The Secrets Women Keep (31 page)

‘Indeed.’ Jess cleared her throat pointedly. ‘Incidentally, I noticed that’s what you’ve been doing . . .’

‘Really? What do you mean?’

‘Only you’ve been out with Simon quite a few times. But I think that’s nice.’ She qualified herself quickly.

‘We’re just good friends,’ Rose insisted, suddenly embarrassed by trotting out the well-worn cliché. ‘He’s been an incredible support to me.’

‘I know he has. But at least you’re going out, trying new stuff. Anna and I don’t mind at all.’

What did that mean? That they did? It certainly meant they’d been discussing her. But then what did she expect? Of course, whatever differences divided them, their concern for their old
mother would always unite them. Well, there was no need for that. She wasn’t intending on being a drain on them. Not in the least. Much more enjoyable for all of them that she had Simon
rather than constantly having to nag at them to entertain her.

‘Dad was never much interested in classical music or the theatre, so it’s been nice to go with someone who loves them and knows something about them,’ she justified herself.
‘Besides, Simon’s great fun and was a good friend of Dad’s. We talk about him a lot.’

‘I’m sure you do, and it’s so good you can. I can see that.’ Jess went over to the desk. ‘You say Dad wasn’t interested, but I meant to give you this.’
She opened one of the drawers. ‘I found it among the magazines. He must have left it the last time he came.’ She took out a large thin book and handed it to her mother.

‘What is it?’ Rose took it curiously, hungry for another memento of Dan.

‘The libretto for
Rigoletto
. Didn’t you see that with Simon?’

‘Yes, last month.’ She remembered well the thrill of being in the Royal Opera House again. ‘But this can’t be Dad’s.’ Disbelieving, Rose opened the book at
random.

There was a knock, and the maître d’ put his head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Jess. But we need to confirm where we’re having the canapés and champagne.
Do you want them on the terrace, now the wind’s dropped?’

Jess looked at her watch. ‘I’m so sorry. I lost track of the time. I should have come through to check with you ages ago. I’m coming now. You’re all right with that,
aren’t you, Mum?’

‘Of course, darling. Go and do whatever needs to be done. We’ll talk more later, or tomorrow.’

Left alone, Rose concentrated on the libretto. Daniel and
Rigoletto
? That didn’t make any sense. She had always been surprised that someone with his passion for rock music
hadn’t widened his taste to include more than just the jazz and blues he had embraced in his later years. He was interested in art and architecture, books and cinema, but he resisted what she
regarded as some of the greatest music in the world. How often had she turned off a great concerto when she heard his key in the lock, or stopped a symphony at the end of a movement before he was
due back. ‘I don’t know what you see in that classical nonsense. All that crashing and banging,’ he’d joke, the man who still liked Led Zeppelin.

Yet in her hand was the libretto for one of the great operas, the nadir of musical form according to Dan. ‘Musical pantomime,’ he’d say. ‘I just don’t get
it.’ She flipped idly through the pages marked with pencilled annotations. She’d recognise that hasty scrawl anywhere, the way the tails of the g’s and y’s were cut off
before the curl. This was his distinctive writing. The pencil (always a propelling pencil rather than a pen) was faint but the words were quite legible nonetheless, translating, commenting on the
text.

Perhaps unknown to her he had had the Damascene moment she’d long hoped for. Maybe he had discovered the pleasure she took in the music and had been planning some kind of surprise for her.
She smiled, imagining him reading these words that had probably seemed so alien to him. She ran a finger under a line:
è amor che agl’angeli più ne avvicina!
He’d
translated it as ‘love takes us towards heaven’. Doing that for her. That his notes ran out halfway through the third act must mean he hadn’t got to the end. Distracted by
something else? Or more likely he’d just given up.

She flicked back to the title page. There, she found an inked inscription, but this in a different, more feminine hand that used old-fashioned curlicues. Increasingly curious, she read the
words, hoping for a clue to what had changed his mind. Someone had written:

Dear Dan, See this as the beginning of your classical education. We’ll take the heathen out of you yet!

