A Secret Life Page 7

  When she looked at the phone again, stopping for a cup of tea with Sue halfway through the afternoon she saw she’d missed a call from Tim and opened her call list.

  ‘What?’ said Sue.

  He’d phoned around two, had left a message. She replayed it, distracted. Something about a conference, this weekend, in Bournemouth. ‘Talk about it tonight, OK?’ She hardly listened. Hung up, swiped back to the call list. Stared.

  ‘What?’ said Sue again.

  ‘Nothing,’ Georgie said. ‘Nothing – just—’

  There was a number her phone didn’t know, in the names on her call list.

  She didn’t make calls these days, not much, it was all texting. This was a call she had made to another mobile. At three a.m., last Saturday morning. The hours she had lost, a time she couldn’t remember, a call she knew nothing about, made on her phone.

  Friday night, Saturday morning. Whose number? Whose number was it? How had it got on her phone?

  She stared at the number, her finger hovering over it, and for a moment she was thrown into absolute panic at the thought she had no memory of the phone call, at the sudden irrational certainty that it was Tim she called, even though that wasn’t his number, there was his number at the top of the list. Just the thought of having called him by accident, just the idea, however impossible, of him hearing – whatever it was she had been doing, at three a.m. last Friday night, Saturday morning. She sweated, aware of Sue staring.

  Georgie realised she had no idea what time they’d left the club, if it had been one or two or three. The three of them giggling drunkenly in the taxi? Four. Him too. On the stairs? And then it appeared, a memory so vivid it was almost physical, of her and the man, standing close in the hotel room with the phone between them.

  She put the phone down, carefully, face down, as if it was a bomb that might go off.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said to Sue, brightly, but her heart was fluttering, fluttering, like a bird in her chest.

  It came later, when Georgie had got up to do some photocopying. As if he knew, or she knew, she would be in the corner by the machine on her own, as if he knew, she knew that she needed to take her phone with her now, wherever she went.

  That was how people behaved when they were having affairs: Georgie remembered overhearing that at a PTA meeting, a year five mum divorcing her husband. ‘He never left his phone out, except that once,’ she’d said in triumph. ‘And I saw it on the lock screen.’

  It rang. And she knew, somehow, even before she saw it, that the number, unknown number, would be ringing.

  ‘Hey.’ It was him. It was Mark.

  Chapter Nine

  It was getting late and Frank, standing at the window, open-necked shirt for his day off but still white, still cotton, had just opened a beer when he saw her coming across the road with a man in a suit whose face was turned away, looking back up the street.

  Like Friday night coming back for him.

  After Eddie going on about it, too, Friday night: could that really be why he phoned, on Frank’s day off? Going on what Lucy had told him, Frank had been rude to her about sorting out the men’s bogs on Friday night, when he hadn’t. Eddie needling him about keeping the place running rather than flirting with the clientele until Frank saw what was behind it. Lucy liked to be alpha female all right.

  And now. Dainty, she stepped up on to the kerb, in high-heeled sandals. Holly, he saw the muscle defined in her slim calf. He knew her all right if not her surname, the long-legged one with the wheelie suitcase from Friday night.

  Holly who had been in and out of the club, not often but regular if you like, once every month or so maybe, at the edge of his vision, Holly with a gang from work or Holly kissing someone in the dark. Holly, friend of blonde Georgie. He leaned forward over the window sill, the can dangling from his hand. On the pavement Holly flicked back her hair with a practiced gesture, leaning against the man’s shoulder and it puzzled Frank. How could those two ever have been friends, her and Georgie?

  What did he know about female friendship anyway? A mystery to him. But something about it had bothered him from the off. If he’d seen that Georgie needed looking after, her mates should have helped, but she’d been cut loose. But there was Holly, right in front of him: he just needed to call down. Hey, Holly. That would put the cat among the pigeons, the man would look up, pissed off. And then what? Ask for her friend Georgie’s number? He didn’t need that.

  What did Frank want to know, anyway? That they’d got home all right? Wherever home was. Holly had, after all, hadn’t she? So no need to say anything. He didn’t move though, rested on his elbows on the window sill, looking down.

