A Secret Life Read online

  And Tim. We can try again, he’d been there saying that straight away, as she got out of the taxi, wobbly, that winter morning after they’d discharged her and she had looked at the stairs up to their flat as if they might have been Everest. And although what he was saying, although the idea of having to feel that way again had horrified her to the roots of her hair, she’d just nodded dumbly. Floundering in the cold sea, you take what you’re thrown.

  It’s a natural thing, it’s just your body working properly. Cat had said that, too, well-meaning, not really understanding. Four and a half months – Georgie hadn’t even been showing. She’d felt it though, sort of knot low down in her belly, in the soft extra flesh that had started to accumulate, the little cushioning that had not, in the end, been any use. It wasn’t true. It had felt like the opposite, nothing natural about it, everything failing to work. It felt like an outrage.

  There had been things she hadn’t been able to tell Cat, things she couldn’t even look straight at herself. Sitting on the bathroom floor with blood streaked down her calf, her back to the door, telling Tim he couldn’t come in. And eventually he had and she’d sat on the loo with the lid closed under her, telling him not to look while he stared at her with that expression.

  Tim had married her. That was what he’d done. Scooped her up, bought her a dress, booked a honeymoon, to stop her dwelling on it. The Maldives for two weeks, lying on a wooden jetty staring down into the bright blue sea at fish flickering in the shadows, feeling the sun burn her. She hadn’t worn suncream and her shoulders had peeled and Tim had been there for that too, rubbing lotion into them, over and over and over. They’d snorkelled and gone for walks along the beach and eaten swordfish looking at the sunset and when she looked at the pictures Georgie could only stare at her empty belly, brown and smooth and round. The trace of a line down it, the brown line, linea nigra, that means a baby.

  She should never have done it. That thought flashed into her head at odd times, at those four in the morning moments – including this morning, as a matter of fact – and then it flickered away, like one of those fish. This morning it had stayed longer, lurking in the shadows, a bigger fish. And then, sometime later, Tim had rolled over and put his hand on her.

  Then there had been years, years and years, of trying and nothing happening when she’d felt a sharp yearning, a nostalgia for it, her few months of being pregnant, when she would find herself in the pregnancy section of bookshops looking up what a four-and-a-half-month – fifteen-week – foetus looked like, putting a finger to the illustration and thinking, my baby. That was my baby.

  Tim had always been there. Helping her keep going, keep trying. Five years of IVF, when her body went on not working, and with every hospital visit, every injection she felt further away from herself. From the self she had liked, loved, taken dancing, given new clothes. When she wanted to scream when he touched her, Stop. Let’s stop. Poor Tim.

  He was back in the room, sliding back the doors of the big wardrobe, and Georgie still hadn’t moved. How long had it taken them to get that wardrobe right? Tim had wanted cherrywood, with maple for the doors, and drawers for his shirts: she’d walking into the living room one time when she heard him calling the interior designer a cunt because she’d specified the wrong finish, and had stepped back out of the door so quickly she’d stumbled. Now he swung out the rail with his ties on, fingering them, preoccupied.

  She felt it slippery between her legs and shifted, uncomfortable. A tiny movement but Tim looked across quickly. Smiling, level. He turned, approaching and Georgie pretended to yawn, because her own smile went a bit wrong, she could feel it; his head went down and for a moment she thought he was going to climb back on the bed but he leaned under it and pulled out the overnight bag. The little case she’d used last Friday: she heard Tabs turn on her light next door and in one quick movement she swung upright and out of the bed and took it from him.

  ‘Let me give you a hand,’ said Georgie when he looked at her nonplussed and Georgie laid the bag on the bed, shielding it from him. Just in case.

  ‘I wonder what the weather’s going to do,’ he said to her back. She opened the case swiftly. She didn’t know what she had expected to see – wanted to see, even. A trace of the night, a clue. It was quite empty. She turned around then to glance at the wardrobe, to make sure the golden dress was out of sight – even at the thought of it she felt a sharp pang of longing, that night and her shining in the dark and the man’s smile, appreciative – but Tim was at the wardrobe again, blocking her view. He was getting out his navy blue summer wool, handmade like everything. Even Tim’s shoes were handmade: he’d said something about his father always insisting on it, when she’d asked. Tim’s father had been a major in the army. The suit had cost more than a thousand pounds.

