Tell Me No Secrets (9 page)

‘Put yourself in my shoes.' Her voice is silky smooth, her eyes black and shiny as hot tar. ‘I need to join the convent with a clear conscience.'

I stand up and lift my handbag from the floor. ‘I knew you hadn't changed. You almost had me fooled but I bloody knew you hadn't changed. You are your mother's daughter. Everything is always about you.' I rummage in my bag, find my purse, pull out thirty pounds and slap it down in the centre of the table. ‘Go back to where you came from, Orla. Stay away from me and stay away from my family. I'm warning you.'

As I turn away she grabs hold of my wrist. ‘Ten days. That's all you have. Either you tell Paul or I do. The choice is yours.'

I wrench her off me and, careless of the other lunchers, say loudly, ‘You come near my family and I will have you, Orla.' I hold her eyes for several long seconds. Her look is fearless. ‘I won't hesitate to hurt you. I mean it.
That
choice is yours.'

I leave the restaurant and hurry along the road back to the station. I realise that I've forgotten the book I bought for Paul but I can't go back for it. I know that I'm crying but I don't care. I board the first train back home and wonder what the hell I'm going to do now. Always, always, I knew. I knew that this would come back to haunt me. I drive home from the station, rigid, gripping the wheel.

By the time I pull into the driveway my head is so full of fear, remorse and what-ifs that I want to bang it against a wall and knock myself out. Instead I open a bottle of pinot grigio and watch it glug-glug into the glass. I stand leaning against the counter and drink one full glass down then pour myself another, and another. My life, my girls, my husband, my house, my dog, even my armchair all look like the best anyone could ever have and I know I'm going to lose all of it.

Ella comes into the kitchen. ‘Where have you been?'

‘Edinburgh.'

‘Jesus! You might have said. You could have bought me those jeans I wanted.' She kicks the fridge closed with her foot and looks me up and down. ‘What, drinking already? It's only four thirty.'

My head is starting to fuzz over. A blessed distance is opening up between myself and the words in my head. Sure, Orla is a bitch but I will find a way to shut her up. I will. Perhaps Euan will help me. I wasn't entirely truthful with Orla. After Rose died, we made a pact not to tell anyone, but I did. I told Euan. I told him a couple of days after I'd done it. I couldn't keep it to myself. As a secret, it was so much bigger than me.

My limbs feel heavy and loose and I roll my head around on my neck to ease the tension in my shoulder muscles.

‘So?' Ella is watching me. ‘What's with the drinking?'

Suddenly I feel like everything is within my control. ‘Ella.' I smile. ‘We still need to talk.'

‘Well,
obviously
you've been in my room, so what is there to talk about?' She leans back against the counter and folds her arms across her chest. ‘So you know I'm on the pill and you don't like it and you don't like Jamie. Big deal!' She sneers down into my face. ‘This isn't the nineteenth century. Girls choose their own boyfriends. And by the way, it was Daisy who suggested I go on the pill. She's not as perfect as you think.'

‘That's great. I'm glad you girls have been giving each other advice. Sisters should support each other, and you know what? You're right.' I wave the glass at her. ‘Why should it matter what I think? You go right ahead! Do what you want, live your life any way you want to, see where that gets you.'

I pour my fourth glass of wine, toss the empty bottle into the bin and when I look back at her I see that disquiet is edging in at the corner of her eyes, forcing her to speak.

‘What's the matter with you?'

‘What's the matter with me?' I laugh. ‘What's the matter with me? I know! I'm tired of your attitude. You want to be an adult? I'll treat you like one.' I turn my back to her and scrabble about in the back of the cutlery drawer until I find what I'm looking for.

‘You
smoke
?' She is incredulous.

‘What? You think you have a monopoly on that too?' I hold the packet out to her. ‘You want one?'

‘Mum!'

I light up the cigarette and inhale, holding my breath for several seconds before I blow smoke up towards the ceiling.

She starts to add up my symptoms on her fingers. ‘You've been crying, you're smoking, knocking back the wine like there's no tomorrow?'

‘No tomorrow?' I laugh. It sounds maniacal. ‘Well, now you've hit the nail on the head!'

