The Secret Mother Read online

  ‘I’d rather talk about it away from here, if that’s okay,’ he replies.

  ‘Uh, yeah, sure.’ But I wonder what he has to say to me that can’t be discussed here at work. I guess I’m going to have to wait to find out.

  The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur. I don’t even notice that it’s already rolled around to six o’clock. Ben has to come and find me to tell me it’s time to stop working. I probably look an absolute mess. Part of me wishes I’d had the chance to go home, shower and change. But then again, it’s just Ben, and he sees me looking like crap every day.

  I go to the bathroom to wash my hands and splash my face, then I grab my bag and wait while he locks up.

  ‘Okay?’ he asks as he slides the keys into his pocket.

  I nod, wondering just how awkward this evening will turn out to be. Today has been emotionally draining, and I’ve never been good at small talk, so I hope he’s not expecting witty conversation.

  ‘Do you know The Royal Oak?’ he asks as we walk down the road, side by side.

  ‘I’ve been there a couple of times. It’s nice.’ I remember going there with Scott a few years ago to meet friends for birthday drinks.

  ‘They do a great lasagne,’ Ben says. ‘And that’s high praise coming from an Italian.’

  I smile. We manage to chat easily during the short journey, and when we reach the pub, he holds the door open for me.

  It’s noisy, but the atmosphere is traditional and friendly. Dark-wood panelling lines the walls, and the lighting is warm and soft. Delicious cooking smells mingle with the scent of beer and furniture polish. A typical English pub.

  Ben leads me past the bar, where he grabs a menu, and nods at one of the barmen, who greets him by name. We sit at a table by the window and he passes me the menu.

  ‘You recommend the lasagne, right?’ I say, without opening it. ‘I’ll have that.’

  ‘Good choice. I’ll go up and order. What do you want to drink?’

  ‘Orange juice would be good. Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. Back in a minute.’

  While he’s up at the bar, I glance around, taking in the mix of people. There are men in suits chatting, a group of women laughing, a few couples, and even some families with young kids, eating burgers or fish and chips with lots of ketchup. I look away quickly, a lump forming in my throat. But then, I think, I’d actually rather be here tonight surrounded by all this life than brooding at home on my own.

  Ben soon returns and we clink our glasses and sip our drinks.

  ‘The food will be about twenty minutes,’ he says.

  ‘Great. I’m actually starving.’

  ‘Me too.’ They’re playing some kind of eighties mix over the speakers, but it’s not so loud that we can’t hear each other.

  ‘So, what was it you wanted to discuss?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah, yes. That. Look, I haven’t told anyone else yet, and I’ll need you to keep this between you and me for now – is that okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug, starting to feel a little intrigued.

  ‘Well, I’ve just had the go-ahead from the bank. Which means I can buy the tyre garage and car park behind Moretti’s. I’m going to use the extra land to expand the business. I’ll be adding a proper Italian restaurant and café, with an on-site deli. And I’m also going to be increasing the garden areas.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That sounds incredible.’

  ‘It actually scares the hell out of me,’ he says with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle. ‘But I think I could end up making a success of it.’ He takes a sip from his pint.

  I nod. ‘You’ll do brilliantly, I’m sure.’

  ‘Hope so. You know, you’re one of my best workers,’ he adds. ‘You’re nearly always the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. You do over and above what’s expected. I always feel like you’re way too good for the job. I’m lucky to have you, Tess.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, a warm glow spreading through my chest, relieved that this doesn’t sound like a prelude to getting fired. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated. The job’s perfect for me, I like the work.’ I don’t tell him that working hard is my way of coping with the grinding emptiness. That if I didn’t work to near exhaustion, I would have far too much time to think about my actual life.

  ‘So, that brings me on to my proposal,’ he says. ‘Actually, it’s two proposals.’

  I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate.

  ‘I know from your CV that you used to be a landscape architect.’

  ‘Ye-es, but that was quite a while ago.’

