A Secret Life Read online

  ‘Teo,’ said Frank abruptly. ‘You remember a tall guy, Friday night? Tall skinny guy?’

  Matteo turned his big head and looked at Frank reflectively. He frowned, taking his time. Eddie had a fondness for Matteo, and Frank found himself wondering if maybe he came in handy beyond his duties on the Cinq’s doorstep before dismissing the idea. Eddie was a landlord, he wasn’t a gangster.

  Matteo was a bit slow, maybe he had taken a few punches before he got this big, Frank did wonder. He did know how to treat customers and you couldn’t do that, if you didn’t pay attention to who was who – coming in, going out – and what they might be up to. And if the guy had stuck in Frank’s mind, chances were—

  ‘Maybe with a couple of women? Leaving with them?’ he persisted.

  Matteo reached for his sweat-towel, mopping his forehead delicately.

  It took him a while: Frank had shifted forward on the bench ready to give up and go when finally Matteo nodded.

  ‘I see him, sure. No two women, three. ’E leave with them.’ Cockney Italian, Frank’s favourite accent in the world, the voice of the melting pot.

  ‘You know any of the women?’

  Matteo jerked his head back, maybe. Then nodded, took a long pull at his energy drink – how he made the muscles, Frank wouldn’t touch the stuff – and dabbed at his mouth. Fastidious for a big bloke but Italians were like that.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That Holly, I seen her around, since I been here.’ Matteo had arrived in London as a skinny kid from Palermo almost ten years before, working in shops and restaurants till he settled on building muscle. Holding the can loosely between his hands, on the bulk of his thighs. ‘She chat to me, now and then, back when I work at the Capri.’ The Capri was like the Cinq but a bit rougher, down at the Leicester Square end of Soho.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Frank, nudging him. It was like nudging a truck.

  Matteo studied his forearms meditatively. ‘Some lady, they like always to have a man to talk to. You know what I mean? So if she don’t like the look of anyone in the club and her man hasn’t turn up again – she talk to me.’

  ‘Is he her man?’ Frank asked, curious. ‘The tall guy?’

  Matteo shrugged. ‘I never see her guy. She talk about him all the time, he goin’ do this, he goin’ take her there, they goin’ get married but he never turn up, not when I am on the door. So could be. Not my business.’

  ‘Huh.’ Frank turned it over in his head. ‘Always the same guy?’

  ‘She don’t come so much to the Cinq, and Eddie don’t want me talking to clients, so I don’ know no more – but that was what it sounded. Same guy on and off, for years.’ The dent of a frown appeared briefly in his big impassive face, at the thought of some crazy women, maybe.

  ‘But the guy last Friday night left the club with them.’ Waiting for more. ‘The skinny guy.’

  Matteo looked up, mild again. Thought a long moment and finally said, ‘Yes.’ Set down his can, folded his sweat towel with care. ‘He get in a minicab with them.’

  That was an idea: Frank turned it over in his head: he felt something squeeze inside him as the picture materialised. Two of them had had wedding rings on, not that Holly, mind, and what did he think he was going to get up to with three women? Unless he was Holly’s man and she’d talked them into something pervy. He shifted on the bench at the thought of them crowded into a minicab: at the thought of her. Georgie. Pressed up against the skinny guy, uncomfortable, the martinis making her soft and dreamy, unprepared.

  The bar had been packed by the end of the evening, and she’d been dancing. Getting into the dancing, with her girls. And when she settled for a breather she hadn’t come back to the bar so Frank lost track. There’d been the usual clamour, girls pounding on the bar for Cosmopolitans, endless pints for the lads. By the end of the evening anything a foot back from the bar always turned into a blur. Not his fault.

  And besides, he’d seen Holly since, so there was nothing to feel bad about. But he did. He felt bad.

  Because he had glimpsed her, late in the evening. At the far end of the bar, the door end, her hand had lifted, fluttered and he hadn’t seen her again. If she’d been saying goodbye, he hadn’t registered it.

  And if he’d known. The tall skinny guy had a look about him, like he knew what he was about, one leg down off the barstool, biding his time. Ready to make his move.

  He leaned back against the brickwork, feeling the sweat patch the back of his T-shirt. Still hot out.

