Tell Me No Secrets

by Julie Corbin

  I don’t know what to do next. I feel like I am walking a tightrope in the dark. Over the course of the morning I’ve tried Paul’s mobile six times. Each time I have left a message. He hasn’t answered and so finally I send him one text and then another, asking him to call me . . . please. I have no right to ask, I know that, but I need to speak to him. I don’t know what I’ll say but I can’t bear that I have hurt him.

  Murphy is sitting upright on the couch beside me, staring into my face. Every so often he strokes a paw down my arm. It feels like sympathy but I know that he’s angling for a walk. The back garden isn’t good enough. He knows our routine and by now he should have had his run along the beach. I pull on my coat and take him outside. He rushes off ahead of me. I throw a stick far out into the sea and he swims out and brings it back, shaking water up in a spray around him, panting and smiling like the happiest dog alive. Usually his sheer joie de vivre rubs off on me but I am turning myself inside out and back to front with the thought of what’s to come. The unravelling has begun, my deceit rolling out like a carpet for the world to walk on and it doesn’t help to know that it’s all my own fault. I don’t expect sympathy or understanding from anyone, least of all my husband.

  I spend the day marking time and then, at last, it’s late afternoon and I drive to the sailing club to meet Euan. I feel bleak but resolute, still and grey as the sea by my side. With each mile covered determination hardens inside me like a rock. No more games. No more Orla. My marriage is damaged enough. It stops now.

  I pull into the car park, choose a bay that faces down to the beach. The sailing boats are back. They are small, two-man vessels. I remember learning to sail on something similar myself, never enjoying the experience much, gripping plastic with tense fingers and tense smiles for Euan’s enthusiasm. I could never get the hang of it. He would shout things like, ‘Windward side! Quick! We’re broad-reaching!’ And as much as I tried to follow his instructions, it never made any sense.

  When I climb out of my car, Callum comes up alongside me. ‘I thought I was giving the girls a lift home. Paul brought Jamie back yesterday.’

  ‘I was passing,’ I say. ‘I need to speak to Euan. Work stuff.’

  ‘They’ve had a good day for it. Sea’s set to whip up a storm tomorrow. Some fierce weather moving in from the north.’ We start walking down on to the sand where the boats have been pulled up on to the beach. ‘Euan’s over there, look!’ He points his finger. ‘Somebody’s bending his ear.’

  Euan is about fifty yards away. One of the boys is talking to him and Euan replies, his arms making diagonal and then circular shapes in the air.

  ‘Tacking,’ Callum says knowledgeably. ‘Takes some of them a while to get the hang of it. He’s a good teacher, mind. Patience of a saint. You coming to the September gala?’

  ‘Course,’ I say, knowing there’s a distinct possibility that I won’t. I hope we’ll be in Melbourne by then but I haven’t told Euan yet and anyway, now – what if Paul decides to go without me? And the girls go too? They’re old enough to make up their own minds.

  Ella and Jamie are entwined outside the storage hut. His hands are on her backside, pulling her into his groin. I avert my eyes.

  Callum has none of my qualms. ‘Shouldn’t you two be helping pack up the equipment?’ he asks pointedly. They reluctantly separ ate their faces. ‘Shift your lazy arse.’ He gives Jamie a hefty nudge. ‘There’s work still to be done.’ He turns to me. ‘Would you have snogged a boy in front of your mother?’

  ‘Not likely. I’d have been dishtowel-whipped around the head. Times change, huh?’

  ‘You’re telling me. Jammy buggers! Oh, to be a kid again, eh, Grace?’

  ‘Not for me, Callum.’ Unless I got to change things. ‘It was hard enough first time round.’

  Callum and Jamie walk off towards the shore. ‘We did go sailing, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Ella says.

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘We came in a bit earlier.’ She bangs sand off her trainers and looks up through her hair. ‘When Monica dropped Sarah off she was asking me about Orla. She doesn’t like her either. She really doesn’t like her.’ Her eyes widen. ‘What’s so bad about her anyway?’

  ‘She’s a troublemaker,’ I say and then I think about the photos under her bed: photos of my girls, my family. ‘You have to stay completely away from her, Ella.’ I hold her shoulders so that she’s forced to look at me. ‘It’s very important that you understand that.’