  ‘Only two and a half years,’ he says. ‘I’m sure it’s still all up there.’ He taps his temple.

  I chew my lip as my heart begins to pound. That was a different time in my life, a time I try not to dwell on. I was a completely different person back then.

  ‘Thing is,’ he continues, ‘with your experience, I’d love to run my landscaping plans by you. Of course, I’d pay you the going rate, but I’d really value your professional opinion.’

  I nod. In theory, it should be something I’d enjoy. Something that I could do in my sleep. In fact, I really, truly do want to help Ben get the most out of his new venture. I’ve already had loads of ideas for his current layout. Ideas I’ve kept to myself, because it’s not the place of a gardening assistant to tell her boss how she thinks he could improve his business. But now he’s asking for my professional opinion, and I’m not sure I can cope with that kind of responsibility. In practice, my mind is fragile. Anything out of my carefully constructed routine could tip me over the edge, and I don’t quite trust myself with this kind of change. I don’t know if I ever will.

  ‘You said you had two proposals for me,’ I say, avoiding an answer. ‘What’s the other one?’

  ‘So,’ he says, his dark eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘Once I get started on the plans, it will take almost a year’s worth of project management. Which means my attention’s going to be taken away from the day-to-day running of the business. I’ll need someone to manage the centre for me.’ He looks at me pointedly.

  ‘Me? You want me to manage Moretti’s?’

  He nods. ‘I can increase your salary. Not quite double it, but almost. I can—’

  ‘Whoa. Hang on, Ben.’ I take a breath and run a hand over my forehead. ‘I’m flattered, I really am, but—’

  ‘Don’t dismiss it. Not yet. Think about it. Please.’

  ‘What about Carolyn?’ I say, thinking of my forty-one-year-old colleague who already manages the shop. ‘Won’t she be put out to have me in charge? She’s the one you should be asking, surely. And Jez won’t want me telling him what to do.’

  ‘Jez won’t mind as long as he has a free rein to tend the plants. And between you and me, Carolyn’s lovely but she’s scatty and nervy. Most days she’s late. Her lunch hour lasts almost two hours, and she’s always got some kind of family crisis going on. I couldn’t trust her to run the place while I’m busy with the new plans. I like her, she’s excellent with the customers, but I don’t think she’s up to the job. I don’t even think she would want it.’

  I glance to my right to see a pretty dark-haired waitress hovering at our table.

  ‘Two lasagnes,’ she says with a smile, putting our food in front of us. ‘How you doing, Ben?’

  ‘Yeah, good, Molly. You?’

  ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’

  ‘This is Tess. Tess, Molly.’

  Molly gives me the once-over. ‘Hi,’ she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply.

  ‘Your mum and dad okay?’ she asks Ben. ‘I miss them coming in.’

  ‘They’re fine,’ he replies. ‘Loving being back in Italy. I’ll say hello from you next time they call.’

  ‘Yeah, please. Give them my love.’ Molly stands there for a moment. It looks like she wants to carry on talking but can’t think of what else to say.

  ‘Well,’ Ben says, breaking t
he awkward silence. ‘Nice to see you. Take care.’

  ‘You too.’ She twists the bottom of her apron and totters back to the bar on her four-inch heels.

  ‘Does she run the Ben Moretti fan club?’ I ask.

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’

  ‘Ex-girlfriend?’

  ‘No! I used to come in here with my parents quite a lot. She’s just being polite.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re in there.’

  ‘And I think I’m changing the subject,’ he says, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. ‘Let’s eat.’

  ‘This is amazing,’ I say after my first forkful.

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘Bring me here every night and I might just be persuaded to manage Moretti’s for you.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes light up.

  I realise I shouldn’t have joked about it. Now he thinks I’m considering it. ‘Look, Ben, much as I’m flattered…’

  His face falls.

  ‘I have a lot of personal stuff going on in my life right now,’ I explain. ‘I really don’t think I can commit to such a responsibility.’

