The Darkest Secret (16 page)

‘Sean, I really don't know about this. It just doesn't seem right.'

‘Oh, God,' says Sean, and lays his end of the mattress down in preparation for a fight. ‘Here we go again.'

‘But I —'

His face suffuses with red as it always does when he senses a thwarting coming on. She will never get used to it, this change in the charming man who couldn't find a fault in her. But of course, she never thwarted him before she married him. ‘Yes, you, you, you. It's always about you, isn't it? Do you ever think that there might be other people in the world?'

Same old story. When Sean feels as though he might not be going to get his way, the accusations come tumbling out. You're so selfish. You never think about what
I
might want, do you? You're ruining my life. You pretended to be someone completely different. I would never have married you if I'd known what you were really like.

‘But Sean,' she protests feebly, ‘they're just little kids!'

Their disagreements always go the same way. He wants something, and, if she points out the disadvantages of that thing, he reverts immediately to infancy. A giant toddler kicking and screaming I-hate-yous at Nasty Mummy. Over the years she has retreated from battle, taken to avoiding conflict if she can manage it, but her frustration leaks out in passive aggression all the time. She hears her own hurt little stiff voice saying, ‘Oh, do what you want, you always do,' and despises herself. Passive aggression is still aggression, after all. Just the dishonest version.

‘Oh, of course,' says Sean. ‘All those years at medical school are as
nothing
in the face of your three years' experience as a
mother
. Do you think Jimmy would give them to his own kids if it was dangerous? Seriously?'

I don't think he'd even consider the possibility that it might be, she thinks. Nothing I've seen of Jimmy Orizio makes me confident that he considers any possibilities too closely. He didn't even get off the sofa till lunchtime, he was so hung over. Just lay there with last night's drool dried out in his three-day stubble. The kids must have thought one of those War Memorial drunks had got in in the night.

Sean picks up the mattress again and starts walking forward. ‘Perhaps,' he says, ‘you might have thought about maintaining a better relationship with your staff, if you didn't want us to have to get creative about how we were going to handle all these children.'

She can't stop herself. ‘Perhaps,' she replies, ‘if you could manage to maintain a relationship with your
last
lot of children we wouldn't be having to do this now.'

Sean rolls his eyes until the pupils disappear. ‘Oh, God, there we go,' he says, and jerks on the mattress so that it drags through her hands and she feels a nail split. Oh, fuck you, Sean, she thinks. You'll be on about how I'm letting myself go if I don't go and waste half my Saturday getting that sorted out in time for your precious dinner, because you'll have a tantrum if I don't.

‘Ow,' she says. ‘You just broke my nail.'

He ignores her. ‘You really are a piece of work, you know that? You'll just pick on anything if you know it'll hurt me.' Plaintive little boy again. What must his mother have been like? He says his father was a monster but he barely even mentions her. She probably only existed to supply whatever the menfolk wanted. I know the arseholes say you should see what a woman's mother looks like before you decide to marry her, but if I had my time over again I'd make it a rule to do exactly the same thing about men. Their attitude to their mothers says everything about their attitude to women in general. If their mother looks downtrodden, run for the hills.

They manoeuvre the mattress out through the patio doors and into the sunshine. Claire has seen very little of the sunshine today. She's spent all of it clearing up the debris from last night and making a ceaseless round of bacon sandwiches for the adults and cheesy pasta with peas for the children. No one even bothered to observe mealtimes. Just drifted in and out from the shrieks of laughter by the swimming pool and said ‘Ooh, yes, how lovely' as she got the pan off the draining rack once again. Jimmy and Linda have almost reached the annexe with the mattresses from their own room. Imogen Clutterbuck stands in the doorway with a gaggle of infants round her knees.

‘And are we really going to leave them with just Simone in charge?' Claire asks.

‘She says she's happy to,' says Sean. ‘I mean, sure, if you want to stay home instead, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. And at least I'd get a bit of peace and quiet without nagging, I suppose.'