  He could see the tops of their heads now. Holly arm in arm with some bloke in a suit, he couldn’t see the guy’s face only the faintest thinning patch on top. Frank had an eagle eye for another man’s bald spot: he put his hand up to his own head reflexively. Ruminatively he tipped the can back. He wouldn’t mind being looked at the way Holly looked at her man in his suit, hair or no hair.

  Could be him, couldn’t it? And in that moment Frank decided it was him, the tall guy, the one moving in on them in the dark. So he’d ended up with Holly: that seemed better, to Frank. Two of a kind.

  Now she had stopped, right there below him. Rummaging in her bag. She had got out her phone and looked at it, looked at it some more. Pressed a button on it. Then her attention went back to the bloke, snuggled up to him like he was Marlon Brando.

  Women: Frank thought he’d got the measure of them then he realised he’d got it all wrong. Was he rich, this bloke? Was that why Holly was hanging on to him like that? If he didn’t know better he’d have said it was love, the way she was looking at him.

  Stepping away from the window, for the hundredth time Frank’s thoughts turned back, to last Friday night, uneasy. He couldn’t shake the idea that he should have asked that Georgie what school she’d gone to, where her old man went fishing or whatever. Something, anything: a dozen questions he could ask her if she was in front of him now, like, Did you get home all right? Like, Are you happy?

  But she’d been taking a drink off the tall guy and then old Vince had moved in, in his pork pie hat and had got hold of her. He had been working his moves and Frank had watched her go: pink-cheeked Georgie had kept up, hand held out at waist level for him to take her and spin her, knowing how to turn. That always held his attention, too, a girl who knew how to move. Then the music had stopped and she’d instantly turned awkward and almost tripped over herself, hanging on to the bar, blushing, Vince tipping his hat to her. Old Vince. It hadn’t been Vince who held his hand out to steady her, though.

  That was when Lucy, slipping noiselessly up to the bar for service – she liked a cheeky negroni to sip, behind the velvet curtain – had caught Frank looking at her. Georgie.

  Lucy’d known Holly, they’d had a word or two as she handed in her suitcase so she probably knew who the love interest was. She probably knew Georgie, maybe she even knew the lanky guy who’d managed to muscle in on their evening. Not a lot got past Lucy; if only you could talk to her like a normal human being without her reading everything into it. Without her pouting to Eddie about Frank chatting her up.

  Frank stepped back to the window. They were gone, he didn’t know where, Holly and her man. He didn’t even know why he cared who Holly’s man was, except it was the way she’d put a hand up to ruffle the man’s hair. He’d pulled away slightly, hadn’t he? Frank put his hand up to his own head again, feeling for the crown.

  Lucy’d laugh, especially if he moved on to asking about the other two women, well, one in particular, the one with the golden dress and the beautiful shoulders and the shy look. Frankie’s in love. With a Friday night mum on the lash? And that bloke sitting casual on his barstool, one long leg on the floor, ready to move in.

  Ask Lucy if she’d seen him before because the more he thought about the guy the less he liked it. The way he’d bided his time, watching the women, those three and no other
s, not shifting his attention to anyone else. They had bouncers for that, though, even the Cinq had a bouncer, Matteo from Sicily, built like a brick shithouse, shoulders bulging out of his jacket and only five words of English Frank had ever heard him speak.

  Maybe he’d better ask Matteo. Maybe if Holly walked back round the corner he’d run down and ask her.

  What happened, did you get home all right? and then she’d laugh at him because she was there, wasn’t she? Safe and sound.

  But something felt wrong to him. He leaned there at the window, till his back stiffened and the sky was almost velvety blue, and the crowd outside the pub had spilled on to the street, but they didn’t reappear.

  It was gone eight by the time Tim got home and Georgie had started to go over their conversation again, worrying. Had he heard something in her, some breathlessness?

  ‘You didn’t call me back.’ She’d been in the village shop with Tabs after school when Tim got hold of her eventually.

  What did she have to feel guilty about, anyway? A man she hardly knew had called her to make sure she got home safe. That she was OK.

