Tell Me No Secrets (17 page)

‘You've been over twice already.'

‘Yes, but I want to be there full-time. As his wife.' I smile into the mirror and swish the skirt of the dress one way and then the other. ‘Can you imagine, Mum? We can pop down to New York for weekends and everything.'

‘Yes, yes. Although God knows your father will miss you.' She has her dressmaking pins on a strap around her wrist. She takes a couple out and tucks in the bodice. ‘You're much thinner than I was. I hope Paul knows how difficult you are with food.'

‘You will both come and visit me, won't you?'

‘On a plane? I'm not sure your father would agree to that. We're quiet people, Grace. Not ones to make a fuss. You know that.'

I let it go, decide that I'll work on my dad later.

Paul and I are married on 15 April 1987. When I see him standing at the altar, all the love songs in the world fall short of what I feel. The ceremony is profound, permeated with the love that passes from his eyes to mine and back again. The reception is small – just close family and friends. Mo and Angus are there but Euan is not. He is at university in Bristol studying architecture. ‘Exams,' Mo told me. ‘But he sends his good wishes.'

I can see in her eyes that this isn't true but still I smile because, strangely, it doesn't hurt. I belong to Paul now. And he to me. I feel different. More grown-up, certainly, but also a fuller, better person, someone who has a clearer sense of direction and of herself. For the first time since Rose died I believe I have a future and that, at last, I am truly making it better.

8

By the time I get to Edinburgh it's already well past midday. A search through the telephone directory confirms that there's only one Murray Cooper living in Merchiston, in a detached, early Victorian house, one of only a few that hasn't been divided up into separate apartments. I park on the street and walk between two stone pillars, anchors for the iron gates that swing wide into the rhododendron bushes either side. A gravel driveway sweeps around to the entrance. An estate car has the driver's side open and a golf bag resting next to the boot. The front door is part wooden, part stained glass in the style of Rennie Mackintosh: a single red poppy with green leaves on an opaque beige background. My fingers feel along the copperfoil squares at the edges of the panel before I ring the doorbell. It sounds a prolonged ding-dong and a balding man with ruddy cheeks comes almost immediately, steps into the porch and closes the inner door behind him then opens the outer one, stares at me, says nothing.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you but I'm looking for Angeline. I wonder whether she might be home?'

‘And you are?'

‘Grace Adams. My maiden name was Hamilton. I was a friend of Orla's.'

‘Ah.' He absentmindedly scratches the protrusion of fat around his middle then points a hand towards the car. ‘I'm off out for a round of golf but I expect that Angeline will be free for a chat. Come inside.'

I follow him into the hallway. Black and white tiles stretch to the bottom of the wide stairs and beyond. A glass cupola provides natural light that fills and warms the space.

‘You say you were a friend of Orla's?'

‘As children, yes.'

‘I expect she's alienated you too then, has she? With all her antics? I can't imagine what Angeline did to deserve such a daughter.' He tips his head to one side. ‘But judging by the father I suppose it's hardly a surprise.'

I wonder whether I've heard him correctly but before I can ask, we are interrupted.

‘Murray?' The voice is melodic but with a commanding undertone, unmistakably Angeline. ‘Do we have company?'

‘Indeed we do.' He holds on to the walnut banister and calls up. ‘A young lady friend of Orla's. Grace is her name.'

‘Grace?' Angeline comes to the top of the stairs and stands there. ‘Grace?' She takes the steps quickly, elegantly, considering the height of her heels. Her face lights up. ‘Look at you!' She throws out her arms and kisses the air either side of my cheeks. ‘Aren't you looking fine!' She steps back and examines my eyes, my skin and down my body before coming back up to my face. She lifts the ends of my hair, rubs them between her fingers. ‘You know I have a fabulous hairdresser.' She touches my forehead. ‘And it's never too early to start with some simple cosmetic work.' She leans in closer and slips her arm through mine. ‘It's a woman's obligation to keep herself attractive.'

