It Started with a Secret: The feel-good novel of the year, from the bestselling author of MAYBE THIS TIME

by Jill Mansell

  There were more tears after that, on both sides, an outpouring of confusion and acceptance, and love and relief. Even Wyatt’s father, who categorically wasn’t the crying kind, wiped his eyes at one point and embraced his son and tried to pretend he wasn’t still half listening to the progress of the golf tournament.

  ‘It wasn’t a shock, honey,’ his mother said for the sixth time. ‘It was just a surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘Mom, it’s OK,’ he reassured her yet again. ‘You’re allowed to be surprised. It’s a pretty big thing to get used to.’

  ‘All we want is for you to be happy. Don’t we, Charles?’

  His father nodded and said gruffly, ‘Of course we do. The boy knows that.’

  As he was leaving, Wyatt’s mother stroked his face. ‘Take care now, baby. We love you so much. Are you going to be all right?’

  Who knew what the future held? But wasn’t that the case for everyone, regardless of whether they were gay, straight or anything else at all? Wyatt felt as if his heart might burst with love for his parents, who only wanted the best for him.

  ‘Yes, Mom. You don’t have to worry. I’ll be fine.’

  Chapter 34

  Majella had left work early on Tuesday afternoon to get her hair done, which meant Seth was alone in the office on the top floor of Menhenick House when the landline began to ring. As he reached along the desk to answer it, he glanced out of the window at Lainey, down in the garden, chasing after Ernie with a hosepipe. Which meant Ernie had been rolling in fox poo again but was also thoroughly enjoying this game of making it as difficult as possible for Lainey to wash it off.

  ‘Hello, Faulkner Travel.’

  ‘Seth? Is that you?’

  ‘It is.’ He didn’t immediately recognise the voice.

  ‘Hi, darling, it’s Shelley, your mum’s friend. How are you, all good? Now listen, what’s Christina done with her phone? I’ve been calling her all morning but I can’t get through.’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Seth. ‘It’s either run out of battery, or she forgot she was holding it when she jumped into a swimming pool.’ His mother treated phones like disposable razors and got through them at a rate of knots. ‘Probably easier to send her a text or an email.’

  ‘Oh darling, my new nails are too long, I can’t be bothered with all that malarkey. Anyway, I’m having my neck done this afternoon – I just wanted to update Christina with a bit of news before I forget. Could you be an angel and pass on the message?’

  Wrinkle-free necks, nails too long to text . . . what a life some people led. Outside the window, Lainey let out a shriek of laughter as Ernie doubled back and cannoned into her legs, resulting in her losing her grip on the hose and showering herself with cold water. Seth picked up a pen. ‘Of course. Fire away.’

  ‘OK, well it’s about Matteo, he’s someone we knew years ago. I already told Christina he was pretty ill . . .’

  Matteo. The pen remained in mid-air above the notepad. ‘She mentioned him to me.’

  ‘That’s it, Matteo with the hair, went around dressed like a rock star. Anyway, I spoke to his sister this morning and she told me why he’d become so reclusive. Poor thing, it’s so sad. I’d assumed he was dying of a brain tumour or some such, but it’s actually a dreadful disease, one of those ones that destroys your brain, slowly eats it away . . . digestive, no, that’s not the word . . . oh, what is it?’

  ‘Degenerative,’ said Seth.

  ‘That’s the one! And he’s been in a terrible state for years, getting worse and worse, which is why he never married or had children. Apparently it’s one of those diseases that can be hereditary and his father died of the same thing. Isn’t that just awful? Horrendous! And now he’s so ill he’s looked after by a team of nurses and can’t do anything for himself, not even say his own name, so do warn Christina not to try and call him for a catch-up. God, though, isn’t it just tragic? All these years he’s been disintegrating and we never knew . . . Ooh, they’re telling me the anaesthetist’s on his way. Let’s hope he’s got loads of lovely drugs to give me; gotta love a pre-med! Now, tell Christina that she won’t be able to call me for the next ten days, because I’m going to be recuperating on Jerry’s yacht and he’s refusing to let me take my phone because apparently I spend all my time on it, like I’m an addict or something!’

