Something Only We Know (5 page)

I dared a mate to drop a crab down his trunks and it nipped his bollock!
No, no, that one would definitely have to be edited if it was going to grace the pages of Chester Cream. In
fact, I’d probably ditch the entire quote so as to avoid provoking any copycat cruelty to crabs.

I was just putting the piece to bed when my phone beeped with a new message. Ned: ‘I don’t do crazy. I’m too boring.’ As I was reading, another message from him came
through. ‘Nearly brought home stray cat from Spain but hotel owner took it in instead.’

Yes, that sounded like Ned. If anyone would try and save a starving Spanish mog, it would be him. Our family had known his family forever, and he always was the kind of guy who’d open a
window to shoo out a moth, or carefully carry a spider to the doorstep. He was just one of life’s thoughtful people. He’d bring in the shopping for Mum, and hold spanners and torches
and tape measures for my dad when required. When I was still at primary school and Helen was at her worst, he’d often volunteer to collect me at home-time so Mum wouldn’t have to leave
my sister unattended. Of course none of these acts of kindness was on Owen’s fiery scale of world-saving, but I like to think little gestures add up in some kind of cosmic ledger. I had a
sudden memory of him at the school gates, wading in to stop some big lads throwing a younger boy’s shoe into a tree.

Without warning, my thoughts slid to Joe Pascoe, and my sister’s tremulous request of six nights ago. ‘Don’t you trust me, Jen?’ she’d said, her pretty eyes wide
and pleading. ‘Look, think about it. If I was after playing dirty, I’d have just looked him up for myself and gone from there. But
you
doing it takes out any element of
temptation. That’s the point. Your involvement keeps it above board.’

So far I’d taken no action because I wasn’t convinced Ned would see it like that. Yet that half-threat hung over me: if I didn’t assist Hel, she might take matters into her own
hands.

In the background I could hear Rosa exclaiming over something on the supermarket man’s iPhone. Gerry, chat finished, was whistling under his breath as he typed. I tuned them both out and
brought up Facebook on my PC. Then I typed in Joe’s name. It felt safer to do it here. And a quick peep couldn’t do any harm, could it? That didn’t commit me to anything.

Mum’s always banging on about the dangers of social networking and how people make themselves ridiculously vulnerable by laying out their entire personal details online. She says sites
like Facebook and Twitter are a stalker’s paradise, and who knows what brand of madmen and crims are sifting through your intimate histories and making notes about your routines, harvesting
your passwords, mapping your movements. She says no one understands the concept of privacy any more. We under-thirties are beyond naive and deserve what’s coming to us.

For the most part, oldie-talk like this makes me want to stick my fingers in my ears and go la-la-la, but today I wondered if she might not have a point. Five clicks was all it took me to locate
the right Joe, the Joe who said he’d been to St Thom’s, Cheshire, class of 2002. He was married, it turned out. Not to Saskia – that must have fallen apart – but to someone
called Ellie. He lived in Chrishall, a village on the outskirts of Chester, and he designed websites for a living. PortL, his company was called. Disappointingly his photo album only had two
pictures in it, one of a sunset and one of a huge fish hanging from a hook. However, a quick scan of Ellie’s page revealed a stack of images showcasing life in the Pascoe household.

Ellie-the-wife was blonde, with expensive-casual clothes and a bright white smile. Her two girls were miniatures of their mum. I didn’t even have to guess the kids’ ages (six and
nine) because Ellie had obligingly posted snaps of their last birthday cakes, candles and all. The family garden was large, with swings for the girls and a long, smooth lawn. They had a pond and a
pergola. They held barbecues. The girls liked fancy dress. Sometimes they all played boules. It was like looking at pages from a Boden catalogue. Ellie was in a reading group and did Pilates and
liked a film called
Molten Days
and had 443 friends.

Joe himself seemed to be ageing well. His hair was cropped quite severely but it suited him. His chin he kept stubbly, though I could see he’d experimented with a proper beard at one
point. I squinted at the screen, trying to picture the arrogant teen who’d trampled my sister’s heart. He just smiled back at me, a man easy with himself and proud of his achievements.
The lovely Ellie was a Global Communications and Engagement Manager with NatWest.

