The Secret

by Debbie Howells

  That’s when I know it’s another of her lies. She’ll tell herself I haven’t noticed anything wrong, then forget all about it. Taking the bag of crisps, I go outside, shaking off my uneasiness as I wander down to the end of the garden where it borders the road, wondering if all families lie to each other.

  Pulling myself up onto the same flint wall where the cat was waiting for me just minutes ago, I envy the simplicity of his life; his past forgotten, his future uncontemplated, his only concern the eternal present.

  I like to sit here and watch our neighbours, all of them hiding who they really are – just like my father in his doctor’s office, my mother in her airline uniform – putting on the faces they want the world to see when, underneath, they could be someone else entirely.

  *

  It’s dark when Hollie appears in my bedroom doorway later that evening. Her long hair is windswept, her cheeks tinged with pink, as though she’s run here. I can tell from her eyes she’s been crying. Staring at her face, I’m already guessing what she’s upset about.

  ‘Your dad?’ I ask. He’s the only person Hollie cares about. She nods as words, tears, and snot begin pouring out of her. I’ve never seen anyone cry as messily as Hollie does.

  ‘He was talking to someone on his phone.’ Her hair gets in the way as she breaks off to wipe her face on her sleeve. ‘Whoever it was, they’re a bastard.’ Her voice is filled with hatred.

  Not wanting my mother to overhear, I glance towards the open door, then lean towards Hollie, curious, asking quietly, ‘What were they talking about?’

  Her lip wobbles. ‘I can’t tell anyone.’ Then her shoulders start to shake. ‘Do you know how that feels?’

  I’ve no idea what she’s talking about. ‘You can tell me, Hollie.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t. You’re too young.’

  I wonder what she means. She’s only two years older than me.

  But then she comes towards me, awkwardly stroking my hair before perching on the end of my bed as she tries to get control of herself. When she turns to look at me, her face is tear-stained, her distress obvious. ‘I wish I could tell you, Niamh. But I can’t.’

  Chapter Two

  Elise

  ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten about tonight.’ Without offering a greeting or explaining why he’s late, Andrew walks into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. He never justifies anything. Even off duty, he behaves with the same air of authority he has at work.

  My heart sinks as I remember. He’s talking about drinks in the pub – a village tradition – meant to celebrate the end of January and a month off alcohol, which no-one ever actually achieves. I had forgotten. If I hadn’t, I’d have invented an excuse, but it’s too late for that now. ‘I had, actually.’ I pause, wanting to say I’m too tired as it’s not untrue – I had an early start this morning. Instead, I glance at the clock and give in to the inevitable. It’s seven thirty. ‘What time is everyone meeting?’

  ‘Eight.’ Evidently changing his mind, Andrew switches off the kettle and uncorks a bottle of red wine.

  ‘Fine.’ My mind is restless. If she lives locally, as I suspect, the population of the village is so small that she’ll almost certainly be there. The probability is I’ll know instantly – I usually do. ‘I’ll go and change.’

  Upstairs, I pull a black tunic on over my jeans, knotting a pale scarf over it, then brush my hair and touch up my makeup. The spritz of perfume is defiant, reflecting my mood – it’s one I know Andrew doesn’t like. As I go downstairs, I hear there’s music coming from the sitting room. I push the door open wide enough to see Niamh slumped on the sofa and Hollie sprawled on the rug in front of the fire. Neither of them looks up.

  ‘We’re just going out, girls. We won’t be late.’ My voice is intentionally light, painting the picture that Andrew and I are off on a cosy evening out, but I suspect it doesn’t fool anyone.

  Niamh turns briefly, hair the colour of flax falling across her face. ‘OK, Mum.’ Her face is expressionless, her eyes blank, mirroring mine. Not for the first time I berate myself for not being the kind of mother who can make everything right in her world with a hug, a laugh, a joke …

  I look at Hollie. ‘Are you staying, Hollie?’

  Hollie Hampton lives at the other end of the village from us. At sixteen, she’s two years older than Niamh, but they’re kindred spirits. Riveted to the television, Hollie nods imperceptibly, pulling her long dark hair over one of her thin shoulders. Elfin-faced, with pale skin, in the frayed jeans under the silver dress she’s wearing, she’s diaphanous.

