they sat drinking coffee, she said in a bracing tone that it was really quite simple. Did Candy still love him?

  ‘I don’t know,’ Candy sniffed. ‘He’s made me so unhappy, he’s had at least two affairs to my certain knowledge and now this one with Tamsin…’

  ‘Stop there,’ Freya said. ‘You’ve answered the question. He’s made you miserable. It’s far better to end it now and find someone else while you’re still young and attractive. And you are attractive. You look so slim.’

  Candy gave a mournful nod. ‘I can’t eat a thing at the moment.’

  ‘Well,’ Freya said, ‘that’s not so bad…’

  ‘Freya,’ Sylvie protested, ‘it really is…We don’t want Candy to get too thin.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t happen,’ Freya said briskly. ‘And if you want my advice, you should cut Magnum (‘Magnus,’ Sylvie murmured.) out of your life. Take control!’

  For a moment it seemed that her confident assertion had settled the argument but then Candy’s eyes started watering again and Sylvie protested that it wasn’t that simple. ‘Amelia misses her daddy,’ she said.

  Freya made her excuses and went to bed. She was awestruck by Candy’s monumental self-absorption. Not once in the evening had she asked Freya how she was or how her girls were doing. To be fair, they had never had much time for Candy but even so she might have managed at least one polite query.

  The next morning was even worse since Freya had to share the breakfast table with Amelia who’d been unpleasant enough at two and was even more charmless now she was four. They sat in Sylvie’s pleasant little dining room and Amelia complained about the cereals. ‘I don’t like Rice Crispies, I want granola and blueberries.’ She complained about her drink. ‘I don’t like orange juice, I like apple juice.’ She even complained about the sun in her eyes and they all had to move places to accommodate her.

  When Sylvie and Candy went off to the kitchen to produce something the child might like, Amelia stared at Freya and stuck her tongue out at her.

  Freya leant forward. ‘Have you ever heard of the Rude Old Woman in the Cave?’

  Amelia stuck out her lower lip.

  ‘She loves children like you,’ Freya told her. ‘Every time you say, “I want”, instead of, “Please can I have…” the Rude Old Woman jumps with joy. Every time she sees you make that extremely ugly face, she laughs again. She laughs because she knows that once you’ve been rude one hundred times, you will turn into a Rude Old Woman too and you’ll spend the rest of your life in her dark, cold cave.’

  Amelia’s lower lip wobbled. ‘That’s not true,’ she said.

  Freya gave an eloquent shrug of her shoulders.

  Amelia stared uncertainly at Freya. ‘I don’t have my daddy,’ she said.

  ‘Neither do I,’ Freya said. ‘Get used to it.’

  Sylvie came back with her latest offering. ‘There you are, darling,’ she said. ‘Scrambled egg on toast with two little tomatoes.’

  Amelia pointed an accusing finger at Freya. ‘She’s been horrible,’ she cried and burst into tears.

  Freya had behaved appallingly and she knew it. Sylvie and Candy were horrified and had every right to be. Freya apologised before making a speedy exit. There was no question of her staying another night with Sylvie and her ghastly family. How could she be polite to pathetic Candy and awful Amelia when she was consumed by an ever-increasing fury at her husband? She walked with a beating heart down the street, cursing him as she did so.

  She found a bench on Putney Heath and sat down with her phone. In a few minutes she had found a hotel in Kensington, a short walk away from the party. She booked a room and then rang Tess to tell her the change of plan. Then, she consulted her A to Z. Felix had told her to buy a dress and enjoy the party. She fully intended to do so.

  Her energy was failing by the time she found the small shop in Knightsbridge. It reminded her of the one she used to manage in Wimbledon. She stared at the shop window and her heart leapt. Discretion was not a word one would
use to describe the dress on the mannequin.

  As soon as she went through the door she was approached by a young woman in high heels and a grey dress. ‘Hi, there,’ she said. ‘Can I be of any help?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Freya said, ‘it’s my thirtieth wedding anniversary today. I’m looking for two dresses for tonight, one for me and one for my daughter. We’re both the same size and I know what she likes. That pink dress in the window…’

  ‘Isn’t it heaven?’ The girl gave a conspiratorial laugh. ‘It just shouts sex appeal! If my mother bought that for me, I’d love her forever!’

