A Secret Life Read online

  ‘It’s only from Daddy,’ said Georgie quickly, and reached to take it. Tabs smiled at her, naughty, holding it back a second and Georgie just waited, her hand held out until Tabs gave in. She put it down quickly on the front passenger seat and Tabs kicked the back of her seat for a moment or two then lost interest. Read the card before you open the present: it was Tim had taught Tabs that, and quite right too. In theory.

  Stopped with the engine idling at a red light by the church, though, the church with its leaning mossy gravestones and the forest beyond it, the tiny white envelope was still obstinately there in the corner of her eye and she did reach for it, casually, not wanting to rekindle Tabs’ interest, and her scrutiny. No eyes as sharp as Tabs’, and no pestering as determined, and – and. And what? It was only from Tim.

  With half an eye on the traffic lights, Georgie opened it in her lap and looked down. The florist’s name on the front in a wreath of roses, she knew the place, a little family shop. Not far away. Not far enough: they’d know her, even if the deliveryman hadn’t.

  She opened the little card, frowning down at the words. What—

  Behind her someone tooted and she started, looking up, the lights had changed. Carefully, as if Tim was watching, she engaged first gear, she didn’t want to stall, and all the time in her chest her heart was pattering. What?

  I can’t stop thinking about you.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tim had always been the pragmatic type. A bit of courting, taking her out for dinner and kissing her and telling her he loved her, everything measured and careful and safe.

  I can’t stop thinking about you.

  That was all it said. For a second, two, three, she had run through the meaning of it in her head. The idea of Tim writing – saying – those words. The florist reading them back to him.

  Was this the new start? They’d – made love, this morning. The card lay on the passenger seat beside her.

  Since this morning. Since he had climbed off her and started looking through his ties for the weekend, Tim hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her? Sitting in his office, at his desk, getting up to close the door while he whispered his message into the receiver. With the tiny card in her hand, the neat careful florist’s handwriting, another hand to engage gear as the lights changed she had flushed, she had been able to feel it hot behind her ears, because it was a joke, it was stupid—

  It was all wrong.

  The flowers were in the living room, arranged carefully in a big glass goldfish bowl vase, almost glowing brilliant in the low evening light. Tabs had run upstairs while she filled the vase.

  If only, Georgie thought, standing in the kitchen, they’d come tomorrow. With Tim away, she’d have had time to think, what to say. Her mind raced. She’d have had till Sunday night, and Tabs would have forgotten about them. She could have thrown them away, surreptitiously.

  ‘Fish fingers all right?’ she called up to Tabs and something muffled came back, that didn’t sound like no. She got the packet out of the freezer and hesitated, her hand on the fridge door. There was an open bottle of white wine in the door, Tim had drunk some last night. She glanced at the clock: five forty-five, but inside her something hummed, needing to be appeased, needing to be calmed. She took the bottle out of the fridge, poured herself a small glass. Put the bottle back before lifting the glass to her lips, taking a sip, then another. The hum was warm inside her, now.

  Close to home, seeing the time on the dashboard, Tabs quiet with the iPad behind her, Georgie’d turned the car around.

  Tabs hadn’t looked up, until they pulled up on the florist’s forecourt. Floribunda, it was called. One in a small row of shops, between a catering supplies place, a nailbar.

  ‘I just—’ said Georgie. ‘Just a minute, Tabs. I’ll be quick.’ It was almost four, and a gaunt woman in an apron was hauling a tall galvanised bucket towards a grating in the ground. Georgie hurried up the forecourt, standing there awkwardly while the woman ignored her, doggedly pulling on the tall bucket’s handles, lank hair falling either side of her face. She didn’t look like she loved her job. Georgie started forward, thinking perhaps she could offer to help and then the woman stopped, straightened, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘We’re closed,’ she said, regarding her. Georgie had never to her knowledge used Floribunda although she knew it had been in the village three or four years now. She didn’t know if Tim had ever been.