  ‘There are snacks in the cupboard if you’re hungry,’ I remind them. ‘See you later, girls.’

  Pushing the door closed behind me, I go to find Andrew. Already wearing his coat, he barely glances at me as I pull on a jacket and knitted hat.

  ‘Ready?’ His tone is brusque, but unless there’s anyone around to notice, Andrew is never affectionate towards me.

  *

  We walk to the pub in silence, the air damp, the drops of rain from earlier yet to turn into anything more.

  For some reason, Hollie is on my mind. Her father, James, is a writer, her stepmother, Stephanie, a hairdresser – I’ve been to her salon in the next village once or twice. Over the last couple of years, Hollie’s seemed increasingly troubled. I’ve seen it when she appears at the door, uninvited, looking as though she has nowhere else to go; sometimes it’s as if her mind is far away, while other days emotions race across her face like storm clouds scudding across the sky.

  Hands in my pockets, I hurry through the darkness, trying to keep up with Andrew’s brisk, staccato steps. Like everything about him, they’re deliberate, purposeful. I wonder if he’s thinking of her. Fighting the urge to turn around and go home, I remind myself, this could be my opportunity to find out who she is.

  When Andrew speaks, he takes me by surprise. ‘We should plan a holiday, Elise.’

  For the second time today, I’m hit by shock. I should be delighted, but instead I’m outraged, upset, cynical, smothering the urge to flail my fists into the softness of his overcoat, to scream at him: Why this pretence, when we both know you want to be with her? But outrage is pointless and the feelings are quickly replaced by numbness.

  ‘Richard’s going to Dubai next month. He was talking about it today.’

  As he speaks, the penny drops. Richard is a colleague of Andrew’s and Andrew simply wants to be able to brag about where we’re going to sound impressive, to outdo everyone else’s holidays, while at the same time perpetuating the myth that we’re a close family when the reality is we’re anything but.

  I put my hands in my pockets. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ I know my cool response won’t be what he’s expecting.

  ‘You’re always saying you want me to make more effort,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘But the trouble with you, Elise, is that it’s only ever one bloody way – your way.’

  Angst rises inside me. It’s the opposite of the truth. There’s only ever Andrew’s way, but there is no mileage in pointing this out. Instead, as the pub comes into view, I steel myself for his metamorphosis into the charming village doctor everyone believes him to be. Andrew’s practice is four miles away and most of the villagers are his patients. In public, he never puts a foot wrong.

  Niamh

  When I first met Hollie, I’d already seen her enough times in the distance to know she was different. She was in the churchyard that day, standing with her back to me, her long dark hair reaching halfway down her back. She turned quickly when a twig cracked under my foot.

  I stared at her for a moment, taking in her wide eyes and pale skin. In her thin white dress she looked delicate, as though the wind could blow her away. ‘I’m Niamh.’

  Her eyes darted around before settling on mine. ‘I’m Hollie.’

  ‘I know.’ I shivered. It was as though Hollie was a ghost surrounded by the silent graves between us. I was about to walk away, but curiosity got the better of
me. ‘Are you OK?’

  She nodded, but I saw loneliness in her eyes. The first raindrop fell on my skin then, and as more started to fall, I glanced up at the sky just as the heavens opened.

  Hollie nodded towards the church. ‘Maybe we should go in.’

  I followed her towards the wooden door, which creaked open once she lifted the heavy latch. Standing in the doorway, watching the deluge, neither of us spoke for a few seconds.

  ‘I like your dress.’ My words were almost drowned out by the noise of the downpour on the tiled roof as I gazed at her, her dress translucent where the rain had caught it.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, I watched her eyes drift across the churchyard. ‘You can feel them, can’t you?’ she asked, her arms tightly hugging herself. I could tell from the way she spoke she was talking about the souls of the dead.

  I nodded, imagining the heartbreak of their families lingering in the air, wondering if after enough time had passed, the rain washed it away.

