The Couple's Secret

by B P Walter

  ‘Was that okay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he said quietly.

  I nodded again. He seemed awkward now, struggling to get his jeans on, covering up his bare legs, much closer to the George I used to know – just a glimmer of him peeking out from beneath this strange, sexually confident young man sitting before me. He stood up and said, ‘Do you want me to go?’

  I instinctively nodded again, then apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I just think I should be alone right now.’

  He seemed a little put out. ‘You sure? I think The Italian Job is on TV today. We could watch it together. Have some mince pies.’

  I glanced at the TV, as if it might have heard him and spring into life at any moment. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t have any mince pies.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, really.’

  He seemed to get the message. Once he’d got all his clothes and shoes on and was standing by the door, ready to leave, I did feel a twinge of regret. Maybe it would have been nice to have some company on Christmas Eve night. I was just about to say something, tell him I’d changed my mind, when he said, ‘It’s probably best if I get off. Promised my mum I’d help her with some Christmas prep. Got the family round tomorrow.’ This stopped me saying anything at all. I didn’t know if he meant it as a dig. It wouldn’t have been George’s style, but then again I never would have thought casual sex on the lounge sofa would have been his style either. Everything was so confused.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Hol,’ he said, giving me a small smile. Then he was out the door and walking away, zipping up his black Adidas jacket against the cold.

  I walked back into the lounge and looked around. Everything was exactly the same as it had been, aside from the sofa. The cushions needed straightening. As I walked over, I noticed there was a key difference – something that certainly hadn’t been there before. On one of the seats there was a small patch that was slightly wet to the touch. I looked closer, inspecting it. Translucent white residue clung to the surface, flecked with tiny marks of red. Semen and blood. Slowly, putting pressure on the spot, I wiped it harder into the fabric of the sofa, watching it grow into a larger dark, damp patch. I stood back to take a look when I was finished. I hoped it would leave a stain. A rough image swam into my head; of my mother settling down on the sofa to watch Countdown when she returned in the New Year, wondering how that strange mark had ever come to be there. I smiled to myself, then turned on the TV to watch The Italian Job alone.

  Chapter 13

  Julianne

  Knightsbridge, 2019

  Things aren’t fine. They’re far from fine. And on top of that, I’ve still got presents to wrap, food to buy, people to see. No more crying on the floor in the lounge in the small hours. No more phone calls to people I don’t even know. Just from a practical perspective, I don’t have the time. But no matter how busy I am, that strange, niggling feeling is in the back of my mind – this draining, clawing creature perched on my shoulder that’s only become larger since speaking to Myanna. I keep thinking of that painting by Henry Fuseli, showing a woman lying on a bed with some sort of demonic manifestation sitting on top of her. The image floats into my mind so often I end up googling it on my phone, irritated I can’t remember the name of the piece. When I see its title, that cold chill returns to my spine. It’s called The Nightmare.

  I’m just coming back from a quick nip out to Whole Foods when I see Stephen sitting on the stairs, head in his hands.

  ‘Honey, are you okay?’ I ask. I’ve tried to talk to him twice now since the other night – the night of the discovery – but he’s either hurried away or James has been within hearing distance. Aside from a quick iMessage I sent him telling him everything is explained and he’s not to worry, we haven’t communicated properly in two days.

  He just shrugs at me and says, ‘I don’t know.’ He’s mumbling, unable to look at me. One of the things I’ve always loved about my son is his effortless confidence, his ability to meet people’s eye, to talk with ease and charm. He’s a miniature version of James in that way. And now he’s been reduced to this. Lost, monosyllabic, sitting on the stairs as if he doesn’t know what to do.

  Our housekeeper, Cassie, comes through into the hallway. She’s got rubber gloves on and her hair is tied back. She greets me with a warm smile. ‘Let me take those bags from you, Julianne,’ she says, picking up the ones I’ve already put down, catching two apples as they start to slip out.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, giving her a distracted smile in return, not wanting to take my attention away from Stephen. I wait until she’s gone back through into the kitchen then go over to him and sit beside him on the stairs.

  ‘Dad’s at work,’ he says.

  ‘I know,’ I reply. I put my hand on top of his and give it a friendly squeeze. He doesn’t pull away, but his hand remains limp and oddly lifeless.

  ‘I just thought you’d like to be sure. In case you wanted to do anything.’

  ‘Do anything?’ I say, confused.

  ‘Anything without him being here.’

  I stare at him closely, but he’s still staring directly ahead, not looking at me. ‘Stephen, what do you mean? I told you there’s nothing to be worried about. Everything’s fine. We don’t need to do anything,’ I say. He says nothing. ‘Come on, it’s Christmas. Look, I know …’ I lower my voice, though Cassie’s got Radio 4 on in the kitchen and I can hear her opening cupboards and unpacking the shopping. ‘I know what you found was strange. I found it disconcerting, too. But I spoke to him about it, and honestly, it’s all fine. It was just some work project he was doing and he put the files in his Dropbox by mistake.’

