Something Only We Know (3 page)

Feast
: Alternatively, your man might be keener than ever on sex, either as a result of overstimulation or the need to compensate for his
cheating. Watch out if he suddenly has a variety of new techniques at his disposal – who’s taught him those?

By the time I’d dealt with the quilters and then signed off the cheating article, it was getting on for half six. Gerry had packed up and gone; Rosa was still in her
office, or at least her fan was whirring. God knows how late she intended staying. I emailed the pieces across to her and picked up my bag.

I was still fuming, and the content of the article had unsettled me. Gerry laughed at me for it but sometimes I worried about writing copy that could upset people. Who knew what effect my glib,
thrown-together checklist might have on individual readers? Spouses collared and challenged, rightly or wrongly, distress caused whichever way the truth fell. Evenings filled with accusations. And
all in the name of filling column inches.

Well, thank God I trusted Owen. He wasn’t going to be cheating. He barely had enough attention to cover one girlfriend, let alone a bit on the side.

I rechecked my watch now, considered my options. Although it wasn’t one of the nights we usually met up, I wondered if he might be free for a quick cuppa and to listen to a moan about
horrible bosses. I could pop down there now. Just say hello. I didn’t fancy going straight home.

Owen was currently based on the top floor of a tall, thin townhouse overlooking the river. Being an unwaged political activist, he’d never have been able to afford a place like that
himself, but back in the day his dad had married money, divorced, and walked away with a very good settlement. Mr Cooke now owned no fewer than four properties in Chester, and allowed his son to
live in one rent-free. Which made Owen a lucky dog. I’d have given anything to move out of our three-bed semi, with its pokey bathroom and too-thin walls. Mustn’t be ungrateful, though;
my parents were already subbing me through my internship, Dad grafting long hours to keep his haulage firm going, and Mum with her part-time receptionist’s post. And as I was often reminded,
at least I had a roof over my head, not like those poor souls standing outside Thorntons in all weathers flogging
The Big Issue
. In any case, it would have been wrong to envy Owen’s
wealth since he was using his secure financial position to campaign for a fairer society. His flat aside, he really did care nothing for material possessions. If you gave him an expensive gift
he’d most likely pass it on to someone in need (I’d learnt that the hard way). More than once I’d witnessed him stop in the street to remove items of his own clothing – warm
jacket, good trainers – and hand them to a beggar.

This July evening it was a quiet, pleasant walk down to the Dee. The shoppers had dispersed but it was too early for the drinkers to be out. As I passed the artisan bakery, speckled pigeons
loitered hopefully. The shadows were lengthening, the red sandstone Walls rosy in the sunlight. Bunting fluttered from the tops of the Rows. The atmosphere was festive, English, summertime. How
much did Owen notice of the city, its history and beauty? Or did you stop appreciating such details when you lived in the middle of them? I sometimes had this fantasy of him and me sitting on his
window-seat in our pyjamas at midnight, drinking hot chocolate while the lights sparkled on the weir below. Except I wasn’t allowed to stay over, because one of his quirks was he could never
get off to sleep in a shared bed.

A few hundred yards from the house I stopped to phone him, to save myself the disappointment of ringing the doorbell and getting no reply.

‘Jen?’ He sounded surprised. ‘All right?’

‘Not really. I wanted to see you. Are you in?’

‘No, like I said, I’m busy this evening.’

‘Are you?’

‘I’ve got that lecture I told you about.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ It was true. I’d forgotten. ‘When do you need to leave?’

‘I’ve left already. I’m cycling into Blacon as we speak. Gotta be there for seven-fifteen.’

‘Remind me what it is tonight?’

‘Social Welfare: Where Next? It’s Irma Boyd speaking, she’s terrific. You should come.’

‘Nah, you’re OK. I need to get home and have something to eat.’

‘There’s a lecture about corporate crime and the multinationals coming up soon.’

‘Is there?’

‘And another about the economic implications of biofuels.’

I know I should take a keener interest in the politics of inequality – Owen has the entire weight of moral right on his side – but I can’t always summon up the energy. Some
days I can barely cope with the injustices and loose ends of my own small life, never mind trying to take in the global scale of wrongdoing.

‘What time will you be finished?’