  Hey. The sound of his voice had been strange and familiar at the same time, she remembered it instantly, soft and intimate and she felt her limbs weak suddenly, she had had to put a hand to the photocopier.

  ‘Hello,’ she whispered. Then, ‘I’m at work.’ Hurried, panicking.

  ‘Oh, God I’m so sorry, look, forget it. I just—’ a laugh, ‘I just found this number on my phone. It is you, isn’t it?’ A delighted sound to his voice.

  Standing with her back to the wall beside the photocopier Georgie didn’t have to say anything. Couldn’t say anything.

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you got back OK – look, I’m really sorry. You get back to work. I just wanted to say it was lovely – you were – it was lovely to meet you. I’ll go now.’

  What had Georgie managed to say? ‘It’s fine, look, ’bye. Thanks.’ Something like that. Then it had been done and no one had heard and she had been standing in the corner by the photocopier staring at her phone and her whole body humming. Humming.

  She’d forgotten to call Tim back. In the shop now, talking to him, she looked around, positioned herself so she felt unobserved, behind the newspaper rack.

  There had been an edge to Tim’s voice. He sounded not quite aggrieved, but curious. Tabs choosing what she wanted for her treat, humming to herself

  ‘Oh, I was—’ the excuse evaded her. The real reason hummed too loud in her head. Her head had been too full, was the truth, too full of other stuff but she wasn’t going to say that. It didn’t seem to matter, though: Tim quickly shifted to indulgence.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, kindly. ‘Did you listen to the message?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Look – this is – it’s my fault, I’d forgotten all about it but I’ve got to go off this weekend, leave Friday, day after tomorrow, that is.’

  ‘Another conference?’ Tabs looked sideways at her raised voice.

  Georgie knew she should be used to it by now, there seemed to be one of these a month. Developments in legislation, stuff like that. Client confidentiality. Tim was careful about client confidentiality. Dinners and speeches and big hotels. But this weekend – she wished he was going to be here. She wanted things to be quiet and normal. She wanted the hum to go away and to sit next to him on the sofa and talk about their day and let it all settle down.

  Tell him about Cat. Cat was what mattered.

  ‘On the South Coast,’ he said, terse and she knew why, because of that plaintive note in her voice.

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ she said, trying to correct it but that was wrong too.

  ‘It’s not going to be a holiday, you know.’ He spoke sharply. He sounded stressed, Georgie realised and she turned in the little shop, this way then that way, not wanting Tabs’ eye, Tabs pressed against the counter and looking up at her with the KitKat clasped in both hands tight as if someone might take it away from her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Georgie realised she was almost whispering and cleared her throat. ‘I know, I know it’s not, it’s just—’ searching for something to say, ‘it’s so long since we went anywhere together.’ Her heart bottomed at the thought, out of the blue, but she couldn’t stop now. ‘I was thinking, maybe one time – maybe I could come too?’ she tailed off into his sudden silence.

  She’d hate it, wouldn’t she? A hotel full of tax accountants. Tim had always been at the glamorous end of his profession, though she knew how Cat would laugh at that thought. He loved a smart hotel, his nice suits, a good car, wine. She could imagine him in his element down there, somewhere with chandeliers in the lobby. A picture was in her head, then of the family room in their King’s Cross fleapit. If Tim could have seen it.

  She swallowed, half wanting to giggle, half terrified. If he’d seen.

  He sighed. ‘No sweetheart, I’m sorry.’ Softening. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’ In a voice she hadn’t heard for a while. The voice she used to hear after a good dinner, Tim coming into the kitchen and kissing her against the cabinets, his hands on her back. Maybe Sunday morning had been a new start. He had been stressed, and Georgie should have taken the initiative, shouldn’t she? In bed.

  Tabs was waiting by the till, Georgie scrabbled for coins, the phone wedged under her ear. They paid and left the shop.

  ‘You will be all right?’ There was something else in his voice. ‘On your own, I mean?’ He was uneasy: this was Tim, worried about leaving her alone. Poor Tim.

