Love Is a Secret (15 page)

She hated asking questions like that. So sordid. But readers would want to know –
she
needed to know.

‘If you started thinking that way, you’d crack up.’ Carmen’s matter-of-fact Yorkshire sense seemed at odds with her Spanish-sounding name. ‘I said we’d start again and we have.’

More emotion. Diana would want more feeling. ‘But it’s not that easy, is it, Carmen?’

‘Why not? We all make mistakes.’ Carmen lowered her voice. ‘To be honest, I had an affair before he did and he forgave me. So I felt I had to do the same.’

‘Do you think he had his to get even?’

‘No.’ Carmen gave a throaty laugh. ‘We were just pissed off with each other. The kids were getting us down. So were our jobs. But it made us realise how much we loved each other. Neither of us could imagine living with anyone else. Not after all these years. And that’s all there is to it, really. Loads of people have affairs but it doesn’t have to be the end of a marriage. That’s why I volunteered for the helpline.’

Caroline asked a few more questions. Incredibly, Carmen didn’t mind being photographed. Yes, she’d ask her husband too, but she didn’t think he’d agree. It didn’t matter. As long as they had one case history who’d be identified and photographed, it was all right.

Caroline had just finished writing up the feature when the phone rang. It was one of the freelancers she’d called that morning. Somehow the girl had found two more case histories and was filing by tonight. How had she done it? Still, at least it meant the feature was in the bag. And, strangely, it hadn’t been as painful as she’d feared. The only thing was that she couldn’t work out if Carmen was downright stupid or incredibly courageous.

After lunch she phoned home again.

‘Yes?’

She could hear loud music in the background, and giggling.

‘How many friends have you got round, Georgie?’

‘Just a couple. Do you want to speak to Ben?’

‘Nice to know he’s up.’

‘He’s on the computer. Hang on.’

Ben’s yawn hurt her ear.

‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, please make sure the girls have something to eat. And can you put the washing on the line?’

‘Where is it?’

Caroline bit her lip. ‘In the machine . . . Ben, you will look after them, won’t you? I don’t want them going into town again like they did last week.’

‘Chill, Mum. Got to go. ’Bye.’

What was she doing here, writing a Parenting page, when her kids were home alone?

‘Parcel for you, Caroline.’ Pat heaved a box over to her desk.

‘Looks like that EFT stuff. Quick, wasn’t he?’

‘Obviously desperate for the publicity.’ Caroline ripped off the brown tape. There was a letter at the top. An Oxford address. Summertown. Near where the party had been held the other weekend. How odd.

Feel free to keep the contents. I promised your friendly secretary a couple of games for her daughter. Very nice to meet you today. I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch on Friday?

Caroline screwed up the note and tossed it into the bin. ‘Pat, any chance you could do a Tried and Tested for us? You can keep the stuff afterwards.’

‘That would be great. Thanks, Caroline.’

Lunch on Friday? They’d covered everything, work-wise. Which meant he wanted to see her, or maybe curry favour. She desperately hoped it wasn’t the latter. Against her better instincts, she wanted to see him again. Talk to him. Laugh with him the way they had done so easily in the office.

From: Caroline Crawford

To: Mark Summers

Friday would be good. Preferably near the office as it’s a working day.

Almost immediately, the reply came back.

Fantastic. See you at one. Any more advice on grievous bodily harm/long-distance marriages gratefully received.

Regards, Mimi

23

How often do you ‘do it’?

That
What Mums Know
question wouldn’t go out of his head. Quite a lot, at the beginning of our marriage, he felt tempted to write, and then, not at all. Nothing now for months. He’d almost got used to it but not quite. Part Time Mum had unsettled him – and not just because of her looks. It had been a long time since he’d been able to talk to someone so easily, but right now there were more pressing matters to worry about. Like Viyella blouses and grey trousers.

Term started next week and he still hadn’t sorted out their school uniform. ‘All the organised mothers will have snapped up the sizes you want,’ Daphne had warned. Freddy had grown so much that last term’s trousers definitely wouldn’t do. And Florrie’s ever-expanding chest was clearly beyond the strength of her blouse.

Daphne had promised to help but she’d enrolled on another course and, besides, he wanted to prove he could do it alone. So far, though, he’d been too busy with work, not to mention ferrying them to holiday club, doing all the meals, laundry and weekend activities, and there simply hadn’t been time. Guiltily he thought of the numerous occasions on which he had come home late from work to find Hilary tearing her hair out – over-dramatically, he had thought at the time.

Mark bent down to pick up a wet towel that Freddy had left on his bed. Didn’t they ever
think
? What would his son be like as a teenager?

The phone rang. The
office
phone. Forget damp towels. Grab mugs still by their beds from the last week to take downstairs after call. Put on professional voice. ‘Mark Summers PR.’