  ‘That’s a pretty good endorsement,’ Freya said. ‘Perhaps I’d better try it on.’

  When she finally stepped out of the changing room, the girl let out a little cry. ‘Isn’t it fabulous? You see how the black stripes down the sides emphasise your waist and your hips? And that black zip down the back is so perfect! It’s a complete showstopper. Your daughter will love it!’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Freya said. She noticed that the girl had a second dress draped over her arm and said hopefully, ‘That looks nice.’

  The girl held it up. ‘It’s deceptively simple,’ she said. ‘It looks great when it’s on.’

  The girl proved to be right. When she saw Freya in it she clapped her hands. The dress was perfect: sheerest green silk with a black under-slip.

  ‘I’ll have that one too,’ Freya said. She hadn’t enquired the price of either of them and when the nice girl accepted her credit card and handed her the receipt, Freya did feel a momentary sense of guilt. She consoled herself with the thought that if she and Felix had had the anniversary party she had originally assumed they would have, he’d have had to spend far more.

  As she picked up her carrier bags, the girl said, ‘Have a wonderful party tonight. I know your daughter will love her dress!’

  ‘She will,’ Freya assured her. ‘Green is her favourite colour.’

  She checked into her hotel in the late afternoon. The continuing silence from Felix – she must stop checking her phone – had lowered her spirits but it was impossible not to be cheered by her room with its enormous bed, the walk-in shower and the outstanding views of Kensington Gardens.

  The shower was heaven. As the water rained down on her she could feel it washing away her anger. Tonight she would refuse to think about Felix and her frightening future. Tonight, she would enjoy the party, flirt outrageously, laugh with Tess and enjoy the luxury of her hotel room.

  At six, she eased herself into her dress and performed a twirl in front of the mirror. It was not a dress for the faint-hearted. Shocking pink, with the ostentatious black zip that went all the way down to the base of her spine, it fitted her like a glove. She had at least paid lip-service to her age with her hair, putting it up into a neat roll at the back of her head.

  When Tess arrived her reaction was – possibly – reassuring. ‘Oh my God, Mum!’

  ‘Is it too much?’ Freya asked. ‘Do you think it’s too obvious?’

  ‘It’s very obvious,’ Tess said, ‘but you can take it.’

  ‘I’ve bought you one too,’ Freya said, picking up one of the bags from the floor.

  ‘No offence, Mum, but…’

  ‘It’s not like this one. Look.’ As Freya had suspected, Tess was dressed in her calf-length black dress that made her look like a girl who’s come straight from the convent.

  For Freya, the evening began once Tess put on her dress. ‘You look like an autumn nymph,’ she breathed. ‘You should always wear green.’

  ‘I love it,’ Tess said. ‘It must have cost…’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Freya picked up her bag. ‘There is a very sophisticated bar downstairs. I think we should try it out.’

  She ordered margaritas and, while they waited, gave a quick murmured assessment of the clientele. ‘The man in the corner is fascinated. He can’t stop staring at you, Tess. He’s pretending to look for his companion. I suspect, she doesn’t exist and that actually he’s plucking up courage to come over but of course he won’t, and over near the bar there’s a romantic couple who have both noticed us…’

  ‘You’re smiling at him,’ Tess protested.

  ‘He smiled first.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll get her coming over to have words if you don’t behave.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m just being friendly. This is such fun and we owe it to your friend, Jamie. Did you have a lovely time in Scotland with him? What did the two of you do together?’

  Tess shrugged. ‘We visited Scott’s home and his graveyard and…’

  Freya rolled her eyes. ‘Poor Jamie. You do remind me of my father, you know. The two of us spent one holiday traipsing round the Elwy Valley in Wales because Gerald Manley Hopkins had written some verses about it. I was ten at the time and far too young to appreciate his poems – to be honest, I still don’t – but dear Daddy stomped around, declaiming away and gazing at me with such happy expectation that I had to pretend to enjoy it. I wish he were here now. I do miss him.’

  ‘I know you do,’ Tess said. ‘I’m not sure you would want him here at the moment. I don’t know what he’d make of your dress.’

  ‘He’d rest his head in his hands,’ Freya said, ‘and he’d say, “Freya, oh Freya, you will be the death of me!” Oh look, here are our drinks!’