  ‘I always think about all the people who’ve come here … The christenings, weddings, funerals …’ Her words echoed through the church as she fell silent. ‘My mum died when I was eight. I wasn’t allowed to go to hers.’ Her voice was small, choked with tears.

  I thought of my father, spending another Sunday in a fug of red wine and temper, how my mother was never happy, how nothing changed. The crash of thunder overhead startled me, and without thinking, my hand reached for hers.

  ‘They say she killed herself.’ Her eyes were blank as she stared outside at the rain, becoming defiant as she turned her head and looked at me. ‘They’re wrong. I know they are.’ There was anger, frustration, sadness in her voice. As a streak of lightning lit the church, I saw the emotion in her eyes.

  ‘I told them she wouldn’t have done that. But no-one listens to me.’

  Chapter Three

  Elise

  When we reach the pub, I hover outside, thinking of the charade that lies behind the door.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Andrew is typically unsympathetic.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ I tell him. ‘I was just remembering something.’ I’ve long stopped caring about lying to him because Andrew’s entire life is a lie. People think he’s the amiable doctor, the caring father, the solicitous husband, the solid neighbour, when in truth he’s none of those. He’s a cruel, manipulative liar.

  ‘For God’s sake, go in, Elise. It’s far too cold to stand around outside.’ He sounds impatient.

  ‘Then don’t,’ I say tersely, pushing past him. Opening the door, I latch on to the first familiar face I see, feeling my heart sink. ‘Julian!’ Unbuttoning my jacket, I pin on a smile. ‘How lovely to see you! Is Della with you? How was Goa?’

  ‘Very good.’ As he kisses my cheek, the smell of his aftershave is cloying. ‘And very hot. She’s over there,’ he says, pointing across the pub to Della, who raises her hand, looking slightly anxious. Craning my neck, I see why – she’s been snared by Christian, who can talk about himself forever. I pull a sympathetic face at her before turning back to Julian.

  ‘Drink, Elise?’ Andrew’s voice comes from behind me.

  ‘Vodka and tonic. I’ve never been.’ I’m referring to Goa.

  ‘Julian … good to see you. Can I get you another?’ Andrew’s display of bonhomie is typical of him.

  ‘Thank you. Yes. Scotch.’ Julian knocks back what’s left in his glass before passing it to Andrew. ‘Good way to end such a ludicrous month, don’t you think?’

  ‘You mean dry January?’ I doubt Julian and Della stuck to it in Goa. ‘I can’t say I take much notice of it.’

  ‘You? The good doctor’s wife?’ Clearly finding himself funny, he winks at me.

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find Andrew isn’t a shining example, either.’ It certainly doesn’t stop him driving, but Julian’s probably the same.

  ‘That’ll be our little secret!’ Seeing the gleam in Julian’s eye, bile rises in my throat. Then I see Andrew coming back with our drinks.

  ‘Here you are, darling.’ The endearment – for Julian’s benefit only – makes me cringe.

  Taking my glass, I make my excuses and leave them together, drifting in the direction of Della, who’s the only person I’m remotely interested in talking to. Waiting while she extricates herself from Christian’s lengthy and no doubt mind-numbing monologue, I glance around the pub.

  Most of the village are here. On the other side of the bar, James and Stephanie Hampton are talking to a couple of other villagers. As I catch Stephanie’s eye, a brief smile flickers across her face. It occurs to me to bring up my concerns about Hollie, but the thought is pushed to the back of my mind as Della joins me.

  ‘Bloody circus, isn’t it?’ She kisses me on both cheeks. ‘I swear Christian’s the most boring man on the planet. I honestly don’t know why we put ourselves through this.’

  ‘So that we can gloat over our successes and crow over each other’s failures. You look great, Della.’ The Calders are often away somewhere exotic and Della’s skin is freshly sun-kissed, her hair lightened. It reminds me that my own hair needs highlighting and I glance at Stephanie again, seeing she’s still deep in conversation.

  ‘I ought to have a tan after two weeks in Goa! Sadly, it won’t last around here in this god-awful weather. Luckily we’re off to Barbados for a fortnight soon. Are you going anywhere in the next little while?’