‘Mark? It’s Caroline. From
Beautiful You
.’

His pulse raced. ‘Hi. How are you doing?’

‘Very well, thank you. I just needed to check a couple of prices for some of the toys.’

Damn. He’d slopped some juice on the carpet. ‘Can you hang on a second?’ he asked, rubbing the stain with his foot. Putting the clutch of mugs down on his desk, he reached for his price list and knocked over a mug of cold tea. ‘Blast.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Mark sank on to his office chair. ‘I was just tidying the kids’ rooms when you rang. I know it’s crazy but I can never get down  to work unless the house is in some kind of order.’

She laughed. ‘I’m the same when I work from home.’

‘You are? Well, I’ve just found about fifteen mugs in their rooms . . .’

‘They never bring them down, do they?’

‘Exactly. And now I’ve gone and spilt tea over the carpet.’

‘Put kitchen roll on it. It absorbs it.’

‘Really? I’ll try it. Sorry, I must sound so disorganised.’

‘No. You sound normal and, believe me, that’s refreshing in a PR.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘What I really meant was that lots of PRs I come across are very glamorous. They’re either childless or have live-in nannies.’

He’d heard the embarrassment in her voice. ‘I always loathed the idea of someone else bringing up my kids, but at the moment I’d give anything for Mary Poppins to waltz in and take over.’

‘Me too. Listen, Mark, sorry to rush you but I really do need those prices by lunch. Can you email them to me?’

He didn’t want to let her go. ‘Sure. Oh, and, Caroline?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m really sorry but I can’t make Friday now. One of my clients needs to see me.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Yes, yes, Caroline, it does.
‘Can you make the following week? Friday again?’

There was a brief pause. ‘I think so.’

‘Great. About one? Do you know Bea’s Beautiful Bistro? It’s near Marylebone station.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘Great.’ He was horribly conscious of repeating himself. ‘I’ll book a table.’

Now why, he asked himself, as he put ‘kitchen roll’ on his shopping list, had he done that? The guilt he had felt ever since he’d sent that email had made him cancel the lunch. But the disappointment in her voice had mirrored the feeling in his heart. From the minute he had seen Caroline – no,
talked
to her on
What Mums Know
– it was as though a light had switched itself on in his head. But she was married. And so was he.

Mark thumped up the stairs to his office. Just as well he had work to take his mind off things.

It was, thought Mark, as yet another mother pushed past him, a miracle that any child ever got to school on the first day of term fully clad in regulation uniform, each item marked with a proper nametape rather than scrawled in Biro on the collar. And it would also help if the shops had the right clothes in stock.

‘Are you sure you don’t have a thirty-two-inch jumper?’ he asked the assistant, who looked as though she should be in year nine.

She gave him a withering stare – the sort he had got used to in dorm during the seventies, when it was still acceptable to vilify someone for being ‘black’.

‘Not if it isn’t on the rails.’

How many times had he heard that one this afternoon? ‘My hands are rather full at the moment,’ he said drily, gesturing with the collection of uniform he had managed to acquire. ‘Perhaps you’d look for me.’

She gave a nominal flick through the rail. ‘No. Sorry.’

‘How long will it take to order?’

‘Four weeks, minimum.’

‘But it’ll be nearly half-term by then.’

‘We sold out last week.’ Not a hint of apology in the girl’s voice. ‘Most people have already got their uniforms.’

‘Dad.
Dad!
’ Florrie, in the changing room trying on hockey skirts, stuck her head out through the curtains. ‘Come here!’

‘Coming.’ God knew where Freddy was. He turned back to the child assistant. ‘Well, could you see if you’ve got a pair of twenty-six-inch-waist long grey trousers with turn-ups, please?’

‘
Dad!
’

Where was Freddy?

‘Yes? What is it?’

‘No, don’t come in.’

‘Sorry.’ A woman coming out of the next cubicle with her daughter glared at him and he felt terribly embarrassed, the only dad on a floor full of women. ‘What’s wrong?’

Florrie’s face was creased with distress. ‘I’ve started.’

‘Started what?’

‘Ssssh.’

Florrie, her head still stuck through the curtains, checked that no one was nearby. ‘My periods,’ she hissed.

Oh, Christ.

‘You’ve got to get me something.’

‘What?’

Florrie’s face was getting redder.

‘You know. Some STs.’

‘STs?’

‘Ssssh.’ Florrie’s eyes were full of tears now. ‘Sanitary towels. Go to Boots next door. And hurry. Please.’

Mark turned and almost collided with the assistant. ‘I’ve got the trousers.’

‘Fine. Can you hang on to them for me? I’ve got to get something.’

The girl looked at Florrie’s cubicle. ‘Has your daughter finished? We’re very busy.’