  ‘I see. So that’s sorted then.’ He doesn’t say it like a question. It’s a pointed statement, said bluntly and coldly. He’s suspicious. Suspicious of his own father. He thinks a man he’s loved his whole life might be hiding some awful secret. It devastates me. But there’s a small part of me that’s scared of something different, something I’m afraid of even admitting to myself: it comforts me that I’m not the only one with doubt. That I’m not alone with my torment. That Stephen, too, suspects the full truth hasn’t yet been told.

  ‘Yes. He just put the files in the wrong folder. Honey, please …’ I say, leaning in to hug him. ‘I know this has been a bit of an odd thing for us to deal with. The file on that woman was distressing to read. It was from another company your dad’s firm was going to do business with, but they decided not to. Because of that file. They decided it was unethical. Everything with your dad is fine. Truly. It’s all figured out.’ I’m making myself sound more sure than I am, but I know it’s what I need to do. This isn’t Stephen’s battle. This shouldn’t be something he has to worry about. ‘We can just … carry on with Christmas. We’ve got the Kelmans coming for dinner tomorrow, Grandma and Grandad on Christmas Eve …’

  He sniffs and shakes his head. ‘Can’t let anything get in the way of that.’

  I’m not used to sarcasm from him and it stings. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Files,’ he says, cutting across me.

  I don’t understand him at first, then he says it again, ‘You said file. It’s files. Plural.’ And then I remember. That long list of files. Loads of them. And I’ve only seen two. Stephen’s looked through more than me.

  ‘They’re not important,’ I say to him, and eventually he looks at me. His eyes make me want to cry. The look on his face takes me back to that moment a couple of days ago when he came into the kitchen and told me he’d found something. It feels like a lifetime ago now. Eventually, he moves to lift himself up off the stairs.

  ‘If you say so,’ he says, then walks away, up towards his room. I hear the thud of his bedroom door closing, and I’m left sitting on the stairs on my own, the theme tune of The Archers drifting in from the kitchen and a tight knot in my stomach, twisting away at my insides, that I fear will never go away.

  I’m sorting out the remaining presents I h
ave to wrap when my phone sounds a ping from my pocket. It’s Ally Kelman, asking if she can bring anything tomorrow. She always does this, regularly asks and offers to help, then turns up either late and empty-handed, or early and sits around watching me getting the place organised. I read through her message again, trying to focus.

  Popping into Selfridges later so can pick something up? Unless you’d like to join? Naughty afternoon champagne bar trip? x

  I’m in the middle of messaging back an apology, saying I’ve got too much to do, but then I stop. Do I really want to stay here in this suffocating house? And I’ve been meaning to pop into the shops to find something for James’s mom. I bought her a scarf earlier in the year that I thought she’d love, only to see a photo of her on holiday in Norway wearing an identical garment. I’ve been planning to find something else for weeks but it keeps slipping my mind. And maybe I could talk to Ally. Not tell her anything explicit. Just a distraction, a moan about James, her usual no-nonsense approach to life. It could be what I need. She’s been a good friend over the years, and God knows I’ve been a kind ear and shoulder to cry on during her recent divorce.

  I text back. Sure. Although can we go to John Lewis? I have something to return. I can be there in an hour?

  She messages back immediately. Okay! See you at the café.

  I go up the stairs and knock on Stephen’s door. ‘I’m just popping out to John Lewis,’ I say to the wood. For a moment I think he’s going to blank me for the first time since he was a child, but he doesn’t. He eventually murmurs back, ‘Okay.’ I hesitate, wondering whether to go inside, but I can’t face a repeat of our conversation earlier. Not yet. After a quick exchange with Cassie before I leave about wine supplies, I wrap up warmly and head out and across the cold street. I decide to take the underground rather than the car, but regret it after waiting on the Knightsbridge Piccadilly line platform for ten minutes for a delayed train. After I finally get to Green Park I decide to ditch the Tube and continue my journey above ground. The buzz of Central London is immediate and infectious. The Christmas lights of The Ritz glint in the gloomy December afternoon light and there are people with bulging shopping bags everywhere. It feels like it might snow and I wrap my coat around me, setting off up Old Bond Street. Under normal circumstances I’d love this. The festive season is my favourite time of year and I’m never usually bothered by the crowds and endless Christmas music playing in the shops. But now it’s as if I’m watching myself in a movie rather than real life, feeling secondhand fake emotions rather than the rush of the real thing. Everything’s muted, dialled down, diluted.

  I reach Oxford Street after a fifteen-minute walk and cross the road to John Lewis. I have ten minutes before meeting Ally, so start to browse the cosmetics on the ground floor, but after a few seconds there’s a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Hello! I thought I was going to be late but managed to dodge the tourists.’

  Ally looks the same as she always looks: dishevelled in an expensive, beautiful sort of way. Her flowing blonde hair is down today, pouring over her bright-red coat, messy and perfect at the same time, her face flushed from the cold.

  ‘Hiya,’ I say, returning her smile. ‘How’s it all going?’

