The Secrets of Strangers

by Charity Norman

  ‘Joan who?’

  ‘Brightwell, I think. Might be Bothwell. Something ending in well. She’s talking about a fudge sundae I made for her eightieth birthday party at Jackson’s. We had sparklers, the whole restaurant singing “Happy Birthday” when I carried it out. Joan was delighted—said it was the work of a magician. She’s a real character. A bit flirtatious.’

  ‘An eighty-year-old woman sent you a personal text?’

  ‘Why not? Eighty is the new sixty. You can phone and ask her if you don’t want to trust me. Go on. Be my guest.’

  ‘No need for that.’ Mum’s voice had less conviction now. ‘Well … but there’s this other person, you’ve just got her in your contacts as “G”. There are lots from her. See you this evening honey kiss kiss kiss … How about a rematch, three question marks, kiss kiss kiss. And you’ve replied to that: I’m on my way—with two exclamation marks. Here’s another one from her: Let’s do coffee after lunch—winky face—kisses. So … who is G?’

  ‘This isn’t sane.’

  ‘If you could just put my mind at rest?’

  ‘Hand over that phone again. Let’s see … Ah!’ Robert sounded amused. Not a hint of a guilty conscience. ‘I thought so. Georgia. She talks to everyone like that, calls the whole world “darling” and “honey”. She scatters all written communication with kisses. It’s an affectation.’

  ‘Georgia is predatory.’

  ‘Oh, come on, now you’re being ridiculous. You know Georgia! She’s larger than life, flirts with absolutely everyone, regardless of age or gender—but none of it means a thing. Customers love it. She’s also my boss so I can’t tell her to cool it. You’re not going to get all jealous again, are you?’

  Sam had pricked up his ears on hearing Georgia’s name. He had an adolescent crush on the manager, with her hourglass figure and blonde-bombshell hair.

  Mum had one last try. ‘Coffee—winky face? Winky face! What’s she winking about?’

  Robert’s voice took on a dangerous edge. ‘You tell me. You’ve obviously got some kind of sick idea.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You think it’s a euphemism for sex. Is that what’s on your mind? You think I’d risk my marriage and my career and self-respect for … Jesus Christ, Harriet! Georgia is on a detox diet. She drinks a disgusting herbal thing made of dandelion roots, which she calls “coffee”. It’s a running joke. The other staff and I have coffee, Georgia pretends to.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The wind had gone from Mum’s sails. Robert had an answer to everything. He always did. Always. He was Mr Teflon.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked. ‘It’s so hurtful, Harriet. It’s so destructive. Your jealousy’s putting our marriage at risk. I’m really struggling. I think you need some kind of therapy.’

  There were footsteps and murmurs. Sam knew Mum would be saying sorry. It was her catchphrase. She lived in a state of permanent apology. Sorry, sorry, fucking sorry. He left them to it and wandered off to get dressed, thinking about Georgia’s throaty voice and low-cut blouses. She made a point of standing very close to Robert, and Sam had seen the creepy way he smiled at her. Winky face. There was no way Mum should be apologising.

  •

  As soon as she got back from work that day, Mum rolled up her sleeves and cleaned the whole house.

  ‘Help me, Sam,’ she said. ‘I want to make everything perfect.’

  He did help, though she did most of the work. She laid the table, cut flowers from the garden and arranged them in a vase. She changed the sheets on her and Robert’s bed—Sam refused to wonder why she’d be doing that. She washed her hair and straightened it with the gadget Robert had bought her because he thought her curls were ‘a bit over the top’. She put on an outfit she knew Robert liked: a red dress and strappy sandals. She even wore make-up, which was rare for her. Sam looked in through their bedroom door and saw her concentrating very hard as she brushed mascara onto her eyelashes.

  She also made a Thai beef salad. He ate his in front of Top Gear, but she wanted to wait for Robert.

  ‘He’s not got an evening shift today,’ she told Sam, opening a bottle of wine. ‘So he should be back any minute.’

  She sat at the kitchen table while she waited. Everything in the house was perfect except for her. She looked fake, with her magenta lipstick and straightened hair. She looked like someone else’s mother.