  ‘I just – I received a bouquet,’ she’d begun, ‘you made it up.’ Even as she was saying Georgie knew she shouldn’t, she knew people would talk: the glance the woman gave her was impatient, turning to curious. Pushing the hair from her face to get a better look. ‘I don’t know who it’s from,’ said Georgie, lamely. ‘I wondered if you—’

  ‘A phone order, was it?’ There was a touch of colour in the woman’s face now, as she pretended not to know what Georgie meant. Adjusting her apron. What had she thought? That the woman would read out the credit card to her? ‘I can go and look through my orders,’ she said then, sly. ‘What was the name?’ When Georgie hesitated. ‘Your name?’

  It had been this woman’s handwriting on the card, then. Her taking down the message. I can’t stop thinking about you.

  She knew all right. Who Georgie was, her address, what this was all about. Everything. And Georgie had stepped back, hasty, turned to look at the car, Tabs’ face turned towards her in the backseat window, pale and curious.

  Of course it hadn’t been Tim who sent them. Of course not.

  ‘Oh – you know, it doesn’t matter,’ Georgie said, an effort not to just turn and run, ‘I think I – thank you, though.’ But then she was running. And as she swung the car back out into the road, she had seen the woman looking after her, triumphant.

  Don’t be silly.

  In the kitchen Georgie refilled her glass, halfway: she turned the fish fingers over and set off round the house, doing the things she always did, mechanically, drawing the curtains, turning on lights. Don’t be silly. Of course it’s not him. On the side in the kitchen was a rack of lamb, potatoes peeled. Tim hated the smell of fish, and the lamb would cover it. She got out her phone, curling her fingers round it.

  But ‘him’ wasn’t Tim, any more. ‘Him’ was him, she knew his name but she didn’t want to use it, it felt dangerous. Mark.

  Of course it wasn’t – him. Because how would he know where to send them? Restless, Georgie went into the living room, straightened cushions: she bent to turn on a sidelight and on the table the flowers receded, dimming.

  A man who’d chatted her up on a night out, yes, he’d called to make sure she was OK but he hadn’t – he hadn’t – he’d just been being polite. A gentleman. He wasn’t going to make inquiries – who from? – or spend fifty quid on a bunch of flowers. But who else could it be? Some dad from the playground, some lunatic with a crush on her – the idea was stupid.

  It was Tim, after all. Tim.

  She needed to know, though. Because he’d see the flowers. Or Tabs would say something about them. Or both.

  And then, quite suddenly, perched on the edge of the sofa, Georgie felt herself go still, head up. She remembered. He had asked her about herself. Mark. The name came easier, this time, as the memory popped out of nowhere, complete and distinct, like he was her Mark. At the bar, raising the drink to her lips – perhaps she had still been sober then, capable of processing that kind of thing – he’d somehow come around Holly, or was it that Georgie’d been dancing, and then had come back to the bar and found herself next to him? She remembered his forearm resting on the bar, his hand when she looked down only a centimetre or so from hers.

  Tipsy but not drunk. She had told him.

  I’m nobody, I work in the office of a primary school, you wouldn’t know it, small village on the edge of Epping Forest – yes. She had said that. Had she said the name of the village? Maybe. Probably. And school would be the only place he would have been able to find her, anyway, wouldn’t it? Not her home. A st
alker playground dad would know where she lived.

  A kind of thrill went through her: if he knew where she lived. The danger of it.

  The mobile was in her palm. Holly would know. Holly would understand. She was that kind, Georgie thought of her voice, husky and conspiratorial, her smudged make-up, legs with sharp ankles.

  She just wanted to tell someone, He said he can’t stop thinking about me and who else? Not Sue in the school office. Not Cat, poor Cat. She walked out of the bright kitchen with the phone in her hand, into the living room, into a corner of the living room by the window, half hidden in the curtain and looking at the flowers on the table. She dialled Holly’s number.

  Tim could be home any moment – or he could be late. She pressed her back into the curtain, feeling her heart pump, feeling herself breathless before she’d even opened her mouth to speak. This was adrenaline, wasn’t it? Because this was dangerous. The phone went to voicemail again. She heard something that might be Tim’s footsteps, might be his key in the door, if it was he would be prompt, he would be early – but still, she didn’t hang up. This time she left a message, jumbled, breathless, I’d love to see you, give me a call, may be in London Saturday.