‘She’ll be out soon. When I’m back.’

As Mark jostled his way out of the shop, all kinds of thoughts were whirling round his head. Periods? Started? But she was only twelve. Was that old enough? And why hadn’t Hilary warned him? Or Daphne?

Boots was packed. It was difficult to see what was where and he didn’t want to ask someone. Hair care. Deodorants. Plasters. Maybe they’d be in that section. No. Damn.
Damn
. And even if he did summon up enough courage to ask, there wasn’t anyone
to
ask. In his day they’d had assistants on the shop floor, not behind tills. He’d just have to queue. Pharmacy would be best.

It took a good ten minutes to get to the counter by which time he had probably caught a cold from the man in front who was sneezing all over the place. Another child assistant. Where did they get them from? ‘Excuse me, can you tell me where sanitary towels are?’

‘Feminine Hygiene. Behind you on the right.’

Did she have to speak so loudly? And – bloody hell – how many kinds were there? Light flow. Heavy. Slimline. Winged? No, not the mobile. Not now.

‘Mark Summers PR.’

‘Mark? It’s Caroline again. Sorry. That price for the toddler activity set seems to be different from what it says on the website. Is it fourteen ninety-nine or thirteen ninety-nine?’

He hesitated. ‘I think it’s fourteen ninety-nine, but I’ll need to check when I get back to the office.’

‘OK.’ She seemed rushed.

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’

For one crazy moment, he felt like confiding in her. Light flow or winged for a daughter who had just started her periods and was waiting for him in the school-uniform shop’s changing room?

‘See you on Friday, then,’ he said.

‘Actually, that was the other thing. I’m afraid I can’t make it.’

His body jolted with disappointment. ‘Oh. Right.’

‘But I could do the one after that, if that’s all right.’

He’d make sure it was.

‘I can hear you’re busy.’

‘Yes, I’m, er, in a meeting.’

‘See you, then.’

‘Yes. ’Bye.’

Light flow. Heavy flow. Winged. Wingless. He’d take the bloody lot.

Freddy still hadn’t turned up even after Mark had delivered the bag to Florrie through the curtains. It wasn’t fair that the child had to do this on her own without a mother. And it wasn’t fair that Freddy should wander off. Still, at least Mark had school trousers for when he finally came back.

‘He’s probably in HMV,’ said Florrie. She was walking beside him awkwardly.

‘Probably.’ He looked down at his daughter who, until an hour ago, had been a child. ‘Are you all right?’

She flushed. ‘Fine.’

‘Granny’s coming over for tea tonight.’

‘I know.’

At least she could talk to her.

Freddy wasn’t in HMV. Mark began to feel sick.

‘You’ll have to put out a notice,’ said Florrie, importantly.

Exactly what he’d been thinking. But where? And Freddy might not be in the Clarendon Centre but in one of the many shops up and down the high street. ‘Maybe he’s getting rugby boots,’ said Florrie, suddenly. ‘He said he needed them.’

It was an inspired guess. Freddy was sitting down in Foot Locker, surrounded by an array of boots. ‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘I told you I was going to look for rugby boots.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Did.’

‘You didn’t and we’re going.’ Mark grabbed his arm.

‘Get off. I’ve found a pair.’

Just in time common sense reminded Mark that rugby boots were one of the few remaining items he needed to get. ‘Do they fit?’

‘The man said so.’

Mark eyed the spotty youth hovering by the footstool. ‘Are you trained to fit children’s shoes?’

‘Dad!’

‘Well, are you?’

‘Nah. But these aren’t kids’ shoes. They’re size six.’

When had Freddy grown to a six? Mark got down and prodded his son’s foot. His toe seemed reasonably near the end but not touching, and the width felt all right. ‘Run round the shop.’

Freddy was puce with embarrassment. ‘I can’t.’

‘Run round or I go.’

‘What? I can’t hear you. Stop whispering.’

‘I said, run round or I go.’

‘OK, there’s no need to shout.’ Reluctantly, Freddy walked round a stand of shoes.

‘Do they slip?’

‘No.’

‘How much are they?’

‘Eighty-nine pounds,’ said the boy.

‘
Eighty-nine pounds?
That’s ridiculous.’

Freddy pouted. ‘Nothing else fits.’

There was only a week before school started. It was blackmail.

‘OK.’ Mark fished out his credit card. He’d have to pay next month. ‘But don’t run off like that again. I didn’t know where you were. Do you need football boots too?’

‘No. That’s the spring term.’

Thank God for that. Just rugby. And non-contact rugby too, this year. Like non-contact marriage, really. No touching. Just chasing. Well, he’d made more than enough allowances for Hilary. But Florrie’s period was the last straw. Time to blow the whistle.