‘Jesus, Mum, are you ill? Shall I call Dad?' A tear trickles down her right cheek and she pushes it into her hair.

I wave her away. The wine is lulling me, relieving me of inhibitions and it makes me want to confess. ‘No, I'm fine. I'm not sick. It's just—' I stop. Articulating what I feel will involve the truth. And I can't do that. I look at my daughter and know that she must never find out. Never. ‘Really, I'm fine. Just wallowing in a little self-pity.' I shrug. ‘It happens.'

She hugs me hard and I feel her woman's body press against mine.

‘All part of being an adult.' I make an apologetic face. ‘Every so often you feel a failure or a bitch and wish you'd done something differently.'

‘But you
never
do anything wrong, that's why you get on my nerves!' she shouts. ‘You're always patient with me even when you should be grounding me or telling Dad. You never lose it with Grandad even when he's confused as hell and you have to repeat things a hundred times and you're kind and you laugh and you can paint – you're like the best artist I know and you look good! You're a milf!'

‘What's a milf?'

Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, don't make me tell you!'

‘Well, you'll have to now – and as we're both adults.'

‘Mother I Would Like to Fuck.' She screws up her face. ‘Jamie said it.' She starts to laugh. ‘I'm sorry, Mum, but really it's a compliment.'

‘Yes, I can see that.' Somehow I'm being allowed to stroke her hair. ‘So will you come and visit me in prison?'

‘Oh, Mum, stop it!' She pushes me away. ‘Like you ever did anything wrong!'

Lightning wakes up the sky and I count the seconds – one . . . two . . . three . . . four – until thunder cracks across the tents. It's raining so hard that the water stings my cheeks. I pick my way over exposed roots and fallen branches keeping my torch pointed down, just ahead of my feet, shining a path. It takes me only a couple of minutes but by the time I reach Orla my hair is plastered to my head and my boots are sopping wet. She is waiting for me close to the pond. The pond is out of bounds because it's less than a hundred yards from where the boys from the youth club are camping. Somewhere, just beyond the trees, Euan, Callum and several other boys from our year are in their tents, most likely getting drunk.

Orla is throwing stones into the water. I watch one skim along the surface half a dozen times before it sinks. ‘This better be good,' I shout to her as I draw within earshot. ‘Parky will have our guts for garters if she catches us out here at this time of night.'

‘Live dangerously, Grace, why don't you?' she shouts back, lobbing another stone. ‘What's the worst she can do? Throw us out of the Guides?' She turns and looks at me. ‘Would either of us care?'

‘I don't suppose so,' I admit.

Orla often accuses me of playing it safe; that, and caring about what other people think. I don't share her ‘fuck-em' approach. I wish I did but I am burdened by expectations. I am the longed-for child, the apple of my parents' eye. I am Grace. I am polite. I am kind and considerate. I never make trouble at school. My grades are good. I always do the right thing.

It's close to midnight and as the clouds blow across the sky, the moon is revealed, full and bright as a silver coin. But still the rain pours down, filling the forest with watery sounds: dripping, gurgling, bubbling, swirling, hammering on the leaves until they bend with the weight and shed their load in a puddle on the ground. Water slides off my hair on to my cheeks and down on to my lips. It tastes cold and fresh. I tip my head back and drink it in, ignoring the wet that misses my mouth and runs down my neck inside my clothes. Soon I'll be freezing.

‘So what, Orla? What?' I shout to her. ‘What did you want to tell me?'

She comes right up beside me and whispers loudly into my ear. ‘It's about Euan.'

‘What about Euan?'

‘I tried him out for you.'

I frown, confused. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I tried him out for you. He could be a better kisser but otherwise . . .' She stops talking, looks upward as if contemplating the universe and all its secrets then glances back at me and shouts, ‘Otherwise he was a pretty good shag.'

I stare at her, my stomach hollow as if scooped out with surgeon's metal. I am wet through to my skin and yet still a fire sparks up in my throat.