  Georgie sat back down on the bed. She wanted to shower, she felt the stickiness between her legs. She felt it start up, the hum of secrets. Go away.

  Five or six big private clients, that was all it took, or so he said. Tim managed their money, set up offshore accounts where necessary, trusts and tax-free investments, all that. Within the law. ‘They like it,’ he always said. ‘That I look like a small-town operator.’ Smiling down at the suit, brushing off imaginary crumbs. ‘On paper, anyway.’

  She’d told Cat, business was good, in that hour they’d been alone in the hotel room on Friday night, pulling on her dress as Cat lay on the bed putting on stockings. Cat had been curious, she didn’t know why, except apparently when they were fixing the evening up Holly’d mentioned something to Cat that she’d heard, about Tim being a star. Admiring.

  ‘He always was a smart one,’ Cat had said, lying back on the pillow in the grubby hotel room. ‘Knew how to make friends. Work the system.’ And turned on her side, sighing. ‘I suppose, well—’

  ‘What?’ Georgie had said.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cat quickly, sitting down quickly, one stocking on, the flush of booze on her but Georgie pushed it. ‘Harry’s a scruffy bugger,’ she’d said.

  Harry’s new job, the reason they’d moved back to be closer to London, was running an office supplies company: it wasn’t exactly a step up from his previous job in a brewery but they managed. Just about. Cat hadn’t asked her to the house yet: she’d told her, looking round Georgie’s big empty kitchen, it was tiny. Two of the boys sharing a room but that was all right, they were still young.

  ‘And he hasn’t got Tim’s drive. They’re just different, I suppose. It doesn’t have to be to do with—’

  ‘With what?’

  And Cat had rolled over, her voice muffled in the pillow. ‘The baby thing.’

  ‘Baby thing.’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Georgie had said quickly. ‘He’s not – it’s not that.’ Cat hadn’t said anything else.

  Tim had been unbothered by it, or so he’d said: ‘Whatever it takes,’ shrugging. His own sperm were low motility, which didn’t mean no chance, it just meant almost no chance. His work face on, in that moment in the consultant’s office, smooth smiling Tim and the consultant nodding, man to man.

  ‘Think I’ll have a shower,’ she said, standing up abruptly, needing the cool water, needing to be clean and Tim stepped beside her and put his hand on her, gently, between her legs. She could smell his aftershave and then his hand was gone: carefully he laid the suit on the bed, smiling still, to himself this time, a smile of satisfaction.

  The door opened and there was Tabs.

  ‘Go on,’ said Sue, holding out the biscuit tin, a frown beginning to appear.

  It was halfway through the morning and normally Georgie would have had one, wanted three. But looking down into the tin, again she felt no appetite at all. Sue shook it impatiently, and Georgie dipped in at random.

  ‘I thought I’d take Tabs up to town Saturday,’ she said. ‘The zoo, maybe.’ It sounded quite different to what it had this morning, when she’d said it to Tim. He’d been standing at the counter in the kitchen
waiting for his coffee to cool, impatient to go. Then – and she’d hoped he hadn’t been able to hear it like she could – she’d sounded nervous.

  But he had hardly seemed to hear, looking down at his mobile, just grunted at first. Then looked up.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, equably. Encouraging, even. Setting down the phone and lifting the cup to his lips in that slightly fastidious way he had: if he ever spilled anything on himself on the way to work there was hell to pay. ‘Why not? Take her to see your father.’

  Georgie had relaxed then, just the thought of her father was enough on its own, his old coat and his collection of tote bags full of treats for Tabs.

  But it made sense, too, of Tim being fine with it, because he was always happier for them to see Dad in town, or at his sheltered housing, a cup of tea somewhere, than the fuss of him hauling out here, needing collecting from the station, looking round the place anxiously so that Tim would tut despite himself and go off to tennis, or his study.

