Tell Me No Secrets (21 page)

‘It was exactly the same spot.'

‘Coincidence.'

‘I know what happened to Rose.' She shakes me off. ‘There is absolutely no doubt in my mind. None.'

The room is growing darker. The sun is now fully hidden behind clouds that cover the sky and cast murky shadows on the walls. I pull my cardigan together and do up the buttons. ‘What happened to your husband?'

She shrugs. ‘What's it to you?'

‘I'm curious.'

‘It didn't work out.'

‘How come?'

‘We weren't suited. Sometimes that happens, doesn't it?' Her voice thickens. ‘It seemed like we were compatible. We were both half French. We both loved rock music. He was sexy.' She pauses. ‘We knew each other three weeks and were married in Las Vegas. It felt overwhelming, exciting. We were together a year before it dawned on me that he wasn't all he seemed.' Her eyes slide away from mine. ‘That's it. There's nothing more to say.'

‘And the drugs? And the prison sentence?' I say quietly.

She starts back but recovers almost immediately. ‘Congratulations. You really have done your homework. Euan's idea, was it?'

‘No, it was my idea. And your mother helped.'

She flinches. It's brief but acute and, in spite of myself, I feel for her. Even now she wants Angeline to put her first.

‘You went to see her?'

‘Yesterday.'

‘She must have been delighted when you turned up! She doesn't dare talk about me to all her posh friends. She is denied the pleasure of gossiping about me because it would reflect badly on her. I am kept out of sight and out of mind.' She is visibly rattled, her foot shaking, her fingers tapping a rhythm on the arm of the sofa. ‘I've no doubt she took great delight in telling you about all the bad men I've chosen over the years. The drug abuse. And then there's my stint in prison. Convenient for her – meant I couldn't visit. And did she visit me, I hear you ask?' She raises her eyebrows. ‘Not once.' She laughs. It's a discordant sound that makes me recoil. ‘Kept you away from Murray, did she?'

‘He went out for a round of golf. He's under the impression your father was unfaithful.'

‘I know. My mother as a victim?' Her tone is acerbic. ‘Can there be anything less likely?'

‘I never noticed as a child quite how manipulative she was.'

‘She has a patent on that al—' She stops short, seems to remember that we're not meant to agree on anything.

‘So should I believe your mother?'

‘I don't care what you believe.'

‘Lying about your dad's death. That was . . .' I try to find the right word. ‘Cheap. It was cheap and it was callous.'

‘So? It got you to meet me, didn't it?' She says it without emotion. Her mood has oscillated from pent-up agitation to disengagement. She has the most disconcerting stare – knowing and yet compassionless. It makes me realise that she's not the girl she was. I thought I was dealing with a grown-up version of the girl I once knew – a girl who was impulsive and headstrong, who could lie and cheat but underneath it all had a beating heart. This isn't that girl.

‘I don't remember you like this.' I reach across and shake her knee. ‘What has happened to you?'

‘We all have to choose sides.'

‘What sides?'

‘Right and wrong. If someone does wrong they should be punished, shouldn't they?'

‘Well, yes but—'

‘What do you think, Euan?' she says loudly. ‘Should people get off scot-free?'

‘Rose's death was an accident,' he says. ‘Punishment doesn't always have to be public or direct. There are many ways to make good.'

‘And I have,' I say. ‘I make Paul happy. I do. Telling the truth about what happened to Rose will not serve him well.'

‘Are you entitled to make that decision for him? I wonder, if you were to lose one of your daughters, wouldn't you want to find out who was responsible?'

The thought of losing either of my girls is abhorrent to me. I'm not about to go there. And I won't explore Paul's lingering pain either. It's something that even in my quietest moments, when the family is asleep and I'm curled into Paul's back, I daren't think about.

I change direction. ‘You're not becoming a nun then?'

‘Says who?'

‘Sister Bernadette. No suggestion of it, she said.'

Orla shrugs. ‘So what?'