Even as I scanned the info I was wondering whether I should tell Helen about any of this, and if so, how much, and what kind of spin to put on it. Would it be a relief for her to think of him
settled and out of reach, or would the idea of his being married be upsetting? What exactly should I say about his wife? Should I mention the children? Would it help if I could detect some tiny
element of dissatisfaction in his life choices, or would that be courting danger? Most importantly, should I reveal that he was still living just down the road from us, a mere twenty-minute drive
from our house – that so near was he, the gods of mischief might sometime have them bump into each other inside Chester M&S? Helen had sworn to me this business was about closure and
recovery, but my sister lied easily. She told you what you wanted to hear.

I tried to picture her reaction to the various scenarios. My main fear, as ever, was that she’d be knocked off-centre again, and all that would entail. Mum’s towering fury if she
suspected I was involved. God, it didn’t bear thinking about. A memory flashed up of Helen sitting at the kitchen table and crying over a plate of spag bol, still in her school shirt, and Dad
shouting that they were ‘crocodile tears’. I’d never heard the phrase before and had to go away and look it up. Then I’d been both impressed and outraged by the idea someone
could fake a crying fit, and also confused because she’d looked in genuine distress to me.

I clicked to study Joe’s timeline. ‘How did you manage to hurt my sister so badly?’ I mouthed at the screen.

‘Jennifer! If you could tear yourself away from your dating websites and get on with some actual work, we’d be so grateful.’ Rosa’s voice sliced across the office, making
me jump. At once everyone stopped to look at me: Alan and Tam on sports, the supermarket man, the woman reloading the water cooler. Only Gerry didn’t turn round, but I saw his shoulders
tense.

‘It’s not a dating site,’ I said, as levelly as I could. But it came out as a whining protest, and my cheeks grew hot as I vanished the page.

‘Well, who is he, then, this man you’ve been gazing at for the last ten minutes?’

‘It’s research, Rosa.’

‘Research? What for?’

‘The holiday piece.’ I thought fast. ‘I remembered there was this boy I was at St Thom’s with who had a suncream fight in a hotel foyer. It went up the walls and over the
furniture, everywhere. I was just trying to find the details.’

‘And how much detail do you need, for goodness’ sake? One line per incident, that’s all you’re required to write. No one’s asked you to compose a
dissertation.’

The whole of this speech was shouted the length of the room for maximum humiliation. I heard her snort, then she leant in towards Mr Supermarket and said, mock-conspiratorial, ‘You see,
this is the problem when we take them straight from college. They’re just not grown up enough to follow instructions.’

The meanness of it made my eyes sting, and for a nasty moment the document in front of me grew swimmy. I thought,
Come on, Jen, get a grip. It’s only old Tweed-knickers. Don’t
let her see she’s hit the mark.
So I lowered my head, blinked a few times, breathed deeply and did what Ned always advises with tricky customers, which is to picture them in some
embarrassing situation. I went for a selection of old favourites: Rosa fitted with that scold’s bridle they have on display in the Grosvenor Museum; Rosa tied to a ducking stool and dropped
into a pond; Rosa in the stocks, covered in raw egg. Meanwhile, back in the real world I saw her pick up her handbag and usher the supermarket man to the door, no doubt off for another working
lunch. The click click of heels down the uneven wooden stairs. This is an old building. One of these days she might have a nasty fall.

The fan churned and whirred and still the air was as hot as ever.

Gerry stretched, rolled his eyes in my direction. ‘Oi, Jennyfer,’ he said. ‘Where are you up to with your work?’

I nodded at my PC. ‘More or less finished this piece. I have to be out at two, visiting a nursery.’

‘So you’ve a bit of a window, then?’

‘Why? What are you after?’

‘I only wondered if you could nip outside for half an hour and gather me some vox pops for a piece I’m doing on pensions.’

‘Pensions?’

‘Yeah. Just take a clipboard and ask a few people in the street whether they’ve got one set up, what they think of the state pension, how they feel about the retirement age. That
kind of blah. You’ll get more responses than me. You’ve a more approachable face.’

I grinned. ‘You mean I should get out of the office before I chuck my monitor across the room in a fit of pique?’

‘The thought never entered my head. Now go on, buzz off, enjoy some fresh air. I’ll deal with Madam if she comes back before you, but we both know we won’t see her till gone
four.’