  And then the cup was in the sink and Tim had been reaching for his velvet-collared coat. ‘And I won’t be back till Sunday night, will I? You’ll need something to keep her entertained.’

  Now Sue made a non-committal noise and Georgie felt stupid, to have worried. It was half an hour on the train, and people did it all the time.

  Not her, though. She’d just been waiting for Tim to look at her sharply and say, ‘What? London on a lovely sunny day? What do you want to do that for?’

  She had had a response to that lined up, as a matter of fact. Autumn colours in Regent’s Park, and the zoo. But he hadn’t asked: he hadn’t said, Plenty of autumn colour on our doorstep, which would have been true.

  Imagine. Walking down a street and there he is. Mark. Georgie put the thought out of her mind. Almost.

  What on earth did you get up to? Tim hadn’t asked that either. And it was almost a week ago, it was over and done, it was forgotten. Except it wasn’t. Except there were those little traces: a phone number. A lost earring. A bruise or two and a soft voice in her ear. Hey.

  All the way to school Tabs had been cheerful: she’d got wind of the plan somehow and kept glancing up excitedly, not daring say anything: trains, Granddad and the zoo being all her wildest dreams together. Usually they walked, but they were late today and they drove, round the edge of the village, skirting the trees. The colour was mazy, still green but darkening, bronze here and there: it was in the corner of Georgie’s eye as she drove, behind her Tabs kicking her legs gently against the back of her seat.

  He might not even live in London, and if he did Georgie certainly wasn’t likely to bump into him in the street and if she did she would probably hide – but all the same. The thought wouldn’t go away. It felt as though her life had been travelling along a flat, flat road and there was a bump, suddenly, there was a tree or a car crash or a hare hurtling across a field and how couldn’t you stop and look at it? He’d been a gentleman, Cat had said.

  All morning she felt as though Sue was watching her, Sue who had a teenage daughter and would therefore immediately recognise the stupid thoughts racing around her head, thoughts that had nothing to do with being a grown woman and a mother. Sue might even have heard her, whispering to him by the photocopier. Fantasies, blossoming out of the time she couldn’t remember, between the brandy bottle and the next morning. He’d come back to the room with them and then just – left. She’d seen him out, they’d both told her that, Holly and Cat. Had he kissed her goodbye? He’d phoned to make sure she was all right. The panic of the next morning, the hot shame of the journey home had settled into a different perspective: overreaction, silly, hysterical.

  At lunch Georgie got out a card she’d brought, to send to Cat. She sat at her desk for five minutes with the pen in her hand and the envelope addressed, but not even knowing how to start. Let’s have lunch. When does the chemo start? Shall I have the boys? Shall I come and hold your hand? Then she looked at it and saw only her own futile neediness and with a sound of exasperation that did have Sue looking over at her, she tore it up and clutching her mobile phone hurried out into the playground where she ordered a hamper of ridiculous food from a fancy grocery in London that cost several hundred pounds instead, on the joint credit card.

  The afternoon crept on, the knowledge of what Tim would say when the bill arrived, of just his expression, snagging on Georgie at regular intervals. She realised only now that he’d never had much time for Cat, she was too raucous or up-front or something and Tim liked a quiet life. He was also funny about illness, always had been, superstitious and judgemental, as if you brought these things on yourself, or they were a sign of weakness or something. He’d been funny about it this morning, when she’d plucked up courage to tell him.

  His own parents still alive and living in Surrey, just the other side of London, though they never wanted to see Georgie and Tim and Tabs. Georgie knew there had been telephone conversations, about the IVF, that she hadn’t been told about, or that were closed down if she walked in but she didn’t let herself wonder, if they never wanted to see Tabs because she wasn’t their flesh and blood.

  Well, she drinks, doesn’t she? As she filled the kettle to make tea for her and Sue – two-fifteen regular as clockwork, with an hour and ten minutes to go of the school day – she could hear Tim saying it. As he examined his row of ties, frowning, pleased with his conclusions. ‘There’s research linking breast cancer to alcohol consumption, I read somewhere.’