  ‘So you didn’t know the guy?’ he asked, just casually, and Matteo leaned his big head back against the peeling paintwork of the brick wall, where a hundred heads had rested. Gazing off into nowhere, he had long lashes for a big bloke, just a touch of the feminine. And then Matteo shrugged, and leaned forwards, elbows on his knees.

  ‘Just a suit, they all look the same, don’t they? English men, all look the same to me.’

  Frank nodded, saying nothing. Not to me, he thought. Frank would know the guy, if he saw him again. Beside him Matteo raised his head, still sweating. A big man took a while to cool. ‘Is a problem with him?’

  Frank pondered a moment, as to whether to confide, and decided against it. Confide what? He clapped a hand on Matteo’s big shoulder and got up to go. ‘Nah, forget it,’ he said. ‘See you later, mate.’

  Out on the street there was a wind, cold in gusts, colder suddenly than it had been even before he went into the gym. Leaves were coming off in Soho Square. Frank stopped to check his phone, looking up into the sky as he listened to his answerphone. Eddie didn’t do text messages. There was a lot of cloud scudding across bright blue, behind the forests of scaffolding, the hoardings on half-demolished buildings.

  Come up here will you Frankie? To the house. I got a job for you. Quick as you can mate.

  All very easy, all very laidback, that was Eddie. Except when he said quick, he meant, now.

  When Georgie woke, Tim had already gone. She knew straight away, it wasn’t just the quiet, she always knew, it was as if the whole house relaxed, all his systems turned to default silence, the hi-fi speakers in the kitchen, the hum of the heating. She sat up in a hurry, as if she’d done something wrong.

  Whispering at the photocopier. Lying about the flowers. She had done something wrong.

  All right, she told herself. You don’t have to go. Because she realised part of the feeling was to do with London and the trip with Tabs, tomorrow. The memory of it, of the fever of sudden, inexplicable excitement in which she’d planned it, the way she’d proposed it to Tim not quite telling the truth, all made Georgie feel slightly sick.

  ‘Tabs?’ Silence. Georgie sat back against the headboard.

  Don’t go. Stay away. But the reason she should stay away was the same reason she wanted to go. London. Where it happened. Where he was, drinking his coffee in a bar in Soho, maybe. Thinking about her.

  She’d already told Tabs they were going. She made herself think. Around her the quiet house began to reassure her. She didn’t have to decide now. Tabs might forget.

  And on cue she heard the door to Tabs’ room creak, the feet soft on carpet on the landing, a little intake of breath, a little humming. A surreptitious click and she knew that Tabs was at the control panel for the speaker system, she loved playing with it, making the radio come on in the bathroom, filling the house with noise. It drove Tim mad: Georgie tried to excuse it, when he shouted up the stairs to Tabs, raging, Stop messing about with it, you’ll break it. But she couldn’t tell him what she knew to be behind the obsession, which was that Tabs was lonely. ‘It’s my sister,’ she’d said solemnly once to Georgie, when singing came from the bathroom.

  The crackle of voices came from downstairs, and even knowing he wasn’t there, the sound made Georgie uneasy.

  ‘Tabs?’ This time Georgie was out of bed and on the landing in time to see her dressing gown flying round the corner at the bottom of the stairs and into the kitchen. She stopped at the control panel to turn the radio off. You
could do it from your phone – or Tim could, anyway. It occurred to her that one of the things he didn’t like was that at five, Tabs understood the technology better than he did.

  Perched on a stool in the kitchen, Tabs had already poured herself some cereal, another thing she wasn’t allowed to do when Tim was here. She must have known as instantly as Georgie had that they were alone in the house. There was a slop of milk on the counter. Georgie came up behind her, hugging, breathing in her hair, and saw a little stack of cans on the floor beside the store cupboard. Beans and peaches and tomatoes: and then she remembered that today was harvest festival.

  ‘Tabs,’ she murmured into her soft fragrant hair. ‘Clever girl.’

  The school was already full of it when they got there, the commotion that went along with every occasion, the harvest art display moved to prominence, year fives dressing up as sheaves of corn, a big cardboard box in reception filling up, and Sue’s dry expression. She’d already seen twenty harvest festivals.