  ‘OK,’ said Seth when she stopped prattling on.

  ‘Oh bugger, and now one of my extensions has just fallen out, how bloody infuriating. I only had them redone last night!’

  ‘Did his sister mention the name of the disease Matteo has?’ Seth didn’t want to ask but he needed to know before Shelley hung up.

  ‘She did,’ said Shelley. ‘Oh hello, Doctor, could you be an angel and pick that extension up for me? No, not the extension lead, that strip of hair on the floor . . .’

  The call had ended several minutes ago but Seth still hadn’t moved. Shelley had told him the name of the disease, and in that split second the world had tilted on its axis. It felt as if the sun had gone in, except it hadn’t. Down in the garden, both dogs were now darting back and forth, gleefully running rings around Lainey.

  He exhaled, mouth dry. Lainey, the girl who’d inveigled her way into his heart, who he’d finally decided was the one for him; the girl he’d realised last night he could no longer resist.

  And now this had happened, something potentially so life-altering that his brain was still struggling to take it in. Of course Shelley had no idea of the significance of what she’d told him; to her, it was irrelevant, no more than a mildly interesting snippet of information about someone she’d known for a short period of time over three decades ago.

  Seth turned away from the window, aware of the growing sense of fear in his chest. It was all very well having had zero interest in ever meeting the man who could be his biological father, but this was an altogether different situation. He might share this man’s – this stranger’s – genetic mutation. This was the kind of dilemma no one wanted to find themselves in. He wished he didn’t know, but it was too late. And there was no way of unknowing.

  Right now, he was aware of being in a state of shock. He also felt as if he was never going to be able to think about anything else again. He felt sick. He felt numb and cold and alone. Above all, he wished he didn’t know, in agonising detail, just what this illness did to those in its grasp.

  But he did, because he’d seen it for himself, growing up in Chelsea. He and Christina had lived at 32 Billingham Road, and next door to them at number 34 had been Mr Kay and his wife. Mrs Kay had asked Seth to call them Auntie Helen and Uncle Rob, though it had always been an effort to do so. She was thin and sad and anxious, understandably so, and her husband was a wheelchair-bound shell of a man, frail and unpredictable, in the final stages of the same neurodegenerative disease as Matteo.

  A nurse lived with them, helping to take care of Mr Kay, and Mrs Kay was always inviting the neighbours over for tea. When this happened, Christina invariably said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I can’t make it, but Seth would love to come over!’ And then, when he did, poor Mrs Kay – Auntie Helen – would get out the photo albums and show him endless photos of Uncle Rob before the illness had taken its toll . . . surfing in Portugal, climbing in the Alps, playing tennis and visibly enjoying every moment of his life. Unlike the current Uncle Rob, whose speech was unintelligible and who no longer appeared to recognise his own wife.

  ‘I can’t go over there,’ Christina had explained to Seth. ‘It’s just too awful. That poor woman, I don’t know how she can bear it.’

  Then Uncle Rob had died and his mother had said, ‘I’m amazed Helen’s so upset. You’d think she’d be relieved it was all over.’

  In many ways, Seth had always been aware that his mother’s thoughts and actions were self-serving and questionable. But the fact remained that he was her son and she loved him, and the news that he could be at risk of ending up like Uncle Rob would be devastating for her to hear. Being able to confide in her wouldn’t be
a comfort; it would just make an unbearable situation worse.

  Gathering himself, he picked up his phone and called Shelley back, briefly explaining the Uncle Rob situation and concluding: ‘You know what Mum’s like; it would really upset her to hear that Matteo has the same illness our neighbour had. So it’d be kinder not to mention it, is that OK? There’s no reason for her to know.’

  ‘Of course, darling. Yes, you’re quite right. I love Christina to bits but she’s definitely a drama queen, isn’t she? Let’s not upset her. I won’t breathe a word.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Ooh, the porter’s just arrived to take me down to theatre! Hello, you’re a handsome lad, aren’t you? Seth, you should see him, he looks like a young George Clooney!’