‘So what you're a liar? So what you're a meddler? So what you don't give a shit about anyone except yourself?'

‘Grace.' Euan rests his hand on mine and I sit back, take a deep breath.

‘Yes! Listen to Euan,' Orla says, a sideways smirk on her face. It makes me want to slap her. ‘He'll keep you right.'

‘What is this about, Orla? Twenty-four years later and you turn up to set the story straight. Why?'

She shrugs. ‘Memories. Past lives. You know how it is.'

‘No. I don't know how it is. I don't know how you get from that to this.'

‘I don't have to explain myself to you.' She looks at Euan. ‘Either of you.'

In my handbag, I still have the photo I took from my parents' wall, the one where Orla and I are dressed in jodhpurs and riding boots, splashed in mud, happy with our rosettes. For six years we were best friends. We spent almost all our free time together. We knew the other's likes and dislikes, could speak for one another and anticipate each other's thoughts. Surely that's still worth something.

‘I brought a photo with me.' I dig around inside my bag to find it. ‘Do you remember this?'

She glances at it and then away again.

‘No, look!' I stretch to put it into her hands. ‘Really look at it.'

I watch her eyes roam over the picture moving from one detail to another.

‘You won that day, didn't you?'

‘We both did.' I point to the rosettes. ‘You over the jumps, me on the cross-country.'

‘Bobbin never had the patience for cross-country. He always stopped to chomp on something.' She hands it back to me. ‘We had some good times.'

‘We did. We really did.' I smile, watch her face harden.

‘But, in the end, we weren't such great friends, were we?'

‘Orla—'

‘My letters.'

‘What letters?'

‘The ones I sent after Rose died. You didn't read them, did you?'

She's right, I didn't read them. She sent about twenty letters in the space of three months – half of them were hand-delivered, and then they moved house and the other half were sent from England. At first I tore them up and tossed the pieces into the wind. Then I didn't even bother doing that. I simply binned them unopened.

‘I took a lot of time over them. I was trying to make it up to you. You should have read them.'

‘Orla . . .' I hesitate. ‘I was really upset. I couldn't get out of bed. I could barely stand. I went about in a daze, terrified that someone was going to find out what I'd done and, at the same time, terrified that they wouldn't and I'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life.' She's looking down at her feet. I almost reach for her hand, then change my mind and screw up my fist on my lap. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't there for you but I wasn't even there for myself! I was like a zombie. Wasn't I, Euan?'

Her eyes flick upwards. ‘Why do you do that? Why do you look to him for verification?'

‘He was there!'

‘You always look at him like he knows and you don't.'

‘He does know me. He has seen me go through it.'

‘I bet he has.'

‘Look! You're not the only one who has a conscience. But telling the truth won't change the outcome. There is nothing to be gained.'

‘I'm looking for redemption. And I will have it.' She stands up. ‘That night, what happened to Rose? It wasn't all about you. We could have helped one another. If you had shown me the slightest concern . . .'

I stand up opposite her. ‘You're doing this to me because twenty-four years ago I didn't read some letters that you sent?' I almost laugh. ‘Christ, Orla! I'm sorry I hurt you.' I clutch my chest. ‘But—'

‘It's too late. I don't need your permission to tell the truth. Or yours.' She throws Euan a malevolent stare. ‘Now fuck off, both of you.'

She leaves the room. Euan is on his feet and after her before I have a chance to react. When I find them in the corridor, he is holding her arm just above the elbow. He is talking quickly, urgently and she listens and then she laughs, spits in his face and says something. He reaches for her throat and pushes her back against the wall. I hear the thud of her head as it ricochets off the stone.

‘Euan!' I try to pull him away from her but it's as if I don't exist.

Their eyes are locked. She doesn't try to remove his hand from around her neck. And she doesn't look scared. In fact, weirdly, she is smiling. After a few moments he lets her go, turns and walks towards the front door.

I am stunned by his sudden aggression and even more by Orla's delight in it and I look to her for an explanation. ‘Orla?'