  ‘Of course I’ll be all right,’ Georgie said, fishing in her pocket for the remains of her lunchtime sandwich, for Tabs to feed the ducks with. There was a silence, a hesitation, a diffidence: as if there was something he wanted to ask, but couldn’t. She didn’t know what it meant, and then a spark ignited, flared, a second of panic and the memory, of that call, at three a.m. was back. Surely he didn’t – he couldn’t.

  ‘Why?’ she said, before she could stop herself. ‘I’ve been alone before, haven’t I?’

  Tabs was at the edge of the duck pond now, crouched, one hand held out. It wasn’t enough to throw the bread, she wanted the duck to come to her. She could keep still for long minutes, a lifetime, watching intently. She wanted a dog, but Tim said no.

  Nothing happened. Nothing. Georgie had thought she’d put all that away, Friday night behind her, but then he’d called. To say nothing, only checking up on her, only making sure she was safe. And suddenly it was all still there. Like the diamond earring: it was out there, somewhere, those soft dark hours were there, the hours of secret laughter in a hotel room, things she couldn’t remember. Glittering in the dust, under a floorboard, in a dark corner.

  But she knew why there was that tone in Tim’s voice. He knew her too well and he was just worrying, because she was different, she was jumpy, she wasn’t eating, of course he’d noticed. She felt sick. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, putting warmth into her voice. ‘Honestly. See you later.’

  She’d expected him at six, then seven, half past came and went and she felt sure, he knew something. What something? When she heard the car door slam she had readied herself – sorry, sorry – but he was smiling.

  Raising her face to him for the kiss Georgie examined him, but there was nothing. No wariness, no suspicion. He was light on his feet, loosening his tie, cheerful. An arm round her waist, feeling for it, the familiar soft place. Then it slid down, resting on her hip.

  Tabs ran up and flung her arms around his legs and Tim didn’t even go straight to, Have you done your homework? It really was as if he was going on a holiday. As if he’d been worrying about something and it had gone away. Georgie shifted guiltily: she’d made him worried.

  No harm in it. A bit of fun. A phone call. Just being polite, being caring. Forget about it.

  And then he was on the stairs, taking them two at a time and Georgie watching him. She put a hand down, uncertain, to her waist, then her hip, trying to understand what it was he felt, when he put his hand
on her.

  ‘Mummy?’ Tabs was looking up at her, anxious. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She made herself smile. ‘Nothing, sweetheart,’ she said. Because how could you explain this, any of it, to a little girl, five years old? A little girl used to gazing proudly at her own soft smooth tummy, her chubby wrists, how could you explain that sometimes, you didn’t recognise yourself? That one day her body might feel as if it belonged to someone else.

  She tried Holly’s mobile again, standing at the stove while Tabs’ tea was cooking. Waiting, listening to the phone ring, knowing Tim was happy, upstairs, he knew nothing, she felt a bubble of something unexpected – guilty pleasure, excitement – as it rang. She wanted to confide. To Holly. He called me.

  He was nice, wasn’t he? His voice. His smiling eyes as he handed her the glass carefully. Mark. A gentleman – was it Cat said that? Saw them up to their room and she took him back downstairs. She would have thanked him, that was what she would have done. Stumbled back upstairs – or had that been before? He called to make sure she was OK.

  A footstep overhead and the pleasure was mixed with something else, expecting Tim to walk in at any moment and she would have to hang up.

  But he didn’t. The call went to voicemail.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday

  Tim climbed off her, whistling, and bounded into the shower. On the bed Georgie lay very still. The old habit, when they’d been trying, wanting it to work this time and not daring to move. She remembered lying, with a flush on her cheeks, with her legs up one time, resting on the headboard. No need for that any more but she still lay quiet, not moving a muscle.

  A new start. Maybe that was what was happening.

  Way back when, she’d tried to talk to Cat about it. After the miscarriage, which had shocked Georgie much more than she could have imagined. She’d been young – but not too young to know what it was, surely? That it was a natural thing, how many times had she told herself that? Lying in an overheated hospital bed with her belly cramping and her head aching and watching the busy nurses and feeling completely alone, completely empty.