Secret Smile (23 page)

I finished my cup of coffee and poured
another one. I ate a triangle of toast and honey slowly. Then I slid my finger
under the gummed flap and lifted out the letter inside. 'Dear Miranda', I read.
'Brendan and I thought it might be a good idea if you would be one of our
witnesses on Friday. Please let me know as soon as possible if this is all
right with you. Kerry.' That was all.

I grimaced and a little corkscrew of pain
wound itself round my right eye. That would be Brendan's doing. Getting me to
stand beside the happy couple and sign my name by theirs. Pose for the camera.
Smile at Brendan, my brother-in-law, part of my family. I felt nauseous and
pushed away the toast. I managed a last sip of tepid coffee.

Perhaps I should just say no. No, I will
not be your fucking witness. No, I will not play your game. No, no, no, never
again. Perhaps I should simply stay away from the wedding altogether. They'd be
better off without me there anyway. But of course I had to be there because not
being there would just be read as yet another hysterical gesture on my part:
mad, obsessed, lovesick, hate-filled Miranda; the ghost at the feast. I had to
be there because I was Kerry's only sibling.

I sighed and stood up, tightening the belt
of my dressing gown, crossed the room to the phone, dialled.

'Hello?'

'Mum. It's me.'

'Miranda.' The flat tone I'd become used
to since Troy's death.

'Hi. Sorry to ring so early. I really just
wanted to speak to Kerry. About being a witness.'

'She said she was asking you.' There was a
pause, then, 'I think it is a very generous gesture on her part.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Can I talk to her?'

'I'll go and call her. Before I do,
though... We thought, Derek and I, that we should have a small gathering for
them before Friday. There'll be no party on the day. It doesn't seem right.
Anyway, they'll be leaving almost at once for their week away. This would be
just family, really, to wish them well. We think it's important for them. Bill
and Judy are definitely coming. Are you free tomorrow?'

It wasn't really a question.

'Yes.'

'About seven. I'll get Kerry for you.'

I said to Kerry that I'd be a witness and
Kerry said she was glad, in a cool, polite voice. I said I'd see her tomorrow
and she said 'Good', like a verbal shrug. I had a sudden memory, like a bright
shaft of sunlight shining through the dreariness, of Kerry and me swimming in
the waves off the Cornish coast, both of us sitting in large rubber rings and
letting ourselves be tossed on to the shore, over and over again until we were
breathless with tiredness and cold; our skin tingling with the rub of the sand.
We must have been about ten and eight. I remembered us laughing together,
laughing at each other, squealing with gleeful fear. She used to wear her hair
in neat plaits. She used to have a shy, close-lipped smile that made one small
dimple appear in her cheek. She still did, I thought.

'I'm thinking of you,' I said in a rush,
wanting to fall to my knees and howl.

There was a silence.

'Kerry?'

'Thanks,' she replied. Then, 'Miranda?'

'Yes?'

'Oh, nothing. See you tomorrow.'

She put the phone down.

I drove to work through the fog. Houses
and cars loomed up at me. People passed by like shadows. The trees were dismal
spectres lining the roads. It was one of those days that never get properly
light and when dampness clings like an icy second skin.

The house in Tottenham was quiet and cold.
My footsteps echoed on the boards and the sound of hammers echoed round the
room. I made too many cups of acrid instant coffee, just to be able to fold my
hands around the warmth of one of the stained, chipped mugs the owners had left
behind for us. It was better to be at work because what else would I be doing?
Not Christmas shopping. Not sitting in the kitchen with my mother, watching as
she pressed circles of pastry into moulds and filled them with mincemeat. Not
gossiping with Laura. Not giggling at one of Troy's surreal remarks. I worked
until my hands were raw and then I drove home and sat in the living room under
the beam. That beam. I wished the ceiling would be dragged down in an explosion
of plaster under the weight of it, all on top of me.

I sat there for about an hour, just
sitting and listening to the rain dripping outside from the branches of bare
trees. Then I picked up the phone because I needed to talk to someone. I
pressed the first few digits of Laura's number, but stopped. I couldn't speak
to her. What would I say? Help? Please help me because I think I'm going to go
completely insane? I had always turned to Laura, but now she was a closed door
to me. I thought about what had happened and felt sick. I thought about the future
and felt a sense of vertigo — like looking into a dark pit at my feet, not
being able to see the bottom.

So at eight o'clock I went to bed because
I didn't know what else to do with myself. I lay there holding an old shirt of
Troy's against my face and waited for it to be morning. I must have slept at
last because I woke to a grey dawn, sleet stripping through the circles of
light from the street lamps.

At exactly seven the next day I was
knocking at the door of my parents' house. Kerry answered. She was wearing a
gauzy pink shirt with beads round the neck that made her face look peaky. I
kissed her on her cold cheek and stepped inside.

Work had stopped on the house. The gaping
hole in the kitchen wall had been crudely boarded up and there was thick
polythene billowing over the side window. Pots and pans that had been emptied
out of the old units were piled on the lino. The microwave was on the kitchen table.
In the living room, the carpet had been taken up, and a trestle table cluttered
with tools stood where the bookshelf used to be. Everything had stopped at the
moment when Troy had been discovered strung up on my beam.

Bill and Judy were already there, sitting
in a cluster with my parents round the fire Dad had made. But Brendan wasn't
there yet.

'He's seeing somebody about an idea,' said
Kerry vaguely.

Looking at my depleted family together, I
realized they had all become thinner. But not Brendan. When he arrived, a few
minutes later, I saw he had put on weight. His cheeks were pudgier, his paunch
strained at his lilac-coloured shirt. His hair seemed blacker and his lips
redder than ever. He met my eyes and inclined his head, with a half-smile that
looked like... what? Victory, perhaps, graciously acknowledged.