  ‘Fine.’ She shrugs me off. ‘Whatever.’

  I want to say more – in fact, I want to lock up both girls until Orla is gone – but I don’t want to scare them and anyway, I don’t believe that Orla will go after the girls. It’s me she wants to punish – Euan and me. ‘And did you do a good job of cleaning out Monica’s attic?’ I try for a bright tone.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ She has her hands on her hips and is looking at me the way I used to look at her when she was seven and I was catching her in a lie.

  ‘I think you probably did.’

  ‘I did and by the way, don’t throw a fit, but I have a box of stuff to bring back home.’

  ‘Ella, not more for your bedroom!’ Callum and Jamie are down at the shore lowering the sails but still I speak quietly. ‘Not now that we’re going to Australia.’

  ‘Well, it won’t seem real until I can start telling everyone.’

  ‘And you will. After the weekend. Just like we said.’

  ‘It’s torture,’ she moans. ‘I hate keeping secrets from Jamie. He is going to be allowed to come out and visit me, isn’t he? And Sarah?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. Although it’s unlikely Sarah will ever come. As Euan’s daughter – how would that work? In my heart I feel that I will be saying goodbye for good and I wonder how it will feel to leave all this behind. I will miss it: my friends, the beach, the sky, I will even miss the weather. And Euan: I will miss his company, his smile in the morning, his familiarity, the easy conversations, the easy silences. And, yes, I’ll miss making love to him. Losing Euan will be almost unbearable but I stand to gain too – peace of mind, for one thing. You can’t put a price on that.

  And then there are my parents. I was hoping they would come for an extended stay at Christmas. Then – who knows? They might like it well enough to live with us for ever. But if Dad’s not well . . .

  ‘Ella, you and Daisy should still go back with Callum,’ I say, taking my mobile from my pocket. ‘I’m going to ring Gran and then I need to talk to Euan.’

  ‘Okay.’ She hands me two buoyancy aids. ‘Can you take these back for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I dial my parents’ number and my mum answers at once. When we’ve got through the usual pleasantries, I ask about my dad.

  ‘Well, funnily enough, the doctor called him in to the surgery. He was seen this morning.’

  I mentally remind myself to thank Monica.

  ‘The doctor thinks it might be a stomach ulcer. He’s sending him for one of those things where they put the camera down.’

  ‘That’s good, Mum,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t sound too serious.’ I almost tell her about Australia but don’t want to tempt fate – after all, Paul might not want me to come and first we have to deal with Orla. I say goodbye to her and start walking towards the boathouse. Euan is inside packing up.

  ‘I was thinking just now about how you taught me to sail,’ I say.

  ‘It was an excuse to touch you.’

  ‘We were thirteen. You didn’t fancy me then.’

  ‘I’ve fancied you since I was about’ – he takes the buoyancy aids from me – ‘I dunno, nine? When I had you tied to the tree.’

  ‘We were eight,’ I say, thinking back to those days, building our den, the sense of purpose, our childish plans and secrets that kept us happy all summer long until my mum found me and spoiled it all. ‘We had fun then, didn’t we?’

  ‘Didn’t we just.’ He looks at me properly for the first time since I walke
d into the boathouse. ‘You heard from Paul?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Have you seen Orla again?’

  I nod. ‘She was at my house yesterday when I got home.’ I tell him the story backward: Paul asking her to leave, the smell of the soap, her trying to win over the girls, the cut on Murphy’s head, the damage to my car and Shugs McGovern. ‘He wouldn’t let me out of the house. He tried to make me kiss him.’

  ‘What?’ He starts back, frowning. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I don’t think he intended to hurt me.’ I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t get away from a man like that. He’s far too strong. I kneed him in the balls but not that hard. He let me escape. He was just trying to weird me out.’

  ‘Still.’ He touches my cheek. ‘You should have called me.’

  ‘I think he was there to supply her with drugs,’ I say, following Euan to the back of the boathouse. ‘Ironic when you think how much she hated him when we were kids.’

  ‘Drugs, prison, violence.’ He hangs up the buoyancy aids on hangers strung on a rope. ‘They have a lot in common.’

