Bay of Secrets (9 page)

‘I am well enough, my son,’ she said. ‘But nothing has changed.’

He knew she would never cross him. She was one of the old school. It was different for Andrés. He was the younger generation and maybe he had been born a rebel; he would question – he had to question – the way things were.

‘And Izabella?’ he asked, thinking of his sweet-faced sister. She would never cross him either. Out of love or out of fear, he wasn’t sure.

‘Well,’ said his mother. ‘Though she still waits for a child.’

Poor Izabella. She had been married now for ten years. It must be hard for her. It was the
Majorero
way – family, children. Not so for Andrés. But Andrés had always felt different from his family; never felt that he truly belonged. Perhaps because his father had never allowed him to belong.

Now, the sun poked out its early evening face and Andrés shielded his eyes, watching the cliffs change colour from treacly gingerbread to pale sugar-gold. He took a final sip of his coffee, even though it was cold. He had it strong and black – a double shot of espresso – and the girl behind the counter knew that and no longer asked him what he wanted.

Andrés stared out to sea, conscious that the woman on the cliff was now in the bay and walking towards the café. She was wearing large white-framed sunglasses, pushed up on to her blond head and he saw that her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. She was not beautiful, but she was striking. She was small, slim and self-assured. There was a kind of dignity
in the way she walked and held herself, and something quirky about the way she was dressed (the red jacket, black jeans, white sunglasses and pink laced walking boots were quite a combination) that piqued his interest.

She negotiated a pathway through the tables and he felt her glance graze over him. Why was she sad? He could see it in her eyes and it hurt him, deep in his chest, as if it had stirred the memory of his own hurt. Had he seen her before? If so, it was a long time ago. He certainly hadn’t seen her lately – he would have remembered.

She went into the café. Ah well. Andrés would probably never see her again. He pushed his coffee cup to one side and got up to go. He must start work – the work that really mattered to him. A few of the others would be there at the studio, and they’d work till about eight or nine and then go out for a beer and maybe something to eat.

He thought of his last conversation with Mama. He’d almost said more. He’d always wondered if, now that he was far away, it might be possible to say things that perhaps should be said within a family. But in the end he’d said nothing. That was the problem. Wasn’t it always easier to say nothing? Wasn’t it always easier to pretend?

Ruby drove from London back to West Dorset, all her belongings stuffed into the back of the small van she’d hired for the day; coats, scarves and other debris over-spilling from the passenger seat beside her. Van hire had turned out to be very popular on this particular day; must be something going on that someone wasn’t telling her.

‘We’ve got one left,’ a man from the third company she’d tried informed her. ‘As long as you’re not fussy about the colour.’

‘Course not,’ said Ruby.

It was pink. Hot pink, to be precise. The kind of hot, fluorescent pink that was getting her noticed – she’d been waved at, hooted at, ogled at since she’d left at eight o’clock this morning. But it was a sunny day and she was quite enjoying herself. Should colour matter? Ruby had taken one look at the van, tied a flowery vintage scarf around her hair and climbed in.

There was a lot of traffic – wasn’t there always? – but she didn’t mind that either. It gave her the chance to collect her thoughts. And there was a lot to think about. Mel had told her that she must be practical, so Ruby had gone to see the
bank manager in Pridehaven and worked out her finances. Alan Shaw was an old friend of her parents; he was both understanding and helpful. Her parents’ house was paid for and Alan approved of Ruby putting it up for sale. He wasn’t so sure about the auction or Coastguard’s Cottage, but he did reassure her that if she kept to her planned budget there would be plenty of money left over for her new project.

‘And what else will you do, Ruby?’ He smiled in an avuncular kind of way.

Ruby wondered what it must feel like to know so much about other people’s financial affairs. He certainly didn’t seem uncomfortable with it.

‘You’ll carry on working, I imagine?’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ There wasn’t that much spare money. Her parents had never been well off, but her father had inherited some and they weren’t the type to have squandered what they had. Still. It would be more than enough. Yesterday, she had walked past the cottage again, along the cliff and down to Hide Café. She’d gone there so many times with her parents that it was quite an emotional journey. But one that she wanted to make. Another part of the process, she told herself.