  ‘Off you go,’ said Seth.

  ‘Time to go and get myself a new neck! Bye, darling,’ Shelley trilled. ‘Wish me luck!’

  Chapter 35

  The day had finally arrived. It was Thursday lunchtime and Richard had been counting down the hours. He’d offered to meet Nerys off the train, but she’d turned him down flat.

  ‘Oh no, not in public.’ The idea was clearly horrifying. ‘People might see us.’

  As if the prospect of being spotted in his company was too embarrassing for words.

  So instead he’d suggested the back room of the least popular café on the outskirts of St Carys, because on a sunny summer’s day it would definitely be empty, on account of its grumpy owner, stale cakes and lurid wallpaper covered in giant purple poppies.

  ‘You don’t know for sure it’ll be empty.’ Nerys was clearly still concerned.

  ‘Bring a notebook and pen,’ Richard told her. ‘You can pretend to be a journalist interviewing me.’

  He’d been half joking, but Nerys had exclaimed with relief, ‘Good plan.’

  And now here she was, coming through the café to meet him for the first time, checking the back room from the doorway before allowing a shy smile to light up her face as she moved towards him. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and she was indeed carrying a notebook in one hand and a black Sharpie in the other. She was wearing a pale grey cardigan over a grey and cream polka-dot cotton dress.

  ‘Oh, I can’t believe this is happening,’ Nerys said in her soft Welsh accent. She hesitated a few feet away. ‘I don’t quite know what to do . . . It’s a bit strange, what with you being so famous. Shall we shake hands?’ She was already transferring the Sharpie from her right hand to her left.

  ‘No.’ Richard shook his head and held out his arms. ‘No we will not. Come here.’

  The hug lasted a long time, and it was just as well the back room of the café was otherwise empty.

  Finally he let her go. ‘That perfume you’re wearing.’ The memory of it had knocked him sideways.

  ‘Shalimar.’

  ‘That’s it, by Guerlain. I bought it for Sandy . . . she used to wear it all the time.’

  Nerys’s smile widened. ‘She did? I didn’t know that. She bought me a bottle for my twenty-first birthday and I fell in love with it. I’ve worn it ever since. Well, not every day, obviously.’ Because perfume was expensive. ‘But, you know, on special occasions.’

  Richard gazed down at his daughter, who so strongly resembled Sandy. ‘Does that mean this is a special occasion?’

  ‘I think it probably counts as one.’ Nerys hastily wiped her eyes and shook her head apologetically. ‘I still can’t believe it. If only Mum could have been here to see this.’

  Two hours later, there were three plates of curling sandwiches and six untouched cups of tea in front of them, and the owner of the least popular café in St Carys was waiting to close up.

  ‘You haven’t eaten a thing.’ She glowered at them.

  ‘Sorry, I was busy interviewing Sir Richard,’ said Nerys.

  ‘Hmph. Well, you don’t seem to have written much down.’

  Nerys tapped her temple. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all up here in my head.’

  She even tried to pay the bill when it arrived. Richard pushed her purse aside. ‘Will you stop that? Put your money away.’

  As they were leaving, Nerys said, ‘This has been amazing. Thank you so much. I’m never going to forget this day.’

  ‘Why do you keep looking at your watch?’

  ‘I can catch the next train if I hurry. It leaves at five thirty.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Richard. ‘Stay. I want you to meet the rest of the family.’

  Nerys looked alarmed. ‘You said they didn’t know about me.’

  ‘They don’t.’ He’d needed to meet her first, just in case it all went horribly wrong. Now, placing his arm around her shoulders, he said with pride, ‘But they’re about to find out.’

  The worst café in St Carys was a kilometre from Menhenick House. As they neared home, still talking non-stop, and paused to cross the road, they realised they were being watched.

  ‘Oh no.’ Nerys froze in dismay. Because there on the other side of the road, staring at them as if they were a couple of ghosts, was Pauline.

  ‘Oh God,’ muttered Richard. But it was more a nuisance than a disaster. ‘Sorry, I completely forgot about her. Never mind, it’s fine. We’ve nothing to hide, have we?’

