The Secrets Between Us (7 page)

‘That’s all right.’

‘But you don’t know what it’s like to be the centre of attention in a place like this.’

I shifted my weight a little and shrugged.

‘I don’t mind people being curious about me,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘You’re not the point.’

‘Then who is?’

‘Genevieve.’

I felt a prickle of unease. I looked down at my hands.

Alexander exhaled.

‘I need to tell you about her,’ he said.

‘OK.’

He began to talk about his wife and, as he did so, his voice became slower and heavier and his head hung forwards and his shoulders became rounded like an older man’s. I listened as he told me about their relationship and felt as if I were being included in something huge and important.

He told me that Genevieve was very precious to her parents because she was her mother’s only child, and her father’s only true love child. He said both her parents would do anything for their brave and talented daughter. She had, from a very early age, shown a prodigious talent for riding and this had been nurtured and encouraged. She’d had the best education, the best of everything, and the investment had paid off.

Alexander didn’t tell me how he and Genevieve met, but he said, when they married, she was on the rebound from an
intense affair. She told Alexander that she would do her best to forget the man she had been seeing, but that he was the love of her life. For a while – several years – Alexander and Genevieve had managed. But lately, their relationship had foundered. Genevieve was clearly unhappy. The two of them had begun to bicker, then argue, then fight. They kept up appearances for the sake of her family, the village, Jamie, but no matter how hard they tried, they both knew it was never going to work. Their marriage had been over for a long time before Genevieve left. He said he was resigned to her going; in a way it was a relief to him. But nobody else knew quite how bad things had become or how unhappy they were together. So while Alexander expected it, everyone else, including her parents, had been shocked when Genevieve went away.

I stared at the old-fashioned floral pattern on the quilt and pulled at a loose thread. She was special, he said. She was the best rider in Somerset and that made her a local celebrity. Her parents were influential and respected. And because everyone felt as if they knew her, they were all concerned when she left and they were still concerned now.

I nodded and nibbled at the cuticle of my thumb.

‘It’s all anyone talks about,’ said Alexander. ‘They want to know where Genevieve is and what she’s doing, why she left so suddenly. There are a lot of rumours. That’s why it’s best for everyone if, for now, we make it very clear that you’re my housekeeper and Jamie’s nanny, nothing more than that.’

He scratched his head. The light outside was fading and the room seemed darker and colder. A black beetle scuttled between two of the huge black roof beams.

‘You don’t mind me telling you all this?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied, rather too brightly. ‘It’s best I know.’

‘Genevieve’s family owns most of the land around here. A lot of the people in the village are their tenants. And … well, they’re devastated.’

‘Doesn’t Genevieve call her parents?’

‘No.’

‘She doesn’t write?’

‘She left letters for me and for them the day she went away. She told her parents not to worry if they didn’t hear from her for a few weeks and that she’d be in touch once the dust had settled. Since then, we’ve heard nothing.’

‘I expect she’ll contact them soon,’ I said cheerfully.

Alexander didn’t smile.

‘We parted badly, Genevieve and I,’ he said. ‘I said some things … we both said and did some things we shouldn’t have.’

I nodded.

‘You never met her so you can’t understand what she was like,’ he said, and his voice sounded terribly sad. ‘To me she was …’ He trailed off and stared at the wall as he tried and failed to find a word to sum up his feelings for Genevieve.

‘Why do you say “was”?’ I asked. ‘Why do you talk about her in the past tense?’

He shrugged. ‘I meant when she was here.’

CHAPTER TEN

HE LEFT ME
to make myself at home. I lay across the bed to reach the window, unhooked the catch and opened it. It overlooked the orchard. The very last of the sunlight stained the top leaves of the trees a brilliant gold; their branches were weighed down with apples, and mistletoe bloomed a darker green in their crooks and elbows. I could not imagine anyone wanting to leave this place nor how it would feel to own it, to have been born into it. It was so beautiful. It seemed so perfect.

I thought I heard footsteps on the landing and the door moved a little; the metal latch tapped against the chimney breast. I turned, but nobody was there. I went over to the door to see if it was Jamie, spying on me. The landing was empty. I waited a moment to make sure he wasn’t hiding somewhere. I was certain someone was there, but nothing moved, there were no creaks or sighs. I supposed it must have been a draught from the window disturbing the door. Old houses made noises; it was their way. I knew that.