She’d started putting out feelers for work again too and there were several article ideas in the pipeline. One glossy monthly had suggested she pitch for an article on equal pay in the workplace. It used to be a gender issue; once upon a time it depended on qualifications; now, it was often down
to personal negotiating skills. The person sitting at the desk next to you could be doing what you were doing and yet be on an entirely different pay scale. It was hardly fair. There were the usual article opportunities on travel, health, interior design. She’d like to do something else, though, and so she was meeting up with one of her editors later, staying in the loop. She knew what she was looking for. Something big. An article that meant something; that had more global repercussions, not just human interest. But stories like that didn’t come along every day of the week, and when they did there was usually a posse of journalists champing at the bit and waiting to write them.

‘And your music? Are you still playing?’

‘Yes, I am.’ She had started practising again and had surprised herself. She wasn’t quite as rusty as she’d thought. Over the last few days she’d got in touch with a couple of members of the original band and last night they’d met up to rehearse. It had been a bit scary, but …

‘We’re planning to do a gig.’ It was a big step forward but Ruby thought she was ready. Last night’s rehearsal had gone well and they’d already told her at the Jazz Café that they were welcome any time. Her parents had always supported her music; her mother especially had always loved jazz and they had both been so proud when she performed. It would be as if they were in the audience once again. This would be for them as well as for Ruby.

‘Excellent,’ Alan said. ‘I’m delighted to hear that.’

Life was too short not to do what you dreamed of doing –
these past few months had taught her that, if nothing else. You could never be sure it wouldn’t suddenly be snatched away from you.

And then of course she had spoken to James – and it hadn’t been as bad as she feared.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she’d told him.

‘You’re not coming back.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘How did you know?’ she hedged. It couldn’t – or shouldn’t – be that easy, should it?

She heard him sigh. ‘I think I always knew,’ he said. ‘I just hadn’t acknowledged it.’

And Ruby realised. It had been like that for her too. So it was over.

*

Now, Ruby focused on the stream of traffic in front of her. It hadn’t been the greatest love affair of all time – but they had cared enough to move in together; they had thought that it would work. But … Everybody changes, Ruby thought. It was just good luck if you did it the same way and at the same time. And then there was the other truth. She hadn’t loved him enough.

‘I want to collect my stuff from the flat, if that’s OK?’ she had said to him.

‘When?’ And something about the way he’d said it, a muffled noise in the background which could have been the radio (it was early, before he would be leaving for work) made her think there was someone else there. That James had made it
easy for her because he’d already moved on. Well, she couldn’t blame him. James wasn’t the type to hang around and it was his flat after all.

‘Saturday morning?’ she’d suggested. ‘About eleven?’ The thought of someone else there – so soon – washing in their bathroom, sleeping in their bed, was shocking at first. But in a way it made things easier, more clear-cut. And it wasn’t her bathroom or her bed any longer – it never had been; it was James’s.

‘Saturday’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here.’

*

It felt strange ringing the doorbell of the London flat instead of using her key.

James let her in. He kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘You’re looking good, Rubes,’ without a trace of bitterness. So yes, he had definitely moved on.

‘You too,’ Ruby told him. He was. His fair hair was slightly longer and it suited him. He looked … More relaxed, she realised. That was it. Happy. Ah, well. She should be glad about that too.

Ruby didn’t waste much time looking around, but the flat did have a different feel. Kind of antiseptic – as if James (or someone?) had scoured the very life out of it. Someone with a touch of OCD? Or someone desperate to eradicate essence of Ruby?