‘Not till late. Look, Jen, I’ve really gotta go. Sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow, talk about the weekend. Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

That would have to do. He rang off and I stood for a while, feeling flat, while the traffic lights went through their sequence two, three times. I thought, should I ring him back and ask where
exactly in Blacon the meeting was? Drag myself over there and sit beneath flickering strip lights while some strange woman railed about privilege and corruption? Might it be worth it to see my
boyfriend? The answer was no, not this evening. It was a hug I’d been after, not a lecture. I could walk down to the river, though, past his house. Buy a snack from the late-night newsagent.
Eat it looking out over the water.

I nipped over the crossroads and made my way in the direction of the Old Dee Bridge. There was Owen’s house, with its Georgian frontage and fan-shaped glass over the wide front door. There
was the cobbled courtyard, steps, the iron railing, hanging baskets: a genteel space in the heart of the city. I cast a longing look now at the top storey. At the same moment, my mobile began to
buzz. I scrabbled for it hopefully.

‘Owen?’

‘It’s Mum.’

‘Oops. I meant to ring and let you know I’d be late. Sorry. Were you worried where I was? It’s just, I’ve had the worst day, that bloody woman sprung a load of extra work
on me and she knew I had an assignment, but luckily the American quilters I had to interview were really quick or I’d never have managed it—’

‘Jenny, we need you here.’

‘Yeah, I’m on my way. But I’m going to grab a muffin first because I’m starving, then I’ll be—’

‘No, straight home, love. I need you to help me with Helen.’

Her voice sounded strained, teetering on that knife-edge between apology and command.
Honestly, sweetheart, only if it’s no trouble, but if you don’t do what I’m asking
right this minute I’ll never speak to you again.
I’m too familiar with that tone. And I remember some of the Helen situations we’ve had before: Mum discovering a strip of
laxatives hidden inside a book, the Bank Holiday weekend when the bathroom scales stopped working, the time I accidentally broke Hel’s special plate. In a normal family none of these would
have been an issue.

‘Right, fine. I will just buy a snack from the newsagent though because—’

‘Jenny, please. We need you now.’

That high-pitched note of panic, like the singing of a wine glass about to shatter. There’s no arguing when she’s that near the edge. Hel says boo and we all jump.

When I got home the curtains were drawn, even though it was light outside. This was our drama and no one else was allowed to watch. Hel was squeezed deep into a corner of the
sofa, as if she wanted to disappear down the crack between the cushions. Dad was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he’d had his say then taken himself off somewhere, out of the way. Mum stood in
front of the TV, her arms folded.

‘What do you think?’ she said before I’d even sat down.

‘About what? You have to give us a clue.’

‘Helen. She claims to have a job. A job!’

I glanced across at my sister, who shrugged.

But indignation was already rising from my mother like steam. ‘A job, and we knew nothing about it. Nothing. It’s all been arranged behind our backs. Not a word. All done in secret.
That’s what bothers me here. And do you know who gave her a reference? Mr Wolski. Tadek Wolski! So she’s gone ahead and confided in her ex-teacher, yet she didn’t think to breathe
a word to us. That’s nice, isn’t it?’

I settled myself on the arm of the chair and looked at Hel. She had on her mask-face – no expression other than one of complete detachment. I can’t tell whether she uses it because
she knows it winds Mum up, or if that’s genuinely how she feels. Above and beyond us all.

‘What sort of job is it?’ I ventured.

‘What sort of job? I’ll tell you. Something that I’d never have let her anywhere near if she’d taken the trouble to consult us first.’

My mind boggled. Whatever could my sister have in mind? Mercenary? Prostitute? One of those guys who cleans the windows at the very top of skyscrapers? ‘Elephant sperm collector,’ I
imagined Ned saying, and that very nearly started me giggling, which would have probably meant my mother driving me out of the family forever.

‘Cut the dramatics, Mum. It’s a kennel maid,’ said Helen to me. ‘I want to work at an animal rescue centre.’

‘What, with cats and dogs?’

‘No, with performing fleas.’

‘OK. Keep your knickers on.’

‘Please don’t use language like that, Jenny,’ said Mum.

‘She started it.’

I thought, if only Owen hadn’t been going out I could’ve been round at his now, sipping cold cider and listening to music. Away from this.