I had promised to call May, but there was no signal on my phone. I wrote a text and held my arm out of the window, but it didn’t send. That made me feel very alone. I tried not to remember what my mother had said to me about men
who isolate women. It was hardly Alexander’s fault there was no network coverage.

I made up the bed with the linen stacked at its foot, and unpacked my bag, putting all my things into the chest of drawers. The wood smelled a little musty and I balled up the paper liners, which were damp, and as I put them in the waste basket I remembered the clothes I’d left in my drawers at home: baby clothes. I hadn’t bought much before the baby was born, because we had asked not to be told if it was a boy or a girl – we wanted to be surprised. I had anticipated the pleasure of shopping with my new child snug against my chest in the sling, choosing clothes specifically for him – or her, if he’d been a girl. And when that pleasure was taken away, well, I’d been drawn to the infant sections of shops anyway. I spent hours in the department stores, hovering over the pale-blue jumpsuits, pretending, to myself at least, that I was a real mother. I picked up little coats and hats, tiny pairs of socks and gloves, and I’d feel the fabric, checking it was soft and warm enough for my son. Other women, clearly pregnant, looked at me. I smiled at them and they looked away. I wondered if they could tell, if they were worried I would jinx them. The assistants were kind to me, though.

‘It’s for my son,’ I would say as I laid my purchases on the counter to be paid for and bagged. ‘He’s so gorgeous. He’s going to look lovely in this.’ And the assistants smiled and they didn’t ask where my baby was. Nobody ever asked.

So I bought nappies and vests, and hundreds of pounds’ worth of clothes. I filled up my drawers with baby-boy clothes and toys and, when I was alone in the house, I took the clothes out and laid them out on the bed, and I talked to my son as I held each item to my cheek.

Laurie knew about the clothes, but he didn’t say anything; not to me anyway. But I knew he knew, because sometimes I’d catch him staring at me with concern in his eyes, as if I
were an alcoholic and he’d found a half-empty bottle of vodka hidden in the laundry basket.

In the bedroom at Avalon I pushed the drawers shut; they were stiff and creaky. I stood up and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.

I supposed this part of the house hadn’t been used for ages. The radiator was icy cold. The room needed airing; that was all. It needed somebody to live in it and open the windows and bring it back to life.

I washed my hands and face in the bathroom further up the landing, put on some fresh mascara, brushed my hair and went back downstairs.

Jamie was lying on the sofa in the living room, with his head hanging over the side, watching TV and eating cubes of cheese and crisps from a bowl on the carpet. The kitchen door was closed but I could hear Alexander’s voice beyond.

‘Is your dad on the phone?’ I asked Jamie.

He nodded, without taking his eyes from the television.

I sat down beside him, picked up his feet and put them on my lap. His socks were sticky and smelled of trainers and sweat.

‘He’s talking to Grandma,’ he said.

Genevieve’s mother, I presumed.

‘She didn’t want you to come,’ Jamie said. ‘She thinks it’s a scene.’

‘A scene?’

‘A
bus
scene.’

‘Oh. Obscene.’

‘She says you’re a hole-digger.’

‘I think she meant gold-digger.’

Jamie looked up at me, caught my eye and looked away again.

‘What’s a gold-digger?’

‘It’s a person who pretends to be somebody’s friend because they want the other person’s money.’

Jamie stared at me while he thought about this information.

‘No, I think Grandma did mean hole-digger,’ he said.

I tried to hide my smile but I wasn’t quick enough.

‘Grandma doesn’t think it’s funny,’ said Jamie.

‘No, of course not.’

‘Nor do I.’

Jamie fished the remote control from the carpet and turned up the volume on the television. He pulled his feet away from me.

I stood, stretched, switched on the light and drew the curtains. I wandered to the far end of the room and studied the spines of the books in the case. Amongst a plethora of Jilly Cooper novels, books on horse management and eventer biographies were a couple of Italian language dictionaries and guidebooks and a number of books on law. Framed photographs stood on top of the case. Most were of Jamie at various stages of development but in amongst them was a portrait of a woman. It had to be Genevieve. I picked it up and held it to the light.