That nausea, last present during Dan’s final days, rose in her throat again. He hadn’t been reading it for her at all. After all their years together, someone else had succeeded in
igniting his interest where she had failed. Furious, hurt, she slapped the libretto shut. As she did so, her eye caught a pencilled scribble on the inside flap. Before she could open the book again
to read it, she had to sit down. The leather creaked as she lowered herself into her father’s old swivel chair. Unsteady, the seat pitched slightly towards the desk, the spring squeaking from
disuse.

Outside, the partygoers were beginning to gather, despite there being half an hour to go. Someone knocked on the window, but she didn’t turn to see who it was. Over the growing buzz of
voices, seagulls shrieked.

Rose closed her eyes, let her head fall forward, feeling the stretch in the back of her neck. Once she’d counted to five, she straightened herself up, resolved. She could cope with this.
Whatever had happened was over. Whoever ‘S’ was didn’t matter any more. She couldn’t have Daniel now.

She opened the libretto again, turning to that opening message. Tearing her eyes away, she looked at the opposite page to see what was written there.

All it said was
S. ROH
. And a date –
2 April. S
. The blood rushed in her ears, blocking out the noise from outside, as the pieces of the puzzle moved towards their rightful
places.

She fumbled urgently in her bag for her phone, almost dropping it in her hurry to access her diary. Swiping backwards to April, she found what she was looking for. There, on 2 April, she had
noted her date with Simon. He had already booked the tickets, he’d said. Months earlier, to be sure of getting them. Again he had been ‘let down’ and invited her instead. This
time to
Rigoletto
at the Royal Opera House. The excitement of being treated to seats in the grand tier, surrounded by the lamp-lit gold, cream and red of the auditorium, had made her feel
like a child again. The background sounds of the orchestra tuning up, that thrilling sense of anticipation, the sweep of the crimson velvet curtain. Beside her the man who had helped her re-engage
with the world, who had sympathised and supported, who had talked so knowledgeably about what Daniel had felt about this and that. Their friend. All those times when she’d wondered how he had
understood Daniel so well, those times when he had seemed to speak with Daniel’s voice.

She battled with her disbelief, her confusion, her anger. This couldn’t be true. Not Daniel. Not her husband, the love of her life. At the same time, Simon’s own sadness made a
horrible sense. It hadn’t been his father he was mourning, but Daniel. ‘S’ wasn’t a woman. Inconceivable as it was, S could only stand for Simon.

There was another knock at the window. This time she turned, her vision misty. Jess was signalling at her. ‘Are you coming? People are arriving early.’ Automatically, she nodded and
forced a smile. ‘Give me one minute.’

She would need more than a minute to come to terms with this. But with what? She had just jumped to a conclusion from the slightest piece of evidence: a date; an initial. The coincidence was
extraordinary, but sometimes coincidences were. This time she wouldn’t hesitate, as she had with Daniel, but would follow her instinct immediately. She would talk calmly to Simon, voice her
suspicions. Yes, that was what she’d do. If she was wrong, then they would laugh about it. If she wasn’t . . .

But first she must find Eve.

E
ve took a last look in the mirror, turning to see herself from behind. Not bad. Her dress was hip-hugging, but not as tightly as it would have
been three months earlier. Her heels were high enough to show off her calf muscles but low enough to be able to walk without risk of breaking an ankle. The new haircut and colour that had cost a
London fortune (almost £200! – she’d kept that from Terry) made such a difference, emphasising the planes of her face. Some things were worth the expense. What did Catherine
Deneuve once say? After a certain age, a woman should choose between her bottom and her face. Something like that. But who in their right mind would want a large bum? Having lost weight, she looked
better than she had for years. Everyone said so.

Terry had gone ahead, spruced up and looking forward to celebrating with their friends, though still obviously disconcerted by her reaction to his present. She couldn’t help but think of
the last time she’d seen Will. She couldn’t remember when she’d last come so rewardingly and repeatedly. At her age too. She hadn’t thought such a thing possible any more,
that those days had long gone. Sex might not be everything. But it was still a hell of a lot. Yet with Terry, despite their amatory go-slow, she had so much else that they had built in their life
together. Sometimes it was easy to forget that. What a bloody mess she was making of all this. She opened the minibar, took out a small bottle of white wine. A snifter for Dutch courage. She
unscrewed the top, then hesitated, thinking better of it. A clear head might be advisable this evening. She screwed the top back on and slid the bottle into the fridge.