  ‘Talking of which.’ I tell him about the bedroom, the posters, the photographs, the money, the drugs and the newspaper clippings. ‘She’s not right in the head,’ I finish. ‘She really isn’t. Here.’ I bring the clippings out of my pocket. ‘I understand some of this but you have a try. I misheard her surname. That’s why you couldn’t find anything on the Internet.’

  He takes the papers from my hands and starts to read, translating as he goes. ‘Medical experts have begun a postmortem examination on a man murdered over the weekend in downtown Quebec. Patrick Vornier, thirty-one, was found dead in his bedroom. A neighbour heard a commotion at about 11 p.m. and raised the alarm. Police told reporters that a man named Sucre Gonzalez and Mr Vornier’s wife Orla have already been arrested in connection with the death. Mr Vornier is originally from Perpignan in France but has been living in Canada for some time. He is thought to have been stabbed in the chest, probably with a knife. There is speculation that Mr and Mrs Vornier, who had been married for two years, may have been using heroin on the night he died.’

  Euan rolls back on his heels and says, ‘Bloody hell,’ then translates the next article which has similar information, but this time, Orla is cited as an accomplice to Gonzalez and is sentenced to six years in prison. ‘So Angeline wasn’t exaggerating,’ Euan says, handing the clippings back to me. ‘I think this proves Orla’s capable of just about anything.’

  I nod. ‘At first I was surprised that she didn’t tell Paul about Rose when she had the chance but I think it’s because she’s building up to something spectacular. She has this crazy idea that we should be punished. And she hates that we’re happy. Not that I am any more.’ The memory of this morning, Paul leaving, comes back to me in a wave of shame and anxiety. I hold myself steady while the wave recedes. ‘Paul didn’t want to leave me this morning because of Orla’s behaviour yesterday but now he thinks I only wanted her out of the house because she knew about you. I was going to take the girls and drive up to Skye to join him and Ed later.’ I shrug. ‘But now I don’t suppose I have to.’ I look down at my feet. ‘Euan, I can’t let her tell Paul about Rose. I simply can’t.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’ He is wearing a wetsuit and has taken the top off down to his waist. He peels off the rash vest underneath.

  ‘She knows Paul is going fishing so she won’t be coming round on Sunday.’

  ‘Okay.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘Then I’ll go round to her place tomorrow.’

  ‘Should I come with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I was there?’

  ‘No.’

  After what we’ve just found out I feel scared for him. I take his hand and hold it. ‘Euan, you mustn’t put yourself in any danger.’

  He laughs. ‘She doesn’t frighten me.’

  ‘But what if she comes at you with a knife?’ I touch his bare chest, let my fingers rest over his heart and feel it beating through the palm of my hand. ‘Shugs might even be there.’

  ‘Shugs won’t get involved. He won’t risk prison again. He isn’t as tough as he used to be.’

  ‘He didn’t look great,’ I acknowledge. ‘So what time will you go tomorrow?’

  ‘Afternoon probably. I’ll text you.’ He glances up at me – ‘You can be my alibi’ – and then away again, back to watching his hands tie some rope.

  ‘Okay.’ It’s the least I can do. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I have to ask. ‘What will you say to her?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure, persuade her somehow.’

  ‘I don’t think that will work. She—’

  He puts a hand over my mouth. It’s cold and his fingertips are shrivelled from the water. ‘You don’t need the details, Grace. I will deal with her.’

  ‘When I met her in the graveyard, she said that we could kill her,’ I say lightly. ‘And make it look as if it was an accident.’

  ‘Well, there’s an idea.’ His tone is dry but there is steel behind his expression and it worries me.

  ‘You’re not going to do anything . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Anything definite, are you?’

  ‘I have to do something definite or she won’t go away, will she?’

  ‘Kill her,’ I say in a rush. ‘You’re not going to kill her, are you?’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ His eyebrows come together to tell me I’m way off base but I’m not entirely convinced.

  ‘So why the alibi then?’

  ‘In case something goes wrong, but you know what? You’re right. Don’t worry about the alibi.’ He gives me a cocky smile. ‘I won’t need it.’