She didn’t look as I had imagined her. She was smiling in that bashful way that the most attractive people do – as if they know how beautiful they are and are faintly apologetic about it. She was standing beside a railing in some foreign country; beyond, a range of slate-grey cliffs towered over a perfectly green sea. One slender hand rested on the railing and her face was turned towards the camera. Her hair, the silver-gold-buff colour of ripe wheat, was shoulder length, well cut. She wore a yellow vest-shirt, shorts, a wedding ring. Her shoulders were smooth and tanned. Her composure and grace reminded me of an old-fashioned celebrity but her look was contemporary. She had a heart-shaped, symmetrical face and dark eyes beneath long, dark lashes. She was beautiful; there was no denying it. Genevieve was lovely.

‘That’s Mummy,’ said Jamie.

‘She’s very pretty,’ I said, and I heard the note of jealousy in my voice.

‘Mmm.’

I smiled at the child and was struck by how very small he was; too small to be motherless. I had no right to attempt to fracture his already bruised loyalties. I put the photograph back in its place.

‘Do you miss her a lot?’ I asked.

Jamie nodded. He sat up and wriggled deep into the side of the settee. He put his thumb in his mouth. The blue teddy was tucked into the crook of his elbow.

‘I wish she would come back,’ he said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DESPITE EVERYTHING, I
settled down to sleep that first night feeling a little more normal. Nothing had been quite as I’d hoped. I’d been naïve in underestimating how difficult things had been, and still were, for Jamie and Alexander. Still, I was relieved to be away from Manchester. For the first night in ages I didn’t hold my breath waiting to hear May’s footsteps as she ritually crept to my bedroom door and listened to make sure I wasn’t crying. I no longer had to keep a perma-smile glued to my face to prove to the people who loved me that I was all right, and I didn’t have to worry about what I said. I could just be, and it was soothing. I hoped I’d be trusted to look after the house and the child without too much supervision. While Jamie was at school, I’d be on my own, and I was certain I’d be able to pull myself together if I had the time and space and didn’t have to deal with people looking at me and talking about me when they thought I wasn’t listening.

That weekend, Alexander showed me around the village. The late-summer light made everything appear strangely artificial, like a film set. The country air was soft on my face, it tasted different from city air, and I soon became accustomed to the agricultural tang of cut hay, mud and manure that suffused the whole area.

We walked down Avalon’s drive and turned left, going perhaps half a mile before we reached the new quarry junction. It seemed out of place, set, as it was, beside this quiet country road. There were traffic lights at the entrance and large double white gates protected by cameras pointing in and outwards. The whole area was surrounded by a high, spiked metal fence. The road was wide enough for load-bearing lorries to turn and exit with their heavy cargo. The entrance was guarded by a lodge and I could see the uniformed guard inside. He had his feet on the counter and was staring at a television mounted on the wall. I could not tell if he was watching a programme or monitoring security cameras.

‘This is Jamie’s inheritance,’ Alexander said. ‘Genevieve’s family owns all this, the quarry and the land behind it.’

‘Do you work for them?’

He shook his head. ‘I work for myself. Sometimes I come here to look at a piece of stone, see if it’s suitable for a particular commission. Mostly I work at the yard in Castle Cary. That’s where I’ve got my gear and where people come to see me.’

We watched as the gates swung open and a truck pulled out on to the road, its engine grinding under the weight of the stone it carried. It shed a fine white dust as it rumbled and groaned on towards the village.

‘Don’t the people who live here get fed up with the noise?’ I asked.

Alexander shrugged. ‘They’re used to it.’

We walked on into Burrington Stoke. It was not much of a place, just a few shops on either side of the road, a pub that was still hung with baskets of colourful trailing flowers and which advertised Sunday lunches and Butcombe beer, and a run-down hotel. A number of unassuming former local authority houses lined the far end of the road and some lovely old cottages and country houses were set further back.
At the far end of the village, close to the memorial cross, was the entrance to a farm. Small, shaggy cows stood by the gate feeding from a bale of hay, bothered by black, buzzing flies. A lane at the side of the farm led up to the village primary school. Alexander nodded to a couple of young women coming down the lane on horseback. I backed into the hedge to make way as they passed. The animals were huge. Their big feet clopped and they swung their heads as they went by, eyeing me suspiciously. The young women with their big shoulders and bare arms made no attempt to hide their curiosity. As soon as they had passed, one said to the other, loudly enough for me to hear: ‘Who’s she then?’ And the other said: ‘No idea,’ and then added more quietly, ‘But did you see her shoes?’