  ‘Andrew mentioned going away, but we don’t have firm plans yet.’ My words are expressionless. There’s no way I can face a holiday with Andrew, but I won’t tell him until I have to, knowing it’ll cause another fight I don’t have the energy for.

  She frowns at me. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine.’ I sip my drink, unable to taste the vodka. I put it down then close my eyes for a moment. ‘Actually, I’m not. My vision’s gone blurry.’ Della knows about my migraines. I search my bag for my pills. ‘I can’t believe it. They’re in my other bag.’ I glance around, noticing Andrew on the other side of the room talking to someone I don’t know. ‘Do me a favour and tell him, would you? I should go home before it gets any worse. Can we catch up another time? I want to hear about Goa.’

  Della’s concern is genuine. ‘He should take you home. I’ll get him.’

  I’m shaking my head. ‘Please, don’t. We’ve only just got here. I’ll be fine on my own.’ And I’d rather be on my own than with Andrew.

  ‘You’re sure? Would you like me to walk with you?’

  Shaking my head, I suddenly feel claustrophobic. ‘If you could just tell Andrew …’

  Slipping outside unnoticed, I take a deep breath. I have no migraine, just an aching weariness at having to pretend, even to Della, that everything’s fine in my marriage. I walk home knowing Andrew won’t come after me, or even call to check if I’m all right.

  Thinking of Della, I frown as it creeps into my mind that given the limited pool of suspects, she could be his latest. But she’s been in Goa, I remember, relieved.

  So, if not her, who?

  Through the darkness, the sound of an owl reaches me. Since moving here, I’d hoped to grow to love the countryside and the changes of the seasons, but I haven’t. Instead, the emptiness and the silence suffocate me. In a small village, there is no privacy. I wonder how much longer I can keep up the pretence that Andrew and I have a functioning marriage, just as I wonder how many people already know we don’t.

  As I reach our drive, I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps running on gravel, just before Hollie springs through the open gate, her hair caught in the dim glow from the lamps on top of the gateposts. She carries on up the lane without looking round, as the sound of sobbing reaches me. Hollie’s always been melodramatic, but there seems to be something different about her lately … I shake my head. The trouble with Hollie is her hype. Nothing small ever happens to her.

  Inside, I linger in the kitchen, aware of Niamh moving around upstairs but she soon comes down, no doubt wondering why I’m back so
soon. If she’s surprised to see me, I can’t tell.

  ‘I have one of my migraines,’ I explain. ‘Have you eaten?’

  Niamh’s face is blank as she looks at me. ‘We had pizza.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see the empty box on the side. ‘Is Hollie OK?’

  ‘She’s fine.’ But Niamh’s answer is too quick and Hollie clearly wasn’t fine.

  ‘I passed her just now.’ I wonder if something happened between them in the hour I was out. ‘She came running out just as I got back. She seemed upset.’

  As Niamh shrugs, I realise she isn’t going to tell me anything. She wanders out of the kitchen and then I hear her light footsteps on the stairs. Fetching a glass, I make myself another vodka and tonic – full-strength this time, rather than the insipid version the pub serves, then go over to the sofa at the far end of the kitchen, flicking the TV on.

  The kitchen is my favourite room – calm, light, cosy. Looking around, I imagine Andrew in the pub, no doubt smugly holding forth to anyone who’ll listen, knowing there’ll be plenty who will. Self-pity washes over me, but it’s fleeting. I take a sip of my drink. I chose this life, just as I choose to stay with him. Not because I love this lifestyle or this house – they’ve long since lost their appeal. The only reason I’m here is because of Niamh.

  *

  By the time Andrew gets home, I’m in a vodka-induced slumber, which absolves me from having to talk to him. When I awake late the following morning, I find the bed beside me empty. As I lie there, the sound of Andrew crashing around the kitchen reaches my ears, then the quieter sound of Niamh’s bedroom door opening, her footsteps growing fainter as she goes downstairs.

  Closing my eyes, I think about staying in bed – I’m often on an early flight so the two of them are used to mornings without me – but I force myself to get up, propelled by a sense of maternal duty.