He was less ingratiating now. His manner
was slightly aloof. There was a touch of the bully in his tone when he told
Kerry he needed a stiff drink. When he mocked my father about the rather feeble
fire, there was an edge of contempt in his voice. Bill glanced up at him and
wrinkled his brow. He didn't say anything, though.

In other circumstances, we would have been
drinking champagne, but Dad brought out red wine instead, and whisky for
Brendan.

'What are you going to wear tomorrow,
Kerry?' I asked after a moment.

'Oh.' She flushed and looked up at
Brendan. 'I'd planned to wear this red dress I bought.'

'Sounds lovely,' I said.

'I'm not sure it suits me, though.' Again,
that anxious glance at Brendan, who'd refilled his tumbler. 'I don't know if I
can carry it off.'

'You can carry off anything you want to,'
I said. 'It's your wedding day. Show me.'

I put my wine glass down. The two of us
filed up the stairs together, into their room. The last time I'd been in here
was when I'd found that rope stuffed under the chest; I pushed the thought away
and turned to Kerry. She reached into a large shopping bag, unwrapped tissue.
My face ached. I wanted to cry. It all felt so wrong.

'It looks gorgeous. Try it on for me,' I
said. All my anger at Kerry had gone. I only felt helpless love for her now.

She wriggled out of her trousers, pulled
her pink top over her head, unclasped her bra. She was so thin and white. Her
ribs and her collarbone jutted out sharply.

'Here.' I passed the dress across to her
and as she reached out for it we both became aware of Brendan standing in the
doorway. No one said anything. Kerry started struggling into the dress, and for
a moment her head was obscured by the red folds, only her skinny naked body was
visible, shining in its whiteness like a sacrifice. It felt perverse that
Brendan and I should be watching her together. I turned sharply away and stared
out of the window, into the night.

'There,' she said. 'Of course it needs
high heels and I'd pin my hair up and put make-up on.'

'You look lovely,' I said, although she
didn't; she looked washed-out, obliterated by the bold red colour.

'You really think so?'

'Yes.'

'Hmmm,' said Brendan. He stared at her
appraisingly, then a funny little smile flitted over his face. 'Oh well.
They're all waiting to toast us downstairs.'

'I'm coming.'

'Back to being friends, are you?'

It was as if his words had lit a fuse and
now anger was burning up towards my centre. I turned to him.

'We're sisters,' I said.

We stared at each other. I wasn't going to
be the first to look away. For the few moments that we gazed into each other's
unblinking eyes, I felt that there was nothing left inside me except hatred.

On Friday morning, I got up early, had a
bath and washed my hair, then I went into my bedroom and stared at the clothes
in my wardrobe. What do you wear to the wedding of your sister to a man you
hate that is taking place only days after your brother has died? Nothing
flamboyant, nothing sexy, nothing glamorous, nothing jaunty. But you can't wear
black to a wedding. I thought of Kerry's white face staring out from the red
velvet. I thought of a face in a lined coffin. Eventually I pulled a
lavender-coloured dress out of the cupboard and held it up to the light. It had
a thin knit top and a loose chiffon skirt and was really for the summer, but if
I put my nice raw silk shirt over the top it would do. I applied make-up,
blow-dried my hair, put earrings into my lobes, pulled on tights and clambered
carefully into the dress. I looked at myself in the mirror, grimaced at the
whey-faced, hollow-eyed creature I saw there.

I pulled on my long, black coat, picked up
the present I'd bought them and left. We were all going to walk to the register
office together from my parents' house, so I drove there through the traffic
and parked a few doors down.

I half-ran through the drizzle, lifting my
dress to keep it clear of the puddles, but even as I lifted a fist to hammer at
the door, it opened.

'Miranda,' said my father.

I was startled. He was in his tatty tartan
dressing gown and unshaven. Had I got the time wrong?

'We've got to leave,' I said.

'No,' he said. 'No. Come in.'

My mother was sitting on the stairs, in a
pair of baggy leggings and an old turtleneck jumper I hadn't seen her wear for
years. She lifted her head when she saw me. Her face was all folds and creases.

'Have you told her?'

'What?' I said. 'Told me what? What's
going on?'

'He's called it off.'

'What do you mean?'

'He wasn't there when Kerry woke and he
phoned her at eight o'clock. He said . . .' For a moment the dull monotone of
her voice cracked. She shook her head as if to clear it, then continued. 'He
said he'd done his best to help us all, but it was no good. He said he was
tired of carrying all of us and he could do no more.'

I sank on to the step beneath my mother.

'Oh, poor Kerry.'

'He said,' she went on, 'that he'd found
the opportunity of happiness with someone else and he knew we'd understand that
he had to take it. He had to think of himself for once.'

'Someone else?' I spoke dully as this new
information had been a physical blow to my head. It felt like that. My mother
looked at me suspiciously.

'Didn't you know?' I didn't reply. I just
looked at her, baffled.

'She's your friend, after all,' she
continued.

'No,' I said. 'Oh no.'

'So,' said my mother. 'There we are.'

'Laura,' I said.

I went up to Kerry's bedroom. The lights
were off so that the room was dim. She was sitting on the bed, very upright,
still in her pyjamas. I sat beside her and stroked her thin, soft hair and she
turned her glassy gaze on me.

'Stupid of me,' she said in a brittle
voice. 'I thought he loved me.'

'Kerry.'

'Stupid, stupid, stupid.'

'Listen

'He just loved you.'

'No.'

'And then your friend.'

'Kerry,' I said. 'He's not a good man.
He's not. There's something wrong with him. You're better off without him and I
know you'll find...'