‘What's with the face?' She laughs. Water drips off the end of her eyelashes, nose, hair and off the end of her smile which is both knowing and sly. Sleekit, my father would say. ‘You look like your dog's just died.' She pushes me on the shoulder and my feet slip on the muddy bank. I fall down on to my knees and catch myself just before my face hits the ground. The wet earth smells bitter and I cough into my hand then stand upright again, plant my feet firmly between a rock and a clump of heather and push my hair out of the way behind my ears. Orla is skimming stones again. Not a care in the world. I shout across the space between us.

‘You had sex with Euan?'

‘What?' She holds up her hand to her ear. ‘I can't hear you!'

I reach forward, grab her and pull her towards me. ‘You had sex with Euan?' I repeat. Her eyes look straight into mine. I see spite, anger and something else that I don't recognise. ‘How could you, Orla? You could have anyone!
How could you?
'

‘He's nothing,' she says to me. ‘Shag him and get it over with.'

I feel someone tugging at my back. I keep hold of Orla and turn around. Rose is standing there. Her lips are moving but I have trouble making out what she is saying. I hear the words lost and sleep but that's it.

‘Go back to the tent, Rose!' I bawl into her face and she is startled, draws away but doesn't let go of my jacket. I turn back to Orla.

‘He doesn't matter! Forget him!' she shouts. She is laughing, her features harsh and feral in the moonlight. She shakes her head and water sprays around in all directions. I realise she is enjoying this. She has planned this quite deliberately and has chosen this exact moment to tell me. We're in the middle of nowhere. I have no one to turn to.

‘You bitch.' I say the words so quietly I can't even hear them myself. Rose pulls at me again and I turn and push her hard, backwards, down the muddy bank away from me and swivel round to face Orla again. ‘You bitch. You fucking, fucking bitch!' I slap her hard. She reels sideways, almost loses her footing, but at the last second finds her balance and stands upright. I hit her again and this time she falls down into a kneeling position and stays there. She doesn't slap me back. She lets me hit her over and over until my hands are sore and the strength is gone from my arms.

I head back to the camp, tripping over boulders and fallen branches. Twice I slither on wet ground and fall down, bang my shins and scrape my cheek. I stand up again and keep going until I reach the campsite. Monica is standing outside the supplies tent. ‘I thought it would be better to put these under cover,' she tells me, shifting plastic boxes of breakfast cereal, and cooking utensils under the awning. ‘There's no point in them getting wet. You can help if you like.'

I ignore her, unzip my tent and feel my way through the darkness to my sleeping bag. I take off my wet clothes and throw them into the corner. My towel is right at the top of my rucksack. I dry myself and climb into my pyjamas. All around me is the sound of heavy, contented breathing. My knuckles are sore and I rub them. I do it automatically, not wanting to think, holding off the point when I start to cry.

In my sleeping bag, curled up like a foetus, I think about what just happened. Orla is – was – my best friend. We were friends, weren't we? How could she? And Euan? How could
he
?

I pull the bag tightly down over my head. I resolve never to speak to either of them again. I don't need Orla and I don't need Euan.

5

Sophie, the community psychiatric nurse, is coming for a visit this morning so neither Paul nor I have gone into work. Paul is marking papers in his study and I'm in the kitchen making flapjacks, Ed's favourite. It's keeping me busy. But not busy enough. I can't get yesterday out of my head: the disastrous lunch in Edinburgh, Orla and her revelation. She wants to be a nun. Of all the unlikely people in the world, Orla has decided to take holy orders. As a teenager, not only was she irreligious but she was also a consistent bully and often a liar and a cheat. There was nothing sensitive or gentle about her and looking back, I am amazed that I remained friends with her for as long as I did.

I can't forget her parting shot: ten days. I have ten days to tell Paul how Rose died otherwise Orla will come and do it for me. But I have no idea how to tell him and I'm driving myself mad with the worry of it. The optimist in me hopes that she'll reconsider without persuasion. Before we met yesterday, she didn't know that I married Rose's father. Surely that will change her mind. I know it would change mine; but then the pessimist in me reminds me that I'm not Orla. And while her words spoke of closure and conscience, her tone and facial expressions said something else altogether. She was smirking by the time I left. I'm sure of it.