  ‘Something burning?’ The front door closing.

  Tim was standing in the hall, raincoat on, briefcase in hand: Georgie ran past him, letting him blur, and snatched the frying pan off the stove. Turned the extractor fan to full, her eyes filling abruptly from the smoke – and she didn’t know if it was from the smoke or panic, because it was too late to eliminate the smell of fish or come up with an explanation, for the flowers. Shit shit shit.

  Tim was through the kitchen door now and he just leaned down and kissed her. Then pulled back, the slightest wrinkle between his eyebrows. ‘You’ve started early, haven’t you? Not even six.’

  ‘I—’ Georgie put a hand to her mouth, eyes darting to the side but she’d put the bottle back in the fridge, there was only the glass. ‘I just felt like it,’ she said. ‘It’s been one of those days.’

  Tim nodded. ‘Never mind,’ he said lightly, running a hand from her waist to her hip and letting it rest there.

  ‘I’ll—’ Georgie wanted to twist away, just to collect her thoughts, just not to be looked at – but she didn’t. She smiled up at him instead. Rehearsing it silently, Oh, those? We thought you’d sent them, but they’re from – from.

  ‘I’ll make her scrambled eggs,’ she said. Leaning back a little and calling, towards the door. ‘Tabs?’ Tim held his gaze for just a minute, examining her, then he sighed, and let her go.

  Note, yes, there was a note. Not sure where I put it, now. It was in her pocket.

  It felt unreal, how could she take it seriously? This man didn’t know her – not like Tim, sighing, ironical; Tim following her round the kitchen, tidying, peering in the dishwasher.

  I can’t stop thinking about you. Whatever she thought rationally the words were powerful. They took effect, like smoke.

  Tim had stopped, he was looking around now, expectant.

  ‘Would you like a glass too?’ she said, not understanding.

  He looked at her as if he didn’t recognise her for a second and then he shrugged, ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

  What was he expecting to see, then? And then it came to her, of course. He was looking for the bouquet, or some trace of it. The wrapping was already in recycling. It had been him, after all, the flowers, the note might have been mixed up with another or he maybe – and the thought stopped her – maybe the sex this morning, maybe he had read something about rekindling your wife’s— Had them sent to the school just to get them all talking, she could hear him explaining that to her. Give those old biddies something to gossip about.

  Pouring the wine for him it tumbled softly down around her and she felt foolish with disappointment. Why would she think… She knew in there was a stir of resentment, even, and she didn’t say, not straight away, Thank you for the lovely flowers.

  Taking the glass, his face amused, Tim walked past her, into the living room: she followed and she was there when he stopped. There they stood gaudy and resplendent, glowing in the low light. Gaudier than the room and she waited for him to grumble – they hadn’t got it right, he’d been cheated on the bouquet.

  But walked on, set down his briefcase, as if he hadn’t seen them.

  He set down his briefcase. ‘So,’ he said, lowering himself into the armchair he always worked in, in the evenings. It had been designed specially for his back. ‘What’s for dinner?’ Humorous. ‘Not fish fingers, anyway.’

  And then Tabs was in the room, in school skirt and vest, hurtling at him, flying and he put one hand out to slow her down, the other to shield his glass on the low table beside him.

  ‘Tabitha,’ he said, ‘how was school?’ She burrowed her small head into his chest and didn’t answer. He pushed her back a little and held her at arm’s length.

  ‘Boring,’ she said defiantly, sitting back on his knee and folding her arms: they locked eyes, Tim and she, a stand-off.

  Tabs was doing very well at school, the words her fond teacher used were sparky, bright. Challenging, on occasion. Tim, perched in the reception classroom on a ridiculously tiny chair and grilling the teacher like she was applying for a job, was proud of her. It was what he said.