  At eleven they all filed out, in coats: it was colder again today, and half the children were in gloves. The little church at the far end of the village was where they held all the religious observances, and as a C of E school there were a few of them. Candlemas and Easter and carol services: it was an old church, or some of it was, five hundred years old, built when this was a long way from London, when it was proper countryside and silent.

  Carrying a cardboard box each holding the offerings that would go to the old people’s home in the town – the town where the station was, where Tim’s office was, that in truth was joined to the village by a thread of bungalows – Sue and Georgie brought up the rear of the procession. They wound through the village past the handful of original buildings – a thatched cottage, the manor house, a row of Victorian cottages – glimpsing the rest, the little housing developments, closes and lanes, houses all separate from each other, swathed in hedges, screened by garages. And then the church was there and up ahead Georgie could see Tabs at the front of the line, being asked to open the gate. They waited.

  The graveyard was full of old stones, tilting and mossy, and beyond it the forest: you could see just what it would have been like, a hundred, two hundred years ago, only the sound was different. Only the soft roar of traffic. And of course once you were round the woodland the whole other forest of glittering glass and tower blocks would come into view – but today, in the new bright cold, with the crocodile of children obediently filing through the gate, holding hands however reluctantly in their grey and red uniforms, it might have been Victorian times.

  It was why they had moved here, out of London, she and Tim, the old-fashioned values, the blazered uniforms, the neat verges. It had seemed so safe here when they got here, ten years ago. So quiet. They trooped inside and heads turned: the church was already full of parents, and it was stuffy though outside it was cooler, at last. They said it was going to get cold tonight.

  There was a stir, suppressed excitement among the children as they saw their parents, the parents waving, covertly taking photographs. Tim should be here. Last year he had been, standing up in his pew to photograph Tabs, getting pissed off when they told him he couldn’t. Proud dad. Five minutes of shuffling and at last they were all seated and Georgie risked a quick look round.

  The rows of faces: of course by now she knew most of them by sight, if not by name. She knew those two, Maya Jason’s mum and Kyle Roberts’ mum, inseparable in the playground, yummy mummies if you believed in that kind of thing. Georgie fervently didn’t want to believe it. They were both wearing the uniform, tight jeans and soft pale sweaters with discreet gold jewellery and expensive padded jackets – and as her glance snagged on them, exactly at that moment Maya’s mum turned and whispered to Kyle’s, her eyes on Georgie. Georgie’s hands went instinctively down to tug at the comfortable old dress she’d put on, to herself, the tummy she’d never got rid of since having Tabs. She turned quickly, so she didn’t have to see them, but it was as if she could hear someone whispering even from here, a buzz in her ears.

  Sometimes she thought it was about the IVF, sometimes she imagined everyone knew. Not just imagination, either: Maya, year three, had once asked her. Miss. Miss. Did your baby grow in a test tube, Miss? Asked quite innocently, it hadn’t been in class, to make everyone laugh, it had been at lunch, when Georgie had been helping serve and only the school mum helping that day – Georgie had endeavoured to forget her name since – had heard, moving her head quickly so Georgie couldn’t see her face.

  Georgie was fairly sure they thought of her as less than them: Maya’s mum, Kyle’s mum. Was that why? They all liked Tim. He was good-looking in his suit, his hair cut short, he was charming. Last year, he was Father Christmas. They clustered round him at fundraisers, though he hadn’t been to many lately. Georgie wanted to turn round again, quick, to catch them, but she resisted. She was proud of Tim. It was just that – they didn’t know. There was more to him.

  They looked at her as if they would like to be in charge of her kitchen, they’d be able to keep the crumbs from collecting under the toaster.

  The service dragged, even more than usual, an endless procession of children each with their cake tin or bag of pasta collected from the cardboard box to be taken to the altar and deposited in a big cloth-lined hamper, for show. It would all go back in the boxes for transportation to the old people’s home. Two hymns. Three. Covertly Georgie looked down into the bag to see if there was anything. Messages, on her mobile.

  She should go and see Cat, not just phone her.

