Tell Me No Secrets (26 page)

She sees my face. ‘I only like the creamy centre.'

‘It's not good for him.'

She leans her cheek on his furry back. ‘Doesn't she just spoil everyone's fun?'

I grit my teeth. As I thought – our getting along was short-lived. ‘Have you walked him?'

‘He doesn't need walked! He's fine.' She stands up and throws him the empty packet. He takes it to his bed, starts ripping it up.

‘Did you at least stack the dishwasher?'

‘I'm going to Sarah's in a minute. Monica's giving us twenty quid to clean out her attic this week.' Her mouth drops down in a huffy pout. ‘
She
doesn't expect slave labour.'

I have an almost overwhelming urge to hit her: for her insolence, her carelessness and her don't-give-a-shit attitude. I flex my fingers and call on Murphy. I'm better off outside. Big skies, endless sea, perhaps my problems will shrink and I won't feel so bloody desperate.

I walk briskly, the coastline stretching ahead of me to St Andrews. Orla moving back to the village is one thing but Orla moving back to the village with the intention of coming clean about how Rose died is too much even to contemplate. I try to walk my thoughts into some sort of order but it doesn't work. There is no way to reconcile this. Orla can't live here. She has to be made to see that.

There's a figure walking along the sand towards me. At first too far away for me to make out whether it's a he or a she, as we draw closer I see that it's Monica. ‘I forgot how strong this wind can be,' she shouts to me, holding her hair down into her neck. ‘Do you mind if I walk with you?'

‘No.' My face is smiling. Yesterday, I made love to her husband but somehow I'm behaving normally. She falls into step beside me. ‘Ella tells me she's going to help Sarah clean out your loft.'

‘I haven't been up there in years and with Euan off doing activities this week, I thought I'd take a couple of days off myself and clear out the junk. Some of it's his stuff. He can't possibly want it after all this time.'

We are at the end of the sandy beach and we climb up and over the grassy hillocks that border the pathway to a ruined cottage. It's even windier up here and we both hold on to our coats. We're puffing by the time we reach the top and I turn to breathe in the view that stretches out before us. The pewter sea roars, yawns and bites at the shore while the blue sky above is almost completely obscured by huge dirty white clouds that are being chased eastwards by the wind.

‘This place is so
depressing
,' Monica declares. ‘Dark, brooding, dour. Everything I hate about the Scottish character is reflected in the landscape.'

‘Hardly!' I turn towards her profile. ‘It's exciting and dramatic and when the sun comes out there's nowhere like it in the world.'

She grabs my arm and propels herself around to face me. ‘Do you believe history repeats itself, Grace?'

She said this to me already, the other day, after the girls' party. I take a moment to think. Monica waits. Her eyes are wide and seem to reflect my own sense of foreboding. She is expecting me to say something profound, satisfying, solve a puzzle for her. ‘I believe that, eventually, what goes around will probably come around,' I say at last.

‘Did you know that my father killed himself?'

‘Well . . .' I suspected as much. When I was sixteen, I overheard a whispered conversation between Mo and my mum.

‘Over Angeline.' She climbs up on to some fallen stones and looks down at me. ‘Do you think there's a suicide gene?'

‘I don't know.' I'm out of my depth with this.

‘But what do you think?'

‘I'm not a scientist! And I'm not an expert on human behaviour. Sometimes . . .' I hesitate. ‘There might be an explanation.'

‘My father committed suicide and my mother drank herself to death. How else could that be explained?'

‘Neither of your parents was able to cope with their lot but that doesn't mean it will happen to you.' Then I remember that, like me, she is an only child. But, unlike me, she lost her father at sixteen and her mother at twenty. How hard must that have been? I reach for her hand. ‘Look, Monica, I feel for you, I do. And I wish I had done something to help you when we were young.'

She turns blank eyes to mine. ‘So now you know why I hate Orla so much?'

‘Yes . . . and no.'

‘She didn't care, Grace. She didn't care that her mother was destroying my family.'