  ‘A friend of mine’s got breast cancer,’ she said now, handing Sue her cup. Sue stood up immediately, set the cup down, put her arms around Georgie all in one movement, taking her aback, setting her off. How had she known? Sensible Sue. She laid her head just a quick second on Sue’s shoulder, inhaling her reassuring scent, freesias and wool-wash.

  Stuffy in the office, still hot in the playground. The weather would change tonight they said and not soon enough.

  Then Georgie stepped back, rubbing at her eyes, feeling a fool and a fraud. ‘Don’t know what I’m crying for,’ she said, crossly. ‘It’s her got to do the chemo. And tell the boys. They’re only small—’ and she stopped because that would set her off again

  Sue patted her. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I—’ but then something changed, she was looking past Georgie and frowning and whatever she had been going to say was forgotten. Turning to look Georgie stared, something faintly surreal about it, the conversation about illness, and hospital, but the flowers had been sent here, was all Georgie could think.

  A big gaudy bunch, big enough to obscure the man carrying it and for a moment all Georgie could see was a dark green sleeve, the badge of a delivery service and beyond him through the door in reception Janette, peering round her classroom door for a look.

  ‘Miss Baxter, is it?’ The flowers went down on the floor and the deliveryman looked from Georgie to Sue and back.

  ‘Mrs,’ said Georgie. Immediately Georgie knew they were from Tim, his way of apologising for springing this weekend on her. The man held out a digital pad for her to sign.

  From across the desk Sue folded her arms, eyeing the bouquet. It was so big it came in its own box. The flowers were bright, big nodding orange gerberas, pink lilies and fat red rosebuds all trussed up in cellophane and ribbon. They sat there in the middle of the office floor, out of place, demanding attention.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Georgie when the man had gone, hurrying forward to claim the box. Awkwardly she shuffled it round the side of her desk, out of sight. Not quite: the cellophane and a stiff rosebud were still visible: she could see that it had been dipped in a kind of glitter. Sue rolled her eyes.

  ‘Sorry why?’ she said. ‘Nice of someone.’ A theatrical sigh. ‘My Al wasn’t ever the romantic gesture type, was he?’ Sue’s husband Al had died young of cancer, or youngish, when Sue would have been mid-thirties. ‘I mean he had his ways, but—’

  ‘Tim’s sprung this weekend away on me,’ Georgie said quickly, glancing down at the flowers beside her. She could see the c
orner of the tiny envelope had come dislodged from its clip and slipped down inside the cellophane: she didn’t want to read it, she realised. She knew what it would be: something he’d asked the florist to make up, something from a list. Best wishes: Once he’d sent her flowers with that on it, long ago, and they’d laughed about it. Or at least they had after a moment or two, Tim looking affronted. ‘That’ll be it. He only told me yesterday.’

  When the bell went for the end of day it seemed everyone had seen the flowers arrive, because half the school, including Janette and Mrs Floate who cleaned and the reception classroom assistant who was only there two afternoons a week crowded into the office to coo over them, and Georgie trying to get them out to the car like a murder suspect under a blanket. She couldn’t have even said what she was embarrassed about, except they all knew Tim – by sight, anyway, they knew his offices in town and his big silver car – and they’d all be gossiping about why he’d sent them, they’d know it wasn’t her birthday or anything. She could have wished, she found herself thinking ungratefully, for a smaller bunch, or a less conspicuous one at least.

  It wasn’t like Tim to go for bright colours, anyway, she thought, squeezing the bunch into the back of the car while Tabs hopped up and down behind her, Mummy, Mummy. Pale blue in the spare bathroom was as far as he’d allowed her, her pale blue tiles.

  Tabs clambered in beside the flowers and Georgie buckled her into her special seat. She noticed that it was quite worn down where her small hands rested: soon she’d have outgrown it completely, and with the thought she kissed her quickly, smelling bubblegum and yoghurt.

  But Tabs was already straining away, curious to look inside the bouquet. ‘There’s a card, Mummy,’ she said, fishing for it. ‘You’ve got to read the card, it’s polite.’