  No messages, from anyone. Surreptitiously pushing the phone back down she saw the little leather box and flipped it open cautiously with one finger. The remaining earring sparkled up at her from the white satin lining, the London jeweller’s name in gold on the satin: she could go in there, maybe and ask, if they could make her another? Hatton Garden. She had a bit of money in her own account: Tim gave her cash and she put some by some months. The earring was bigger than she remembered and the thought of cleaning out her savings made her sigh. Beside her Sue gave her a glance and hurriedly she squirrelled the box back down into the depths of her untidy handbag.

  Head up. Eyes front. Another thought came to her: a long shot but. She could go back to the club and ask. That nice barman, ask him. Frank. Had that been his name or had she just made it up, because of Frank Sinatra? The idea settled her, it was almost a warm feeling, the thought of going in there and he’d smile, he’d remember her, the girl from Brockley Rise. He’d probably shake his head straight after, sorry darling, but somehow that didn’t matter. He’d be nice.

  And then there was the commotion of everyone getting up and they were leaving at last, eyes front.

  At lunchtime with her lunchbox in front of her – ham and mustard, her favourite and because Tim was gone she’d put butter on too, but they tasted of sawdust – Georgie was sitting on one of the playground benches bundled up against the new chill in her scarf when the phone rang. It was quiet because the children were inside eating, but soon they’d be out, shrieking and wheeling around her. The screen told her it was Tim. She snatched it up.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he said. In that moment the word sounded odd on Tim’s lips, it sounded soft and romantic and then things shifted and it was just one of those words he used for her.

  ‘I’m on the motorway,’ he said and Georgie heard the hollow sound that meant the phone was on speaker. Tim was always careful when he was driving. ‘Sorry not to say goodbye,’ he said, ‘you were spark out.’ Merrily. ‘Snoring away.’

  Georgie pushed her lunchbox aside. ‘I wasn’t,’ she said, stupidly upset by the idea. She could imagine him, in the cream leather of his car’s interior in his suit, laughing about her. Kindly – of course. Kindly. And then he was being kind. ‘No, sweetheart, of course you weren’t.’ There was a silence, she said nothing to fill it, knowing she should laugh too. Then Tim said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’ When she still said nothing, Sulking? Acting like a child, but he didn’
t say that, ‘Georgie?’

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been looking tired. I do notice, you know.’

  ‘Have I?’ She could hear herself, her voice faint, frightened.

  ‘Well, not – still my beautiful wife of course, just – I thought I’d like to treat you. A weekend at a spa, something like that?’ When she said nothing he kept going. ‘I’d have Tabs or – or she could stay over with a friend again. One of those places with saunas and exercise machines, lovely healthy food, all that.’

  Georgie’s hand reached out for the lunchbox and she looked down into it, the yellow butter on her sandwich. ‘Yes,’ she said obediently. ‘That’d be lovely. Thank you.’ Automatically. She repeated it in her head, so thoughtful, so considerate, but she felt almost on the edge of tears at the thought.

  The double doors to the hall burst open and they streamed out, a pack of boys breaking off with a football. She’d dreamed of Italian cities or Indian temples or blue seas, waking up in a sunlit bedroom with Tim, Tabs playing in the sand. She supposed it might be nice, a spa. Towelling dressing gowns and massage and diets. Maybe she would feel better after it. Maybe she’d come home glowing, and ready for the new start.

  Tim’s voice broke in. He was still talking, kind, solicitous, but the subject had changed. ‘Did something happen?’ he said. ‘When I was leaving I saw a dent on your car.’

  ‘What? No – is there?’ Georgie tried in panic to remember, where had she been in the car? Bumped against anything? Her mind was a blank.

  ‘You didn’t have a prang, did you? I mean, you’re all right? You didn’t say anything about it last night.’ Concealing impatience, not too well.

  ‘I – I didn’t see a scratch,’ she said. ‘I don’t – I didn’t hit anything. Where? I mean where’s the damage?’

  Tim didn’t seem to be listening. ‘It probably won’t need the whole panel replacing, a couple of hundred maybe, there’s that place near the station—’ She waited until he’d finished. Tim wouldn’t let her take the car in for repair, he always said they could see her coming. Listening and not listening, Georgie felt the approach of something she couldn’t control, a sense of despair. How could she have dented the car? She hadn’t.