Oh, that's so unfair. But she thinks about it and she thinks, yes, okay, at least I won't have to watch you dribble wine down your chin. He's booked at the café on the other side of the chain ferry. For a few blissful hours they won't even be on the same piece of
land
. ‘Okay,' she says. ‘Sure. Yes. Thank you. Good suggestion. I think that might make sense, don't you? You know, leaving an adult in charge the first time we drug our children?'

He stops again, turns and glares at her. ‘It's not drugging them. God, how you exaggerate.'

‘Well what would you call it?'

‘What Jimmy calls it,' he says. ‘They're medications, not drugs. Look, he's been doing it for years and nothing's happened to
his
kids, has it? It's fine. It's absolutely fine. If you can't trust a doctor to get this stuff right, who can you trust?'

 

The air mattresses have been arranged and the bedclothes tucked in on top. Joaquin, as the eldest, is to get Milly's bed, and Tiggy, who's six, the sofa-bed that had been assigned to India. The fact that the older girls didn't sleep in them means that no one is demanding the linens be changed, at least. Coco and Ruby will share one mattress, Inigo and Fred the second. Simone's bed has been prissily made and tidied, her suitcase repacked and slid beneath. She's not a teenager, thinks Claire, she's an automaton. I suppose growing up with parents whose careers are dedicated to keeping other people's shenanigans out of the public eye would make you quite paranoid about your privacy, though.

Simone, Maria and Imogen are herding the children in the kitchen, filling their tummies with chipolatas and mashed potato in preparation for their zopiclone chaser. The men have retired to the gazebo with a bottle of champagne. The scent of Sean's cigar drifts over the evening air. I'm glad I won't be going with them, Claire thinks. He'll be so much happier with that besotted girl hanging on his every word than he would be with me worrying about my babies. I may not have the strength of character to stop them doing this, but at least I can be there if something goes wrong.

She closes the door to keep out the cigar smoke and goes up to the house.

 

Tiggy, sitting with her elbows on the glass dining table, is being difficult about her carrots. ‘Hate them,' she says. ‘Horrible, horrible, horrible carrots.' Fred, Tiggy's four-year-old parrot, repeats the words while banging the handle of his fork on the table. ‘Hobewel hobewel hobewal cawwots,' he says. He hasn't yet learned to pronounce his Rs, and all those Ws make him sound like Christopher Robin.

She can't help but sympathise. Linda's a terrible cook. She's boiled the vegetables till they're tasteless mush, and dumped them on the plate with no accompaniment – no butter, no oil – to make them more appetising. I hated carrots too, when I was a kid, thinks Claire. Funny, that. You'd have thought anything sugary would go down kids' gullets like Haribo. The others are pushing theirs around their plates, too, but Tiggy is the only one to actually voice her distaste. She's the eldest of the Orizio children, and with that comes a level of dominance that suggests that she's used to making her own decisions, even at the age of six.

Even when she isn't, thinks Claire. I don't suppose she gets much choice about sleeping, for a start. She checks her watch. It's past seven o'clock and the table is booked for half-past eight. If they're going to get them knocked out and settled enough for the diners to make the ferry, they need to step up the pace a bit.

‘Tell you what,' she says brightly, looking at her daughters' faces as they contemplate their own plates, ‘as it's the holidays, why don't we say everyone gets to not finish one thing on their plate? We need to leave room for ice cream, don't we?'

Six pairs of eyes swivel to look at her with undisguised relief. They nod enthusiastically. Joaquin, lofty in his status as the only seven-year-old, doesn't bother to look at her, but even he raises a nod.

‘You shouldn't do that,' says Imogen reprovingly. ‘You're teaching them to think they can be fussy eaters without consequences.'

Claire curls her lip at her. ‘Okay, chop chop!' she says. ‘Last one to finish is a banana!'

 

Pretending to look for the ice cream, she goes over to Linda at the kitchen island. She's already dressed herself for the evening, tight bodycon dress so white she suspects it's been treated with some chemical designed to make it glow under ultraviolet light, platinum necklace-bracelet-earring set – Jimmy's obviously not handing out his uppers and downers as a non-profit work of charity – and clear Perspex mules that show off every bone in her very bony feet. The dress leaves nothing to the imagination, and Claire notes with a twinge of satisfaction that despite the obvious gym habit – she's a teaky sort of brown and her face is starting to get lined from pulling faces on the weights machines – Linda still has saddlebags at the tops of her thighs. He'll start criticising those soon enough, she thinks spitefully, don't think he won't, for she knows, not that anyone has told her, that Linda is fucking her husband. Linda is too sugary-sweet to her, though they have barely met before last night, for it to be anything else, and last night Sean brought Linda a glass of chilled Chardonnay when they arrived without asking what it was she wanted.