‘Thank you, but I'm happy as I am.' I can't help smiling. She looks almost exactly as I remember her and I'm catapulted back to ten years old again: chumming Orla home from school, dressing up in Angeline's old blouses and scarves, singing and tap dancing our way around the house, Angeline leading the way; chopping vegetables in the kitchen, learning how to make ratatouille, how to roast a duck and make authentic fish stock for bouillabaisse. And then the holiday in Le Touquet where she disappeared for two whole days, Roger and Orla steadfastly pretending everything was normal, everything was fine, nobody worried except me.

She is still beautiful, her bone structure is strong, her nose straight, her eyes as deep as her daughter's. Her clothes are classic, understated. She is wearing a simple, black cocktail dress and black suede stilettos. Delicate pink pearls lie around her throat. Her lipstick, though, is bold, the same pillar-box red that I remember.

‘You've met Murray?' She gestures manicured nails towards him. ‘We've been married almost five years now.'

‘Each one happier than the last,' he says, staring intently at his wife as if alert for his next cue.

‘Murray was in insurance but now he's retired. We love to travel. Three journeys abroad already this year.' She lets go of my arm and takes hold of his instead, smiling up into his face before turning back to me. ‘Are you still living in Fife, Grace?'

I nod. ‘Still in the village.'

‘Fife has some excellent golf courses. Do you play?' Murray asks.

I shake my head.

‘Husband?'

‘Yes, I have a husband but no, he's not a golfer.'

‘Pity. Waste.' He purses his lips. ‘Would like to move up that way myself but Angeline has too many unhappy memories.' He pats her hand. ‘Not all men are meant to be faithful.'

I try to catch Angeline's eye but she is busy with the collar of Murray's polo shirt.
What has she been saying?
Roger, with his tartan braces and endless patience for the low-key rhythms of family life – I can't imagine any man less inclined to adultery. ‘I don't follow,' I say.

She turns her back to me. ‘Murray, my darling, enough chatter! You will be late.' She steers him towards the door, hands him his golf shoes, his car keys and bundles him outside. He waves a hand backward in my direction and allows himself to be settled into the car, hair smoothed down, both cheeks and then his mouth kissed.

I watch them and think about Roger, salt of the earth, hard-working. He was kind, respectful, a quiet man who was bowled over by his exotic wife – a wife who never held back when it came to showing off. As a child I loved her exuberance, her caution-to-the-wind behaviour that so directly opposed my own parents' take on life, but standing here now, I see how much she exerts her will.

She waves Murray to the end of the drive then comes back inside.

‘Roger wasn't unfaithful, was he?'

‘There is more than one way to be unfaithful, Grace.' She wipes her feet and offers me her knowing look, the one that used to hold me in her thrall. ‘He didn't give me the life he promised me.'

I look around. Half of my home could fit into Angeline's hallway and with Edinburgh house prices as they are, this property has to be worth more than a dozen of mine. ‘Because he didn't earn enough?'

‘I like powerful men, Grace. Men who are successful. Money is a part of that. I make no secret of it.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘But? But?' Her tone slides from melodic to clipped. ‘Is it a crime for a person to reinvent herself? Or is the crime success itself, perhaps?'

‘I don't mean to criticise,' I say, backtracking now, mindful of why I'm here. ‘It's just that I remember Roger as a good man.'

‘But memory can be faulty, don't you find? And there are so many things that children don't see.' She walks ahead of me and I follow her into a square sitting room with French doors leading into the back garden. The walls are painted a sunflower yellow and the carpet is a subtle shade of blue. A large painting hangs above the fireplace. Simple, wide brushstrokes suggest an African landscape at sunset, the outlines of stalking cats in the foreground, retreating wildebeest moving into the distance.

‘So what brings you here?' she says.

‘I had lunch with Orla earlier in the week and last night she came to the village to see me.'

‘Well! And I thought she'd gone on her retreat.' She makes a tutting noise with her tongue. ‘She was always unreliable. Entirely selfish. Sit down, Grace.'