Mum tried again. ‘Helen, tell your sister what they want you to do at this centre.’

‘Clean up, feed the animals. Look after them. Try to rehome the ones who—’

‘Which would be fine,’ broke in Mum, ‘except this kennels or rescue place or whatever they call it, can you imagine what a distressing place it must be? When the animals are
brought in hurt and abused, and then they don’t get better, and then they . . . they don’t get better. How’s that going to make you feel?’

‘Upset, for a few days. Then I’ll move on. Focus on the ones who are healthy, the ones we’ve helped.’

‘But think what state you got yourself in when Toffee died!’

Toffee, king of the cavies. I must have been about nine when he went to guinea pig heaven. A large brown and white boar who ran away whenever I tried to stroke him, but who’d wheek at
Helen as soon as she appeared and stand up on his hind feet to be fed. He’d been a good pet on the whole, but he let us down majorly by having a heart attack right at the start of
Helen’s worst period, when letters of concern were coming from school and Mum was starting to make appointments with health professionals. The death of Toffee had triggered Old
Testament-scale mourning. Helen had cried for days.

Now Mum came over and sat on the chair arm next to me. ‘Jenny, you can see why I’m worried, can’t you? Back me up here.’

‘When Toffee died I wasn’t myself,’ argued Helen. ‘I was a teenager, it was a different time. I’m recovered.’

And I thought,
Are you, though? Are you recovered? How far along the spectrum do you have to be to say you’re cured?
Even that morning I’d seen her putting low-fat spread on
a Ryvita. Scrape it on, scrape it off, reapply, remove a bit more, adjust, refine, scrutinise. No actual eating allowed till the application looked to be exactly the right thickness. Just watching
her made me exhausted.

‘But is it worth the risk?’ Mum went on. ‘Believe me, I’m not just blocking you for the sake of it—’

‘You’re not blocking me at all, Mum. This whole thing is ridiculous. Physically I’m fine. Dr Gerard said that last month; you were there, you heard him. My BMI’s healthy,
my bone density’s passable. You said yourself it was good news. And I need to get into the world and exercise my practical mind. I’ve done enough academic studying. I’ve more A
levels than I know what to do with. But mainly, I can’t stay holed up in here with you forever.’

‘We’re not expecting you to. Of course you have to make your way in life. We want to support you in that, you know we do. But can you not pick something more suitable? Something less
. . . disturbing? Your dad’ll help you look for a job, he knows people.’

On the wall behind Mum’s head hung her wedding photo. There she’d been, a glowing twenty-something bride, with no idea what deep lines were going to score themselves around her mouth
and chin over the next three decades. Everything about today’s contours said disappointment, weariness, frustration. She might keep herself smart, have her hair dyed professionally, but the
years had done for her skin. It was as if she was collapsing in on herself.

Helen sat up straight, her eyes blazing.

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Can’t you see how mean you’re being? I went out and got this position on my own. I checked through the small ads, I applied, I had an interview, I
won it fair and square. My first ever job. Paid employment. It was my idea, my effort. I had no help from anyone.’

‘Apart from that Mr Wolski.’

‘I thought you’d be proud!’

‘Well, we are—’

‘Looks like it.’

Mum turned to me. ‘I give up. This is what we’ve had all evening. She’s deliberately missing the point. Talk some sense into her, Jen. She might listen to you.’

That nearly made me laugh out loud. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘Well she doesn’t listen to
me
.’

My sister sighed and slumped against the cushions.

I said, ‘You really want my view on this?’

‘Yes,’
said Mum.

‘OK then. For what it’s worth, I actually think the kennels placement is a good idea.’ Her eyes widened at the betrayal, but I carried on regardless. ‘Hel’s right,
she’s got to find something to do at some point or other, and better if she starts with a job she’s keen on rather than one that’s been thrust on her. What she’s chosen here
isn’t anything high-powered, there’s no huge expectations or responsibility – I’m guessing it’s going to be mainly filling dog bowls and poop scoops, yeah? – and
despite your concerns, Mum, I reckon it’ll be quite an upbeat place. She’ll be working alongside people who help animals get better, and they’re bound to be a supportive bunch.
And there’ll be success stories every day, pets being rehomed, getting healthy again. It could actually be quite therapeutic for her.’