Her eyes are glowing, bright and lively, as if she's having the best time. It is so at odds with what has just taken place that I back away and at once her attention shifts to Sister Bernadette who is coming towards us from the other direction. ‘I'm so looking forward to Sunday lunch,' Orla says loudly, pulling me into her. ‘Paul and I have such a lot to catch up on.' She kisses my cheek and murmurs, ‘You're not fooling me with your I-love-my-family-more-than-anything crap.' She gestures towards Euan's retreating back. ‘Just think yourself lucky I don't tell Paul about him too.'

I open the door. Euan is standing on the step. He is wearing a dark brown leather jacket and has the collar pulled up around his ears. His hair is longer now and is being blown by the wind. Curls drift across his forehead and back again.

‘Grace,' he says.

I stare at him. His eyes are so blue that I see the summer sky in them.

‘Grace,' he says again and smiles at me.

I can't speak. The truth is I don't want to. I feel completely lost in the moment like I'm dreaming the best dream and if I blink or speak I'll break the spell.

‘Can I come in?' he says.

I move aside and he climbs the steps. As he passes me I breathe in deeply and shut my eyes. We stand in the porch. It's square, less than five feet either side. He smells of the wind and the sea but mostly he smells of himself.

‘Grace?'

I look into his eyes. I feel very brave doing this, like I am about to bungee jump off a bridge. ‘You smell the same,' I tell him.

‘I smell the same?' he repeats then laughs. ‘I suppose I would, wouldn't I?'

I consider him. I drink him in. ‘You look the same.'

‘As I did twelve years ago?'

I nod. We haven't seen each other since we were both sixteen and he went to live in Glasgow.

‘I have some lines now around my eyes.' He smiles. ‘See?'

I nod again.

His hands are in his pockets and he swivels on his heels. ‘Is it okay for us to go in?'

‘Yes.'

He walks through to the back of the house and I follow him. He stops at the kitchen window, looks out over the view. ‘Mum tells me you have twin girls now. Are they here?'

I shiver. I don't mean to. I reach across him and close the open window. ‘Paul's taken the girls up to his parents in Skye,' I tell him. ‘They're due back tomorrow morning. He's very good with them,' I add.

He looks at the mess of paper across the table, lifts one of my charcoal pencils and puts it down again.

‘I was drawing. I was thinking.' I stop, breathe, and try again. ‘I was hoping to draw. I was thinking of organising myself to paint. I want to paint again,' I finish, helpless in front of him.

He leans back against the worktop and crosses his arms. ‘Haven't you been painting?'

I don't answer.

‘You were good. What happened?'

I clear the papers into a tidy pile and shrug. ‘Life, babies.'

‘Do you enjoy your life?'

‘Do you?'

He nods. ‘Yeah. For the most part, I do.'

I avoid his eye, switch on the kettle, empty spoons of coffee into two mugs. I fill them with boiling water, top up with milk and slide along the bench seat, hugging my coffee mug. He sits down opposite me. His left leg touches mine under the table and I move further along.

‘I'm sorry I don't have any biscuits,' I say. ‘I was going to bake some this afternoon but—' I stop and look down into my mug. There's too much milk in it. I push it away. ‘Truth is I'm not much good in the kitchen.' I think about the mess in the rest of the house. ‘I'm not much of a housewife.' I laugh; it sounds shrill and I frown.

‘Do you have any help?'

I screw up my face. ‘Why would I need help? It's perfectly simple. I just have to apply myself.'

‘So why don't you?'

‘Because . . . because . . . I'm tired.' I shrug like it should be obvious.

‘The girls. They're almost four now, right? Do they sleep?'

I nod. Then shake my head. ‘It's not the girls.'

‘What is it then?'

‘What is what?'

He doesn't answer straight away. He just looks at me, like he's disappointed, like I should be pouring my heart out, then and there, all over the table, spilling my guts like a knifed corpse in an abattoir.