I hit the street gratefully. Outside it was just as warm, but a different kind of heat, dry and pleasant on the skin, not fuggy with confined bodies and bad feeling. The plan
was to grab a can of something cold, then step out among the masses with my clipboard and gather a few useful quotes. Before I’d reached the precinct, however, my phone bleeped with a text
message. I opened it up and read that the nursery visit would have to be rescheduled due to a stomach bug sweeping through staff and kids. Call me heartless, but I actually let out a little whoop.
I forwarded the text to the photographer, then stood for a minute under the Rows, watching shoppers mill and street vendors blow glittering streams of soap bubbles onto the pavement. In front of
WHSmith’s a preacher was calling out that each new day was a gift from God, and that His eye was always on us. Pigeons strutted and pecked. A delicious sense of freedom flooded through
me.

Obviously I knew what I ought to do was collect Gerry’s sound bites for him, return to my desk and try to get ahead with some work. That would be the sensible option. That would show
Tweed-knickers I wasn’t such a waster. But the cancellation felt like a sign. It meant I could nip down and see Owen, hole up there for half an hour. My heart lifted at the thought. As for
the vox pops, I’d get a few on the way.

I wasn’t even sure he’d be around because some lunchtimes he visits the food bank and helps sort tins. But no, my luck was in because he answered his buzzer immediately. When he
opened the door I was so pleased to see him that I flung my arms round him there and then, in the middle of the communal hall. He hugged me back, then unhooked me, laughing.

‘Jen, hello! What’s this in aid of? Why aren’t you at work? Hang on, don’t tell me you’ve walked out? No, DO tell me you’ve walked out.’

‘Nothing so dramatic. Just fed up and skiving off.’

‘Really? Shame.’

He looked so sexy in his loose white shirt and faded jeans, his dark hair mussed and floppy. Hel calls him the Young Bohemian and says he ought to be hanging out in a Paris garret with a bunch
of revolutionaries. I’ve not passed this observation on in case it gives him ideas.

‘The sooner you do pack that place in, the better,’ he said as we started up the stairs. ‘Chester bloody Messenger. Consumer-engineering masquerading as news, that’s what
it is.’

‘I write fillers for the lifestyle section. I report on library events and nursery open-days. Don’t make me personally responsible for the evils of capitalism.’

‘You run adverts for hundred-quid anti-wrinkle creams when there are people in this city who don’t have a roof over their head.’

‘You know, I actually came here to get away from the ear-bashing.’

He paused on the stairs and turned, apologetic. ‘Shit. Sorry. I get carried away.’

‘You do.’

‘It is really nice to see you.’

His expression softened. If I’d been able to reach I’d have kissed him again, but his position on the higher step put him beyond me. I closed my eyes as his finger moved down to
touch my cheek, trace my jaw line then stroke across my lips. This was what I’d come for. This was what I needed.

‘Wish you wouldn’t wear this stuff on your face, though, Jen. You don’t need chemicals on your skin. No one does. You’re fine without make up.’

I opened my mouth to reply, but at that moment from the top landing a girl shouted, ‘Hey, Owen, have you got any double A batteries?’

He began to hurry up the stairs again.

‘Owen? Owen?’ Her accent was twangy – Aussie or New Zealand. Through my boyfriend’s flat various strangers come and go with their flyers and posters, news sheets and
placards. Sometimes it’s like Piccadilly Circus in there. I’d not met any Antipodeans, though.

As we walked through the door she was standing in the lounge, struggling to pull a jumper out of a rucksack: a girl of about my age with tanned arms showing under her T-shirt, and strong legs in
shorts and sneakers. She had a muscular frame like a runner, and short, bleached hair.

‘This is Chelle,’ said Owen cheerfully, as if I was supposed to know who that was.

‘Shell?’

‘That’s right,’ she said, shaking the jumper free. As in Mi-chelle. I’m camping out here for a while.’

‘Here?’

‘Yup. This is me.’ She indicated a rolled up sleeping bag pushed against the table leg.

I said, ‘I’m Owen’s girlfriend.’

‘Yeah, I know, good to meet you. Jen, isn’t it?’

‘Jin’ was how she pronounced it. ‘Jin, usn’t ut.’ The name sounded ugly like that, sort of tight and churlish. She carried on wrestling with the contents of the
rucksack. The drawstring looked to be stuck and whatever she was after was near the bottom; she plunged her wrist inside and felt around blindly, like a vet extracting a calf.