  Now Tabs laid her cheek back down on his chest and looked sideways up at Georgie. They were both dark, but Tabs darker, thick hair, thick brows. She didn’t look too unlike him: sometimes people remarked on their resemblance, not knowing. You could choose the physical attributes of the donor. Georgie didn’t think about it, not too often, or not consciously, anyway. Tabs was herself, that’s all. She’d rehearsed that one enough times, in case anyone said.

  Not many people knew. Cat knew. No one’s business.

  Then Tim made a movement to Georgie with his head and she knew what he meant. ‘Come on,’ she said gently, leaning down to tug at Tabs. ‘Let’s make your tea.’

  He didn’t say anything till later, till Tabs was in bed and the table laid and Georgie was at the stove, flushed with steam from the vegetables and checking the lamb, everything five minutes from being done. And then suddenly he was behind her, very close, his mouth was on her neck. She could smell the wine on him: she’d stopped drinking as he’d started, the desire for it ebbing.

  ‘Nice flowers,’ he said, into her hair. He had positioned himself directly behind her, one hand on each of her hips, his body close.

  ‘Aren’t they?’ Georgie said and as she shifted, sideways, reaching for the vegetables, she heard him make a sound of amusement. If this was a game – she drained them, carrots and peas mixed together, and the steam enveloped her. ‘Cat sent them.’

  Cat’s name came to her out of the air, the only one she could trust, and looking sideways at him through the steam she could see that it took him aback. If it had been him sent them after all – but it hadn’t been.

  At dinner Georgie was jumpy, she couldn’t help it. Getting up from the table too many times – to get the salt, change a napkin. She realised she’d left her phone out on the side and if Holly called back, if she called – so she got up again on the pretence of refilling the water jug and swiftly took it into the kitchen. Tim didn’t seem to notice any of it, eating stolidly, pausing to look up once and ask her, mild and solicitous, about her day.

  ‘I – I sent something to Cat. You know, to help out – a hamper.’ He nodded, raising the fork to his mouth. Implying, without saying it, that Cat had sent the flowers in some way in connection with her own illness, in gratitude for the support, or something. If he said, ‘Really?’ – and it didn’t make much sense, after all – she didn’t know what she would say. But he didn’t.

  She didn’t tell him how much the hamper had cost. She’d cross that bridge when she had to.

  It wasn’t till later still, in bed, that she understood, he hadn’t believed her.

  ‘We should have them over,’ he said, in the dark. ‘Cat and her husb
and. What’s his name?’

  ‘Harry.’ Her mouth dry.

  And he stroked her hair in the dark for the longest time while she lay there, stiff and silent before finally he settled back on the pillow and went to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday

  Friday morning was boxing, until summer came around again.

  The boxing gym was old school, which suited Frank, torn posters and sweat in the air and a concrete floor. There was even a glass booth where you paid your dues to ancient Jules with his shaking hands; Parkinson’s, he said, sitting under a dog-eared ten-year-old topless calendar.

  It had to be done. Frank liked his food and he needed to keep in shape. He liked a beer. He tended his niche among the older men jealously but limited himself to the punchbags. He was too canny to offer himself up to anyone with a grudge, because however laidback you were, however easy you took it and however many people you tried to please, someone could come out of the woodwork.

  The door opened and Frank saw Matteo come through it, looking round for him, raising a hand.

  ‘Eh.’ The Cinq’s bouncer was a man of few words. He was already in his kit, it didn’t bother him to plod through the streets in tights and shorts. Like Frank he mostly restricted himself to the punchbags, but for different reasons. He was built like a truck and it was hard to find anyone to fight him. Steadily they swung and dodged, getting a kind of rhythm up although Matteo moved much less, rooted like a big tree. With every glimpse of the bouncer’s square shaven skull, his bulky shoulder, from around the big swinging bag, Frank found himself thinking of Matteo’s life on the pavement. Quiet, invisible, unless he needed to take a step towards you. It occurred to Frank that he saw things.

  Afterwards they sat side by side on the bench, drinking pint glasses of water they refilled from the wall tap in meditative silence.