  Pauline’s mouth was agape as she looked from Richard to Nerys then back again. Finally finding her voice, she said, ‘Nerys? What’s going on?’

  Next to Richard, Nerys murmured, ‘Whatever you do, don’t tell her.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ continued Pauline. ‘What are you doing in St Carys?’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘And how are you here with Sir Richard?’

  ‘He . . . replied to my l-letter,’ Nerys stammered. ‘The one in the turquoise envelope.’

  ‘He never replies to letters.’

  ‘I did, though.’ Richard nodded. ‘I’m turning over a new leaf, after what you said at the hotel last week.’

  ‘And you invited Nerys down to see you?’

  Nerys pulled the notebook out of her bag and waved it. ‘I asked if I could come and interview him for our parish magazine, and he said yes.’

  Pauline was now gazing at him askance, as if he’d grown three heads. Richard shrugged. ‘It’s all thanks to you. You were the one who told me to look out for the turquoise envelope.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nerys nodded eagerly at Pauline. ‘Thanks for doing that!’

  Bewildered, Pauline said, ‘But you didn’t even tell me this was happening. All those times I’ve invited you down here to come and stay with me in my caravan.’

  ‘Oh I know, but this was the only day Sir Richard could see me, and you’d already said on the group page that you were going to visit your aunt in Dorset.’

  ‘Auntie wasn’t feeling well, so the trip was cancelled.’

  ‘Oh your poor aunt, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Richard interjected smoothly, because he was a better liar than Nerys.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Richard.’ Pauline returned her attention to Nerys. ‘Well, you’re still very welcome to stay with me tonight if you want to.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you,’ said Nerys, ‘but I have to catch the train back this evening.’

  Once they’d said their goodbyes to Pauline and moved on down the road, Nerys whispered, ‘I’m going to have to write about you for our parish magazine now.’

  ‘No you don’t. And listen, you don’t need to get the train home this evening either. We’ve got a beautiful spare room you can stay in.’ With a jolt, Richard realised he didn’t want her to leave.

  ‘I have to get back, though,’ said Nerys. ‘I need to be at work first thing tomorrow.’

  Menhenick House came into view ahead of them. He said, ‘I wouldn’t mind you telling Pauline, you know. Once the family have got used to the idea, of course.’

  ‘Are you serious? Her big hobby is finding out as much as she can about you and sharing everything she knows with your other fans. She wouldn’t be able to keep that kind of secret to herself for one minute.’

  ‘B
ut it’s OK.’ Richard frowned. ‘You’re my daughter and I’m your father. I’m not embarrassed by that, I’m proud! It doesn’t have to be a secret,’ he assured her, still scarcely able to believe he was saying and meaning it. ‘I want to tell the whole world!’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t want you to.’ Nerys touched his arm, clearly concerned. ‘Please let’s not do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re . . . you.’ She gestured helplessly. ‘You’re famous, and that’s great for you, because you were always happy to be famous. But I’m more like Mum; I’m not one for attention. The thought of people with phones taking my photo and posting stuff about me online . . . it’s just not the kind of thing I’d want to have to go through. Sorry, is that rude? I don’t want to offend you. I’m so thrilled this has happened and I’d love us to stay in touch, but the idea of being splashed across the papers is just unbearable. People would think I was looking for attention, and I couldn’t cope with that.’

  In the heat of the afternoon, her fair hair had lost its blow-dried bounce, and now Richard was able to see the point at her hairline, just above her left eyebrow, where a whorl of blonde hair grew out at an angle. He’d had exactly the same whorl in that precise spot until twenty-odd years ago, when his hairline had receded like the tide.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ said Nerys. ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘You have my cowlick.’ He tapped his own forehead.

  She relaxed. ‘I know. Thanks for passing that on to me; it’s been the bane of my life. At least yours has vanished now.’

  ‘And at least you don’t have to worry about your hairline receding.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Let’s get inside, shall we? Time to introduce you to the rest of the family. They’re about to get a surprise.’