  He pulls off the rest of his wetsuit and I turn my back, push my shaky hands into my pockets and remind myself that Euan is doing this for me and that if Paul finds out I killed Rose, albeit accidentally, life as I know it will be over. Couples can recover from affairs but Paul will never be able to forgive me for this. As betrayals go, it’s enormous.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I face Euan again. He is doing up his jeans. ‘Of course I’ll give you an alibi. I’m not meaning to sound like I doubt you.’ Sand blows up from the beach and I use it as an excuse to try to rub the tension out of my face. ‘You smell of the sea. I love the smell of the sea.’ I rest my forehead on his chest and feel the warmth spread into my cheeks.

  ‘I need to check on the boats.’ He puts his hand on the nape of my neck and gives me the briefest of kisses. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  I watch him walk away from me then I go back to my car and drive home.

  When I come in through the back door both girls are already there. Daisy is making a sandwich and Ella is eating cereal. I step out of my boots and walk into the kitchen in my socks. ‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t quite got round to making any tea yet.’

  There’s no room for either of them to sit down. Ella has the stuff from Monica’s attic spread over the kitchen table. There are dusty hardbacked books and bits of old clothing, a box of buttons and some old postcards. ‘I thought I could sell some of it on eBay,’ Ella says.

  I pick up an ancient tennis racket and wave it at her.

  ‘It’s a collector’s item,’ she says defensively, grabbing it back from me.

  In among the junk, there is a silver charm bracelet. The chain is delicate and is joined at either end by a heart-shaped lock. The six charms hang at regular intervals around the chain. The first is a tiny fan. When opened, one side is engraved with ‘Espana’, the other ‘Malaga’. The second charm is a Welsh dragon, the third a spinning wheel, the fourth a rose, the fifth a child’s interpretation of a Viking boat and the sixth is a gondola. Small and perfectly formed, it is complete with gondolier and a couple sitting at the back, arms entwined. Along the prow of the boat it reads ‘Venice’. Somewhere in the back of my mind I have an idea that I’ve seen the bracelet before. I turn it over in my hands and try to think but I
can’t place it. ‘Did Monica say you could have this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ella has finished her cereal and is rummaging in the fridge.

  I hold it up. ‘But did she actually see it, Ella?’

  ‘Yes. I told you!’ She has a juice straw hanging from the corner of her mouth. ‘Can we have money for chips?’

  I finger the cool silver charms. ‘Help yourself to money from my purse. It’s in my handbag by the front door. Take enough for a fish supper each.’ My fingers seek out the gondola, feel along the spine of the boat. ‘And a drink. Take money for drinks.’

  ‘Shall we eat in, then?’ Daisy says, filling Murphy’s water bowl. ‘Should we bring some back for you?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not hungry.’ I think of the spoiled breakfast, Ed’s words and the repercussions. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down and my eyes start to water.

  The girls slam the front door behind them and I sit down, exhausted, overwhelmed by the turn the day has taken. I want to cry but I know that when I start I won’t be able to stop so I have to wait until the girls are in bed. Although Paul is in Skye, his shadow is everywhere in the house. His brogues are by the door, his shaving stuff is next to the sink and the book he was reading is beside his chair, the bookmark sticking out halfway through. Murphy is padding around looking for him. He goes into his study then out again, upstairs to our bedroom and back downstairs into the kitchen. Finally, he settles down on the rug by the front door and rests his chin on his paws.

  I hold the bracelet on my lap. It’s still niggling me. Where do I remember it from? I begin to doze, find it surprisingly comforting, drift off into the mesmerising gap between sleep and wakefulness where random thoughts float before me and hang there like pictures on film. I relax further into the sofa, my eyes heavy as lead, and I roam through splinters of memory: the girls as babies, plump, rosy cheeks, podgy ankles, fingernails like pearly pink shells; a weekend in New York, Paul’s hand holding mine as we skip over puddles, on and off kerbs, along Forty-Second Street late for a play; Euan sitting in the pram opposite me, Mo telling us my eyes are as green as grass, his as blue as the sky; Ella and me winning the mother and daughter’s three-legged race, hugging each other, giggling.