But it didn’t matter. He had piled her stuff in boxes in the hall and Ruby was glad she didn’t have to hang about. The place still held echoes of that early-morning call from the
police, of the news that had shattered her world.
There’s always a blind spot
 …

James offered her coffee, but she shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I said I’d hook up with Leah.’ Leah was the editor she did the most freelance work for and over the years they had developed a close and trusting relationship. Ruby knew that Leah would give her any interesting leads she could and Leah knew that Ruby would always deliver good-quality copy on time. And anyway, she didn’t want to have to make small talk with James, she certainly didn’t want to tell him what had been happening in her life and she didn’t want to have to use the bathroom and see someone else’s stuff parked on the shelf.

Together they carted the boxes down the stairs and piled them into the back of the van.

‘It’s a bit gaudy, isn’t it?’ James had recovered from his initial double-take when he first spotted the flamingo-van. It did kind of stand out from the crowd, but Ruby had got quite fond of it during the journey.

Ruby shrugged. ‘It goes.’

When they were done, he waited on the pavement while she slid into the driver’s seat. She wound down the window.

‘Sorry it didn’t work out between us, Rubes,’ James said. He held out his hand.

‘Me too.’ Ruby put her hand in his. It closed around it like a reminder of what they’d shared. Nice, she thought, but never earth shattering. Would they keep in touch? Probably not. Which was a bit sad. But … ‘Hope you get a new flat-mate soon.’

For a second his eyes flickered and she knew she’d hit the mark. She grinned and squeezed his hand to show there were no hard feelings. ‘Take care, James.’

‘You too. Bye, Ruby.’

So. The brief lunch meeting with Leah had gone well. They had reconnected and Ruby had run a few ideas past her. They didn’t really do personal, but Leah knew about the death of her parents and seemed relieved to see that Ruby was coping – just.

‘Don’t push yourself too hard, Ruby,’ she’d said to her when they said goodbye. ‘Take the time you need.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Ruby said. ‘But in the meantime … ’

Leah laughed. ‘I know. If anything meaty comes my way I’ll run it past you.’

‘Thanks, Leah.’

*

After lunch Ruby had met up with Jude and filled her in on what was happening.

‘I’ll miss you,’ Jude said. ‘We all will.’

‘Me too,’ said Ruby. But the truth was that already her London life seemed to be slipping into the distance of her mind. She would miss Jude and the others, and she would miss James. But it was already her past.

*

So now she and her possessions were out of the flat and heading west. Ruby was tired. But she’d made the right decision – she knew she had.

Somewhere in this lot was her birth certificate. Something
to prove that a shoebox of photographs and random objects couldn’t take away from her who she was and where she’d come from. Never mind that her mother and father had taken a long time to conceive her. Never mind that she looked nothing like them. She was their daughter and this would prove it. She was Ruby Rae.

At last she hit the A31 and sailed over the hills, past her favourite view of the West Dorset valleys and the sea beyond, and down towards Pridehaven. Flamingo-van was doing a grand job. She might look blowsy on the outside, but her engine was all heart. And despite everything else going on in her life, Ruby still felt a sense of liberation, of hope, even. She was doing what she could and she was staying strong. She was … well, managing.

Back at the house, Ruby unloaded the boxes and at last sat down with a cup of tea. On the sofa beside her was a box of paperwork from the top drawer of her desk. She hoped it would be there. She could hardly keep her eyes open now but she had to look. She wanted to put the doubt to rest. To put this faint feeling of unbelonging behind her just as soon as she could.

It was there. Phew. Tucked in behind her passport and her full paper driving licence. She unfolded it, trying not to hold her breath. After all, she’d seen it before. She knew what it would say.

It was just an ordinary birth certificate. Of course. It showed the registration district – Pridehaven, County of Dorset. It showed her parents’ names and occupations.
Vivien Rae, Tom Rae; no problem there. It showed her name, Ruby Ella, the registrar’s signature, the address of the place where she was born. This address. It had been a home birth, then. Ruby hadn’t noticed that before. But there was nothing strange about that. Lots of people had home births – even for their first child. And sometimes it wasn’t even a choice. Perhaps Vivien had gone into labour suddenly and hadn’t even had time to get to the hospital. Ruby smiled. Her mother had never actually told her what had happened. Just that it had been a normal and a healthy birth.