  ‘Oh gosh, such a hassle. I still have a ton of shopping to do. Why do I always leave it till the bloody last minute? I must be some sort of masochist or something.’ She lets out her loud, disarming laugh. ‘Anyway, come on, let’s get a drink.’

  ‘A non-alcoholic drink,’ I say. ‘I’m definitely in more of a hot chocolate mood than a champagne mood. If that’s okay?’

  ‘Lead the way!’ she says brightly, not caring that her loud, theatrical voice is making staff and customers stare.

  We journey to the café on one of the upper levels, Ally remarking on the cascade of Christmas lights hanging in the air near the escalators, ‘You should have these in your house, Julianne!’

  In the café, I get my hot chocolate and Ally opts for a cappuccino; then we find a corner and begin to talk.

  ‘The bitch is at it again,’ Ally says, without even taking a sip of her coffee. ‘All over Facebook and Instagram. They’re in Miami.’ She says the last word with wide eyes as if she’s never heard of anything so ridiculous. When I don’t respond immediately, she adds, ‘As in Florida.’

  ‘I know where Miami is.’

  She laughs again. ‘Oh, of course you do. Probably went there all the time when you were back in the States, did you?’

  ‘Well, no, Chicago’s not exactly—’

  ‘Anyway, look at this.’ She brandishes her massive Samsung smartphone, the screen filled with the warm glow of an evening on the beach, a couple in the centre embracing. ‘That’s HIM. And her. Thunder-tits, as I like to call her.’

  I study the picture. In another context, it might have been quite sweet, and because of the soft lighting the age difference between Ally’s ex-husband and his new twenty-eight-year-old girlfriend isn’t as plain to see. I’m not really sure what to say, although that rarely matters with Ally.

  ‘I was tempted just to comment underneath “Twats”, but thought that might seem childish.’

  ‘A bit,’ I say, blowing on my hot chocolate. ‘What is it she does again?’

  ‘She’s a mindfulness coach. I know. I’m not even fucking joking. As far as I can make out, she doesn’t have any formal qualifications. So she’s poking around in people’s heads, telling them to think of waterfalls and whatever nonsense, and she doesn’t even know what she’s doing. That would worry me, if I went to see her to deal with my stress. Like going to a dentist who just hacks up teeth for a hobby.’

  She pauses a moment to have some of her cappuccino, then raises her hand and points upward, as if she’s just remembered something important. ‘Oh my God, I completely forgot to say. That guy I went on a date with. Cameron. It’s a thing. We’re a thing. He’s coming tomorrow. To your dinner. If that’s okay with you, of course.’

  This rush of information takes me by surprise. ‘Er … wow, that’s great.’ To be completely honest, the addition of another person at such short notice isn’t exactly ideal, but I’m used to this kind of thing with Ally. She’s presumptuous, and always gets away with it. I just nod and smile, as I do now. ‘No problem. Bring him along.’

  ‘Super,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s young. I thought two can play at that game. The sex is really rather surprising. I’d forgotten how creative people in their twenties can be. And how blasé. The other night he lost his erection during sex and just shuffled off to get some Oreos. No embarrassment, no awkwardness. Older men act like it’s a sign they’re knocking on the doors of the retirement home. I think young people just take it in their stride. Watch a bit of porn to get themselves in the mood again. We didn’t watch porn together that night, though – we shared the Oreos while watching Planet Earth II. Have you seen that episode with the snakes and the lizards?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ I reply. ‘You say you watch porn? Like, together?’

  Ally shrugs. ‘Yeah, sometimes. Not that often. He likes it and I don’t mind. Especially if I’m going down on him while he’s watching it happen to a guy on-screen. I always try to make sure the girl in the video looks wildly different to me so he won’t start comparing us.’ Another loud laugh. ‘I’m not sure I’d be able to compete with those youthful Californian blondes.’

  Normally I’d take this kind of conversation in my stride, laugh at some of the more outrageous details and try to steer the conversation into less colourful territory. But today’s different.

  ‘Aren’t you ever worried … when you’re dating new people … that you’ll, I don’t know, discover something you don’t like. Something you find unpalatable?’

  Ally’s eyes light up mischievously.

  ‘Only mildly so. Having sex in public. Getting caught. No more than most people. We don’t do it in public, I hasten to add. None of those is my scene.’

  ‘No, I’m not necessarily talkin
g about sex.’

  She raises an eyebrow at me. ‘What do you mean? Political things? Like, discovering they’re far-right racists on the quiet?’

  I’m not sure how to phrase this, whether I’m being stupid, going too far. ‘I suppose. Or, like … having a secret life. A side you don’t know anything about. And then when you discover it … other things start to make sense. And it preys on your mind.’ I realise I’ve been looking at my hot chocolate the whole time while talking, but when I look up, Ally’s eyes are averted, too, staring at a space across the table.

  ‘Well, I suppose that can happen,’ Ally says, her voice not as smooth as normal. I shouldn’t have taken the conversation into such serious territory, I think. ‘My twat of an ex-husband obviously had a not-so-secret love of enormous breasts. I suppose that’s my only experience of that kind of thing.’