  Hours passed. She was still waiting. She tried calling Robert’s phone but he didn’t answer. For no good reason, she filled a bucket and mopped the kitchen floor. She mopped in every corner, moving things around to be sure to cover every inch of the kitchen and laundry. Then she sat down again and fidgeted. Every few minutes she checked her phone.

  ‘Ring him again,’ suggested Sam.

  She reached for the phone, grimaced, put it down, picked it up. ‘I don’t want to annoy him.’

  ‘Just ring him. You’re worried.’

  ‘I could, but … no. I’ll wait a bit longer.’

  At about nine o’clock she did try to call him again. He didn’t answer, but a minute later a text arrived.

  ‘Oh dear, he’ll be very late.’ She was tugging at strands of her hair. ‘Held up at work after all. There’s a party. The other chef’s off sick.’

  When Sam turned in, she was still drooping over the kitchen table with an untouched bottle of wine. Her hair had turned back to frizz, her dress was crumpled, her lipstick a smudgy disaster. Maybe she sat at the table all night, all dolled up. Waiting. Like a faithful hound.

  Robert finally appeared the next morning. Sam was eating Weetabix and scowled at his stepfather when he whirled in—whistling, patting Mum on the bottom.

  ‘Where were you?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t you get my text?’

  ‘I did, but—’

  ‘I said I’d be late.’

  ‘Late, yes, but you didn’t come home at all.’

  His smile was stuck on his face. Painted on, like the devil puppet’s grin.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, with a horrible kind of false calm. ‘I’m home now.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were booked out all night, two big parties, and half the staff were off sick. Some kind of flu going around. We didn’t get cleaned up till nearly two o’clock. I had a brandy with the team—they’d worked their arses off and we all wanted to unwind. It was too late to call you and I didn’t want to take the risk of driving home. So I stopped in one of the bedrooms at Jackson’s.’

  ‘Was Georgia there?’

  ‘She was around.’

  ‘Did she have a drink too?’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ He rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Not this again.’

  ‘But if you’d just talk to me, tell me what’s going on …’

  ‘I am talking. I’m talking right now. It’s you who isn’t listening. Look, Harriet, for the last time: I am not having an affair with my boss, or anyone else. I work late. I work in hospitality. I work with all kinds of people, it’s the nature of my job. This is all in your mind. Are you really going to let your delusions drive us apart?’

  Wearily, he shook his head and headed upstairs to the shower. She trotted after him, tried to grovel, but he gave her the cold shoulder treatment for the rest of the day.

  •

  ‘You’d think it was Mum who was shagging around,’ Sam tells the people in the café. ‘She took the blame, every time.’

  Abi’s arms are folded. ‘So d’you reckon Robert was having a fling with this Georgia woman?’

  ‘He was. I know that for a fact.’

  ‘Hmm. For a fact? Or is it more a kind of a wishy-washy metaphorical thing, like him being a murderer?’

  ‘Oh yes, it was a fact,’ says Sam, nodding furiously. ‘When I took over the farm, I got the full story from people who worked with them. Everyone knew. Robert and Georgia were always nipping off for a siesta in whichever of the bedrooms was free. And Georgia wasn’t the only one, not by a long chalk. There was a Jilli
an before her, and someone else after. Robert’s a pathological liar. Lies drip off his tongue. I don’t think he’d know the truth if it slapped him in the face.’

  Abi raises one eyebrow. ‘Or shot him in the chest?’

  Sam wishes with all his heart that he’d never come anywhere near Tuckbox this morning. There’s been many a time when he’s fantasised about killing Robert. Well, now he’s done it—and he doesn’t feel liberated; he feels like a despicable coward. But when he remembers Georgia and all those other women, when he thinks about the hurt and humiliation inflicted on his mum, he feels like marching behind that counter and shooting the conniving bastard all over again.

  Mutesi has taken off her glasses and is rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.

  ‘Lies,’ she murmurs. ‘Lies, lies. They have too much power.’

  She says it with such sadness. Sam wonders what she means, what she’s seen. But the thought slides away again. All he can think about is Robert.

  It wasn’t long before the man unveiled a new plan, the next stage in his hostile takeover of Sam’s future. It was the beginning of the end.

  THIRTY

  Sam

  Robert was in full cry, striding up and down the kitchen.