‘I think she did, you know. On the evening of her sixteenth birthday party she had a huge fight with Angeline. She really didn't approve of what her mother was doing. In fact—' I'm about to tell her what Orla said at lunch in Edinburgh. How she never forgave her mother. But I don't, because let's face it – nothing Orla says can be believed and I'm the last person who should be sticking up for her. ‘Your father's suicide was hard on you.'

She shrugs. ‘It wasn't his fault.' Her lips purse together. ‘It was Angeline's. She had him under her spell.'

‘She didn't hold him against his will,' I say quietly.

‘As good as! Women like Angeline have no respect for family or commitment. My dad was a decent man and an excellent husband and father. And then Angeline turned his head.' She tears some grass into long strips. ‘We were the perfect family until Angeline came along.'

I know for a fact that this isn't true. Monica's mother and mine were in the Women's Guild together. I have clear memories of my mother telling my dad how negligent Peter was, how he was never there for his daughter and how he never gave Margaret enough money to run the house.

‘My dad went round to help Angeline with her accounts for that beauty business she started.' She tilts her head towards me. ‘He was good that way. Lots of small businesses relied on him. You ought to have seen all the cards we received when he died! Praising his care and his attention to detail. But Angeline – she mesmerised him. I wouldn't be surprised if she put something in his tea.'

Monica keeps talking, reliving imaginary moments in her childhood when her father was perfect, a happy family mythology that absolves him of any blame: much better to see him as the hapless victim of a conniving witch. Angeline was the whore and the wrongdoer. All her father suffered from was being too trusting to see it coming.

Ironically, reinventing her past like this gives her something in common with Angeline. But for Angeline it's about manipulating other people – better that Murray sees her as faithful – whereas for Monica, life becomes bearable when her father is blameless. Because a man who chooses his mistress over his wife and child is not a man who loves his family and can ever be loved in return.

Euan and me. The parallels are obvious. But we will never fracture two families. And we do love our partners and our children. We have beaten this thing before and we will beat it again. Paul will be accepted for his sabbatical in Australia and then I will leave the village and temptation will cease.

‘It's important to understand why things happen, Grace.'

‘That's not always possible.' This whole conversation feels too close to home and I am holding myself together by the skin of my teeth. ‘Sometimes it's just bad luck and worse judgement but it doesn't have to cloud the good times and the good decisions and the day-to-day commitment.'
That's what I tell myself, anyway
.

‘You're right.' Monica smiles at me. ‘My father did his best. My mother? Well.' She shrugs. ‘She was drinking long before the affair.' She looks upwards and breathes deeply. ‘Orla isn't a threat to me. I expect that's the last we'll see of her.'

If only. I realise I have to tell her. She'll only find out from someone else. ‘Orla is moving back to the village.' I watch her smile wilt. ‘I only found out this morning.'

‘She can't!' She falls back a few paces. ‘She can't do that.'

‘She can and she is. She's renting a cottage. I don't know how long for.'

She takes hold of my wrist and grips it so tightly that her nails pierce my skin. ‘I have to stop her.'

‘Monica! You need to keep this in perspective!' I extract my wrist from her fingers and shake her gently. ‘I know she brings back memories of your parents and I know that hurts, but now, in the present, you have nothing to fear from Orla.' Her eyes say otherwise and as she looks into mine I see that she is close to telling me something. ‘What is it, Monica? What is it?' My scalp tingles. ‘Is it about Rose?'

Her eyes glaze over. ‘I was warned about this. I was warned—'

‘What are you talking about? Warned by whom?'

‘Grace!' she hisses. ‘Do you have any idea how much damage she could do?'

I give a short laugh, not because it's funny but because I have to let some emotion out.

‘The status quo should never be underestimated. Life, ticking along. It might seem boring at times but . . .' She looks up to the right and seems to pluck her words from the air. ‘Orla is dangerous. She will cause havoc and then she will leave. We have to stop her.'

‘Believe me, I don't want her around either.' I take her hand. ‘Tell me what's troubling you.'