Linda has a blister pack of pills and a small blue pill-cutter out on the countertop, and is carefully cutting each pill in half, then half again. A quarter of an adult dose for my three-year-olds? she thinks. You have to be kidding.

‘We don't have to do this, you know,' she says in a low voice. ‘I'm going to be with them. How about we just say we have, and not?'

‘Chill, babe,' says Linda. ‘We do this all the time, seriously. It's fine.'

‘But one of those knocks me sideways, and I weigh nine stone.'

‘That's because it works, love.'

Don't patronise me, she thinks, you bitch. Just because your pet cuckold's a doctor doesn't mean you're one.

‘There's a massive margin of error,' Linda carries on. ‘It would take six or seven whole pills before they got anywhere near danger. Seriously. Jimmy wouldn't do it if he thought it was dangerous.'

‘But… I don't think the twins weigh much more than two stone. They're little for their age. Can't we give them something else?'

Linda shrugs. ‘Like what?'

‘I don't know. Calpol?'

Linda laughs, a nasty laugh. Starts lining up the quarter pills in a row, puts the remaining piece back into one of the blisters and puts the blister pack and the cutter into the top drawer of the island, with the cutlery. ‘Mustn't forget those on Monday,' she says, and winks. ‘They'll give any potential buyers a thrill! Honestly. Calpol. My lot would still be bouncing off the ceilings at ten o'clock.'

‘But they're kids. You
know
you're not supposed to give kids adult medicines. It's all over the packs, for God's sake.'

Again, the laugh. ‘Oh, Claire,' she says, ‘you crack me up. Those warnings are for
stupid
people.'

Imogen gets out seven little bowls and seven teaspoons, puts two scoops of vanilla in each bowl and pours golden syrup over the top. ‘They love this,' she declares. ‘The cold turns the syrup into toffee. Much cheaper than Ben & Jerry's.'

‘Sprinkles,' says Simone. ‘I loved sprinkles when I was little.'

‘Don't tell me you've forgotten the sprinkles, Linda?' says Maria. ‘I thought this house came equipped?' and they all laugh. Claire's head snaps round on her neck and she looks at Maria, searches for a sign that it was just a casual remark.
They know
, she thinks.
They all know. That's why none of them can be bothered with me, this weekend. They all know I'm on my way out and this one has already taken my place, in their minds. I'm a laughing stock behind my back. They're probably cock-a-hoop that they're free from me, for dinner.

Imogen carries the bowls over to the table, click click click in her professional-wifey heels. She has hair that's as stiff as a board from the chemicals that strain it into perimenopausal curls, and wears a shirt dress with snaffle bits all over it. Her jewellery is gold, of course; quiet classy gold with only the five-carat sapphire (a sapphire! Of course! Even her jewellery is Tory blue!) on her ring finger for bling. ‘So!' she cries, ‘Who's for ice cream?'

Linda sways over behind her, the pills in her hand. ‘Vitamins first, Imo,' she says. ‘You know the rules! Everyone gets vitamins at the seaside!'

The children look away from the hypnotic sweetness and gaze up into her face. ‘We don't want you getting tired for tomorrow, do we?' she says. ‘Come on, everybody. Just a little vitamin, one each, build you up so you've got lots of energy! Down in one and then it's pudding!'

 

She looks around the women. Maria is in her signature scarlet, a halter-neck dress that shows off her magnificent cleavage, nipped in at the waist for Mediterranean drama, A-line skirt with a flounce at the knee. Simone has followed suit, wears a matching dress two sizes smaller, in a pale blue that shows off her ivory skin. And make-up. She's wearing full make-up, as though she were going to a party, not a hamburger joint on the beach.