  ‘Jackson’s Lodge is on the market!’ he announced, and before Mum could get a word in he was telling her his plan. He was going to buy Jackson’s and invest a whole load of money in making it a top-end boutique hotel, spa and restaurant.

  Mum was doing the washing-up at the sink, Sam was drying. Her hands were turning lobster-red in the hot water. They say that if a frog is in a pot and you heat it up slowly, the poor thing won’t notice it’s being cooked until it’s too late. Mum was that frog—except it seemed as though she was letting herself be burned. Perhaps she didn’t think she deserved any better.

  ‘The turnover’s going up year on year,’ enthused Robert. ‘That’s why the value of the business is so high. Georgia and I will transform the place into something very, very special. It’s such an exciting opportunity.’

  ‘It all sounds very expensive,’ Mum said quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the bubbles. ‘We haven’t got that kind of cash sloshing around.’

  ‘We can raise it. I’ve already made enquiries at the bank.’

  ‘So much debt though, Robert.’

  He shrugged. ‘Got to diversify to survive.’

  ‘So you’d be able to borrow what you need against the restaurant business?’

  ‘No. The bank’s pathetically risk-averse. They think Jackson’s premises will be overcapitalised. The loan would have to be secured on this place. That’s no problem, is it?’

  ‘This place?’ Sam echoed. ‘Whaddya mean, this place?’

  ‘Tyndale Farm.’

  ‘No way.’ Sam wanted to punch him. He very nearly did punch him. His hands were balled up into fists. He was about fifteen but still nowhere near Robert’s height or weight. ‘No fucking way, Robert.’

  ‘Shh, Sam.’ Mum dumped a saucepan upside down on the draining board. White starch was streaked down one side.

  ‘I’m bloody good at running a kitchen,’ Robert was boasting, ‘and Georgia’s got tremendous flair! I’ve done the maths. Jackson’s is a goldmine. We’ll easily service the payments.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to risk Tyndale,’ fretted Mum. ‘This farm is Sam’s future.’

  Robert went and stood close behind her, both arms around her waist, nuzzling her hair with his mouth. She froze. Baby rabbits froze like that when a dog was nosing around and they couldn’t get to their burrow. They hunkered down in the grass and stayed completely still. You just saw their ears. Sam and his dad used to rescue them.

  ‘Don’t you trust me, my love?’

  ‘Of course I trust you.’

  He made a playful growling sound. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘You really are a very wonderful woman, you know that?’

  Sam had to get out of there. He threw down the tea towel, stormed off to his bedroom and turned his stereo up to full volume—must have made the whole house shake—but for once Robert didn’t come thumping on his door. Of course he didn’t. He had no need to. He’d won. Sam had lost.

  At the time, Sam had no idea of just how much he’d lost. Over the next few weeks Mum signed everything Robert put in front of her. The farm was transferred into their joint names and used as collateral for Robert’s new venture. Mum’s lawyer had acted for her and Dad forever. He wasn’t at all happy about the changes and insisted on seeing Mum by herself. Sam has sometimes wondered whether she hesitated before she picked up that pen to sign Tyndale away from him. Surely she did, at least for a moment?

  But Robert was the puppeteer. He had hold of her strings, and he was making her dance and jump and clap her hands to his tune. In no time at all he was the owner of Jackson’s Lodge as well as Tyndale Farm.

  •

  ‘They put in a heated swimming pool,’ Sam tells the people in the café. ‘And an orangery. A fricking orangery! They closed for months while the builders were turning the place into a palace.’

  Abi’s still in her kneeling Buddha pose, stretching her arms behind her back.

  ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure I even know what an orangery is.’

  ‘Georgia and Robert used the whole thing as an excuse for all their late nights together. They were blatant, but Mum never asked questions anymore.’

  ‘So … did they make a big success of the place?’

  ‘Nope. Just about went bankrupt. Georgia flounced off in a huff when Robert started on one of the chambermaids.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Casanova got about a bit, didn’t he? I didn’t know him, obviously, but he seemed like a nice enough guy to me. Very pleasant to all his customers. Sofia the barista reckoned he was a great boss.’