‘I can't.' She pulls free. ‘I can't break a confidence.' She takes a few steps backward. ‘Can you find out what Orla wants? Can you do that?'

I already have.
‘I'll do my best.' I try to look optimistic. ‘I'll let you know.'

‘Good.' She recovers her composure and gives me an awkward hug. ‘I may not have been popular at school, my home life was in meltdown, but hey!' She looks around her, takes in the sea and the sky and all the space in between. ‘I have a great career, two wonderful children and I married the man I love. I consider myself very lucky. Well, he's lovely, isn't he?' She smiles. There isn't a trace of guile on her face. ‘But then I don't need to tell you that, Grace, do I?'

I've been sharing space in Euan's cabin for over a year now. It's cold outside and the heating is on. When I arrive I peel off my scarf, coat and hat, then stand opposite my half-finished canvas and warm myself over the radiator. I look at the canvas then across at the photographs I'm working from: the sky at dusk, clouds gathering over the sea, an epicentre of swirling black clouds rising up from the horizon. When I look back at the canvas I immediately see where I'm going wrong. The painting is taking shape but the contrast between light and shade is poorly defined and I've lost all sense of the encroaching storm.

Euan arrives. He's whistling. ‘Morning,' he says. ‘Nipped out for some croissants.' He takes one out of the bag and puts it on the table next to me.

‘What is your eye drawn to in this picture?'

He has another croissant in his hand. He takes a bite then stands back to consider. ‘This here.' He points to the edge of the canvas. ‘What is it?'

‘At the moment just a splash of red but it will become the slate roof of a house.' I shake my head. ‘There's no movement in it.'

‘In the house?'

‘In the painting. There should be movement, drama, with the storm at the centre. The light's all wrong.'

‘Coffee?'

‘Please.'

The room is warming up. I take off my cardigan, roll up the sleeves of my blouse and re-examine the photos. This is always the hardest part. I know the painting is not right and chances are I'll make it worse before I make it better. Euan hands me coffee then sits down behind his desk and leans back, putting his hands behind his head. I'm looking the other way but I can feel him thinking. I know he's about to speak.

‘Grace?'

‘Mmm?'

‘Do you ever imagine us making love?'

He says it, just like that, as if it's a perfectly normal Monday morning question to ask of a workmate. I'm glad I'm not facing him. I take a breath in but have trouble letting it out. I don't answer and after a few seconds, he repeats it.

‘Do you ever think about us making love?' He comes over, stands beside me. ‘Grace?'

‘I'd rather not answer that,' I tell him.

‘Why not?'

‘Because.' I wave my hands around the room. ‘We're making this work. Why spoil a good thing?'

‘Be honest.' A look passes across his face, too quickly for me to read it. ‘Please.'

‘Why?'

‘I want to know.'

‘Why?'

‘I want to know what to imagine.'

I stare up at him and try to hold on to the moment so that it won't slip away from me but the simple truth is that I can't deny him anything. ‘Yes, I think about it,' I say quietly.

‘Do you know why I came back to live here?'

‘Euan, please.' I think I know where this is coming from. Mo died less than three months ago. It's taken its toll on the whole family. Euan has been one minute restless, the next angry, the next subdued. ‘We've all had a difficult time lately. You more than any of us.'

‘This isn't about Mum.' He takes hold of both my elbows and lifts them upwards. My head tips back. ‘I came back to live here because of you. I came back for you.'

I want to cry. In all my life I can't remember anyone ever saying anything that meant so much to me. I don't know what to answer so all I do is look into his eyes and keep breathing.

‘I think about making love to you all the time. I just want you to know that.' He drops my arms, turns away and walks back to his desk.

I stand still. I feel like the air is alive and if I move I'll push my life in a certain direction and I don't know which way to go. Pressure builds in my chest. I swivel round. ‘That's it?' He's sitting behind his desk riffling through papers for all the world like nothing has happened. ‘You drop a bombshell like that and just sit down?'