Refreshing her lipstick for the last time, smoothing her lips together, she left the room.

‘Seen Rose anywhere?’ Simon was standing at the bottom of the main oak staircase. He looked relaxed, shirt open at the collar.

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve been upstairs. She’s probably over at the marquee by now.’

She watched him go outside, following her suggestion. He was a handsome man who must be at least ten years younger than Rose. Could something deeper than friendship be developing between them?
She would never have thought Rose capable of looking at another man after Daniel, especially not so soon, but they had all been surprised by how swiftly she’d become close to Simon. How
little one really knew about anyone else. We’re a lot like icebergs, she reflected: plenty above the water but much, much more that was invisible, unknowable below.

Pleased with her observation, she went towards the hotel lounge, the room where they’d planned to have pre-dinner drinks if the weather let them down. The pale ochre walls were decorated
with work by the local artists of whom Rose was so fond. The concept of a colour scheme to reflect the local landscape throughout the hotel had worked well. Cushions in various shades of blue and
green set off the large sandy-coloured sofas and chairs. If it had been up to her, she’d have done away with the driftwood sculpture and the ship’s clock, but her and Rose’s taste
often failed to coincide.

‘Eve! Where have you been? I must talk to you.’ Rose appeared through the terrace doors. Immediately Eve could see that something was wrong.

‘But the party’s about to start,’ she objected, as a waitress with a tray of empty glasses made her way towards the terrace bar. Not long to go. She took a step after her.

‘This won’t take long. Quick. Come with me.’

Unable to ignore the urgency in her friend’s voice, Eve followed her along the corridor to the library. This had better be good. As soon as the door was shut behind them, Rose picked up a
book from the desk, opened it at the title page and thrust it at her. Mystified, Eve took it and listened as Rose detailed her suspicions. When she had finished, both women gazed at each other.

‘Are you serious?’ Eve was stunned by what she’d heard. The coincidence, if that was what it was, was indeed extraordinary. But somewhere in the back of her mind, a dim and
distant memory was stirring: Edinburgh days; she and Daniel at a party; an overheard snippet of conversation; a suggestion she didn’t appreciate.

‘I don’t know what else to think. But it couldn’t be true, could it? Daniel and Simon?’ Rose shook her head as if trying to dislodge the idea, wanting Eve to agree.
‘Of course, I know people found him attractive. But not like that.’

Eve guided her to the swivel chair, not knowing what to say.

Rose looked up at her, appealing. ‘It must be true. What am I going to do?’ The words came out as a whisper. ‘This is like losing him all over again.’

Eve wanted to console her, to tell her she was mistaken, but she couldn’t. Pandora’s box had been opened. Almost as long as she’d known him, Daniel’s sexuality had
occasionally come up as a subject of speculation. That time in Edinburgh, when she’d overheard two men talking about him, certain he’d reciprocate their interest. She’d seen him
since at parties, engaged in conversation, not afraid of eye contact, making the man or woman he was talking to feel like they were the only person in the room. He might accompany his words with a
confidential wink, a touch on the arm, a warm smile drawing someone to him, making them feel privileged to be in his orbit. He both attracted and intrigued people. But she’d never thought
more of it than that.

For the brief time they had been a couple, he’d never shown any sign of being sexually attracted to men. She’d have noticed, wouldn’t she? But there had been rumours, chit-chat
that she’d ignored. He’d laughed when talking about the goings-on at his Catholic all-boys boarding school, dismissed them as normal, an inevitable result of shutting a lot of pubescent
boys away together, just part of what went on there, healthy experimentation, nothing more. Rose knew about that too. But there had also been a whispered-about closeness between him and one of the
other male students in their year. Something was rumoured to have happened after Eve had gone off with Will. But that was pure speculation, nothing more. None of them really knew what he got up to
in the wake of their affair, before he met Rose, least of all Eve. In public he flirted with everyone, male or female. Though the odd thing had been said, she’d never asked him. Didn’t
need to. Didn’t believe it. Didn’t care. If anything, the whispers about his sexuality only added to his charisma. But she did remember the way he’d go to those parties on his
own, anonymous, presumably sleeping around – that was when the gossip had really started – until he met Rose.