  The rims of the cocktail glasses were frosted with salt and the liquid was a pale cloudy green. Mother and daughter took tentative sips and Tess murmured, ‘That is good!’

  ‘It’s the only way to drink tequila,’ Freya said. ‘If the party is dull we can come back for more.’

  ‘I don’t know why we’re going,’ Tess said. ‘I’d be quite happy to celebrate your anniversary here.’

  ‘Oh,’ Freya said, ‘I’d forgotten that.’

  Tess raised her glass. ‘I haven’t. Here’s to you and to Dad. Cheers, Mum!’

  ‘Thank you.’ The margarita slipped down Freya’s throat like nectar.

  ‘I still don’t understand why we’ve been invited. It seems so random.’

  ‘I told you. Jamie’s father hoped to use us as bait to get his son down here.’ Already the margarita was giving her confidence. This was no time for tact. Freya was not at all sure that tact was a particularly sensible quality anyway. She said, ‘Tess, can you look me in the eye and assure me the young man has no interest in you?’

  Tess raised her eyes to meet those of her mother and faltered. ‘He did,’ she conceded at last, ‘but I… I discouraged him.’

  ‘Poor Jamie. Is he ugly?’

  ‘No! No, of course he isn’t.’

  Freya gave a sympathetic nod. ‘Is he boring?’

  ‘No!’ Tess took a reckless gulp of her drink. ‘The fact is I… I didn’t want to have the sort of relationship… that sort of relationship.’

  ‘Why not? What is wrong with him?’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with him! I just… I don’t need a boyfriend in my life right now, especially one who lives in Scotland. I’m sure you think that’s very dull but…’

  ‘To be honest,’ Freya said, ‘I think romantic love is a minefield. Perhaps you’re right to leave it alone.’

  ‘Really? That doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I don’t feel like me at the moment…’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Tess clutched her mother’s hand. ‘Don’t look now but the romantic man has left the room and now the romantic wife is coming over here. I told you she’d be cross.’

  The woman stopped in front of Freya. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said, ‘but my husband’s taking a phone call and I thought I’d ask you… He loves your dress, you see, and I wondered… Would it be very cheeky to ask you where you bought it?’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Their destination was a gleaming white three-storey townhouse, minutes away from the hotel and with views over Kensington Gardens. Tess was taken aback by the grandeur of the place and even Freya was a little apprehensive although, ‘I don’t se
e why you’re so surprised,’ she told Tess. ‘If Jamie Lockhart owns a castle, it stands to reason that his father must be wealthy.’

  ‘Yes, but Jamie’s castle isn’t a grand sort of castle. It’s used for business parties and weddings. It’s not as if Jamie lives there.’ Tess cast glanced at her mother. ‘Are we going in?’

  ‘Of course we are. I’ve spent a small fortune on our party dresses.’ Freya mounted the steps and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a young man in a maroon shirt and black trousers. He welcomed them into a high-ceilinged hall with grey walls and a charcoal carpet and took Freya’s jacket and Tess’s mac, hanging them with great care on the coat rail behind them. Freya’s attention was caught by a gilt-framed painting on the left of the staircase. It depicted a wild-haired man in a kilt looking out at the world with a gun in his hand and what looked like a slaughtered stag behind him.

  They were directed up the stairs to a large drawing room with elegant windows and a vast ornate chandelier. There was an enormous antique mirror at one end of the room and a huge landscape painting at the other. It had its own little light above it and must therefore be very, very expensive. The deep pile carpet, the vast Chesterfield sofa, the Chinese table lamps by each window all spoke of barely restrained opulence.

  Mother and daughter gazed at the group in front of them. ‘Look at the women,’ Freya murmured. ‘They’re all dressed in fifty shades of grey. I look like a firework at a funeral.’

  ‘Everyone likes fireworks,’ Tess said.

  ‘You never did,’ Freya reminded her. She beamed at a young waiter who handed them thin flutes of champagne. ‘Dutch courage,’ Freya murmured and downed a third of it at once. She was aware she was being watched and found herself locking eyes with a slim, dark-haired man in the far corner of the room. He was tieless, with a black suit and white shirt. He was also quite extraordinarily handsome, a rare phenomenon in mid-life men who weren’t famous actors. She knew, even as he turned his attention back to his companion, a voluble, pinstripe-suited male with gesticulating hands, that he wanted to come over to her. She rather hoped he would do.