I sit down on a cream leather sofa that swallows me into its middle. Holding on to the arm, I pull myself forward and perch on the edge. ‘I came here to ask you about her.'

She sits opposite me on a high-back chair and holds herself straight. ‘Why?'

‘She could potentially make a lot of trouble for me.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

I hesitate, look up at the chandelier then back at Angeline. ‘It's complicated.'

‘So complicated that you can't explain it to me?'

I try to smile. ‘She knows something about me that could ruin my life. She is planning on telling the one person who will be most hurt by it.'

‘Your husband?'

‘Yes.'

She inclines her head. ‘She knows that you are unfaithful to him?'

‘Worse than that.' I briefly close my eyes. ‘Much worse than that.'

She is frowning. She crosses one ankle over the other. ‘You have children?'

‘Two girls.'

‘A mother will do anything for her children. You can judge me harshly—'

I go to speak but she holds up her hand.

‘
Ça ne fait rien
. A mother will go to the ends of the earth for her child, dirty her hands, sell herself even if that's what it takes. I stuck with Roger because of Orla. Whatever my mistakes – and there were many – I tried to be the best mother I could.'

‘I'm sure you did, Angeline.' I'm not about to argue that point. ‘I just wondered whether you could help me understand Orla. Now. What's brought her back to Scotland? Why she wants to rake up the past? Is she really joining a convent?'

She shakes her head impatiently. ‘Her head is full of nonsense. She has a mind to exorcise the past. But she'll come round.' She strokes a hand across her skirt, removes some imaginary fluff. ‘Eventually.'

‘Eventually won't be soon enough.' My voice wavers and I take time to breathe then lean further forward. ‘She is coming to the village next Sunday and says she will tell my husband what I did. I can't stress how damaging this will be for my family. Is there any way you can talk to her for me?'

‘No.'

‘No?'

‘No.' She sits back.

‘Angeline.' I steady my hands on my knees. ‘I would never have come here if I wasn't desperate. I'm appealing to you as a woman and as a mother.'

She thinks about this, looks up at me through eyelashes that are long and sleek and curled up at the ends. They have to be false. ‘Shall we have coffee?'

‘Please.' I feel like I've been given a stay of execution and when she leaves the room I stand up, start to walk the floor, moving around occasional tables and ornaments. A grand piano has pride of place close to the French doors. Photograph frames are arranged across its lid. A younger Murray with three girls: a smiling toddler holding a watering can, a teenager with braces on her teeth and an awkward tilt to her body, another girl doing a cartwheel. Three wedding photos, the same girls grown-up: off-the-shoulder dresses, tiaras, laughing bridesmaids, bouquets, new husbands in kilts. Then there's Murray and Angeline's wedding: people all around them, sunshine, a horse and carriage, electric smiles. I look closely at the family and friends' faces but Orla isn't there.

Angeline comes back with the tray. ‘We honeymooned in Turks and Caicos. Have you ever been there?'

‘Orla isn't in your wedding photos,' I say, this time sitting on a hard-backed chair to the side of Angeline.

‘No.' She pours coffee from the pot into two bone-china cups with wide brims. ‘She wasn't able to make it.'

‘Oh?'

‘Life is a series of choices, Grace. Sometimes we go right and sometimes we go left. But always we need to be moving forward. Orla does not have a talent for this.' She lifts the jug and holds it poised over my cup. ‘Cream?'

‘Thank you.'

‘She made an enormous fuss when we left Scotland. She wrote to you, you know?'

I nod.

‘But you never wrote back.'

I say nothing. I refuse to feel guilty about that too. After all, Orla wasn't even the one who killed Rose – it was me. I was the one who had to live in the same community, walk the same streets, feel Rose's presence both day and night and carry it still to this day, the secret lurking in my blood like a cancer.

‘Does she have any proof?'

I keep my tone light. ‘Proof of what?'

Angeline takes a sip of her coffee, returns the cup to the saucer and draws her back up straight. ‘You strike me as a woman of experience, Grace. Would you say honesty is always the best policy?'