  ‘That’s the thing. He could be great. He could even be a truly stellar stepfather, which messed me up because sometimes I wondered whether I could have got him all wrong. One birthday—maybe my sixteenth?—he laid on a party for me, did all the catering, drove people around the countryside. Nothing was too much trouble. I spent all evening waiting for him to be a dick. I was looking forward to everyone seeing what I had to put up with—but he really let me down! He turned a blind eye to my mates smuggling in cans of beer. He chatted about films and Xbox games. He even handed out chummy advice about how to pick up girls.’

  Abi curls her lip. ‘Ew. That’s really very creepy.’

  ‘They didn’t think so. Most of them stayed over, and when we crawled out of bed he rustled up a fantastic cooked breakfast he called “Lacey’s famous hangover buster”. He behaved like every teenager’s favourite uncle. I kept trying to tell them he was a massive wanker but they couldn’t see it at all. Sam, you’re off your head, you don’t know how lucky you are.’

  It was Harvey who said that. Harvey, the school soccer star. What he thought really mattered to Sam.

  ‘And I remember this other time, when Mum was visiting Oma for the night, he and I walked down to the pub in Holdsworth. Had pizza, played pool. He told me about his childhood, how his dad had walked out on the family and that’s why he’d always wanted to be like a father to me. I started to think maybe I was off my head.’

  ‘That’s the point, though, isn’t it?’ says Abi. ‘That was his M.O.—to keep you disorientated. Day was night. Up was down.’

  ‘That’s right! Thank you! Day was night, up was down. Mum and I were lost in Robert World. In Robert World, your dogs got sold and your horse disappeared and your friends were either exiled—like Tammy and Granny—or charmed, which was even worse. He was a shapeshifter. Everyone saw a completely different Robert.’

  ‘Like the dress,’ says Abi.

  ‘Exactly like the dress.’

  Neil’s still sitting on the floor and has to crane his neck as he twists around to look up at Abi.

  ‘Come again?’ He sounds bemused. ‘The what?’

  ‘The dress,’ she says.

  �
��Nope. Still doesn’t compute.’

  Abi sighs. ‘Where exactly have you been living, Neil? Pluto? It’s a photo of a dress on the internet. Two people will look at the same photo of the dress and see completely different colours: either white and gold, or blue and black. Apparently it’s all to do with neuroscience. For the record, it’s white and gold.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ cries Sam. ‘That dress is blue and black.’

  Abi’s roaring with laughter. She seems slightly stoned.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ She’s putting up her hands in surrender. ‘You’re the man with the gun. I’d better pretend to go along with your fucked-up worldview. Blue and black it is.’

  Neil’s muttering that they’re all crazy, that soon they’ll be praying to the Flying Spaghetti Monster five times a day. It’s funny. For a few moments Sam is laughing along with Abi. For a few moments he has almost forgotten the terrible thing he’s done today.

  And then they all stop laughing, and listen.

  There’s a new sound. It’s coming from the back kitchen, and it’s all too familiar. It twists an exposed nerve in Sam’s mind.

  He hates that noise. He hates that noise.

  Abi

  It’s not ‘Rocket Man’. This one has a brash vintage ringtone, the sort you’d expect to hear in the drawing room of an Agatha Christie play—which might be why the sound carries so clearly from the room at the back. Charlie can do a masterful imitation of this kind of ringtone. It’s his party piece. Brings the house down.

  ‘That’s Robert’s phone!’ shouts Sam. He’s already heading towards the back kitchen. ‘I’d know it anywhere.’

  Neil’s trying to get up off the floor, but he’s too slow. He looks anxiously around at Abi, mouths, ‘Nicola.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it,’ says Abi, leaping to her feet.

  She overtakes Sam, skims behind the back counter, past Robert’s body and through the heavy fire door.

  Ringing fills the air, brassy in the gloom. She finds a panel of light switches and flicks on a couple more, while the door groans almost shut behind her. The ringing is coming from a row of hooks with jackets and bags. She rifles among them, throwing scarves and hats and gloves around. One of the coats is a waxed jacket with a corduroy collar. She shoves her hand into one pocket—no, those are car keys—then into the other pocket. Bingo. A white iPhone, much like her own. It’s going nuts in her hand, flashing and vibrating.