  ‘Tess. I… I heard about what happened to you. To your children. I just want to say how sorry I am.’

  I put my fork down, suddenly not hungry any more. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Carolyn mentioned it quite a while ago.’

  Great. How does she know? She obviously listens to gossip and doesn’t have a problem with spreading it, either. I realise I’m hurt by this. I always thought she and I got on pretty well, but then I picture her in the shop at work – she’s always talking nineteen-to-the-dozen with the customers. I open my mouth to say something cutting about gossipy colleagues, but Ben continues.

  ‘She meant it kindly, Tess.’

  ‘How the hell does she know my business?’

  ‘Apparently she’s friendly with your mother-in-law.’

  I’m pretty sure my mother-in-law thinks I have defective genes. Amanda Markham with her four grown-up healthy children. Scott is the youngest, with three older sisters – the longed-for son.

  ‘Carolyn thought we should know what you’d been through, so we wouldn’t say anything inappropriate.’

  I’m not happy that they all know my business, not happy at all. But I suppose at least it’s saved me having to explain stuff.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘I just want you to realise that I know your situation and I’d be understanding if you had… difficult days.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumble.

  ‘I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been through, Tess. The thought of it is, well, it’s terrible. I just think it might be good for you, you know, to get stuck into something like this.’

  I’m touched. Most people can’t handle bringing the subject of my children up. Not only is he unafraid to talk about it, he also thinks I’m strong enough to cope with more responsibility.

  ‘I was at the police station today,’ I blurt out without thinking.

  He’s just about to take a sip of beer, but stops at my words, shutting his mouth and setting his glass back on the table.

  ‘That’s where I was at lunchtime,’ I continue.

  ‘Why were you there, if you don’t mind me asking? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but…’

  ‘No, it’s okay. It’s a bit of a weird story, though.’ I give a nervous laugh.

  ‘Go on.’ He takes a sip from his drink and I take a gulp of mine, wishing I’d had something stronger than orange juice.

  I tell him about last night. About Harry. It all comes tumbling out. Not in the stilted way it did at the police station, where my every word was being analysed, but more in an unburdening kind of way. I can tell from Ben’s expression that he’s surprised and sympathetic and understanding. There’s no judgement. No suspicion.

  ‘Wow, Tess. That’s…’

  ‘I know, right. It’s weird.’

  ‘Your head must be spinning. And then I go and add to all your stress with my perfectly timed business proposal.’ He rolls his eyes.

  ‘You didn’t know. And maybe you’re right. Maybe it is what I need to take my mind off everything. Just… give me some time to think about it, if you can.’

  ‘Sure, of course. Take all the time you need. Well, maybe not all the time. I’d probably need to know by the New Year, if that’s okay.’

  I nod, suddenly feeling a lot lighter.

  ‘Now eat,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, Boss.’

  We spend another hour or so finishing our meal and chatting about more trivial things like books we’ve read, funny customers at work and what our worst habits are. Ben is surprisingly good company, easy to talk to. I wonder why I never noticed that before. But soon the events of the past twenty-four hours begin catching up with me. I’m exhausted. Ben insists I take the following day off work. I protest, but he won’t take no for an answer, so I finally acquiesce. Hopefully I can just spend the whole day sleeping.

  It’s not even nine o’clock when I finally stagger through my front door, almost asleep on my feet, but it feels far later. I should really just crawl into bed right now, but there’s still one more thing I have to do.

  I take my phone with me into the lounge and curl up in the corner of the sofa, tucking my feet beneath me. I’m calling Scott to find out how he got on at the police station this morning. I know I won’t sleep until I’ve spoken to him. Perhaps, by some miracle, he was able to find out what’s happened to Harry.

  His phone rings three times, but I think I must have pressed the wrong contact button, because a woman answers. I’m so surprised, I don’t reply straight away.

  ‘Hello?’ she says. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I think I must have called you by mistake. I meant to call Scott. Who’s this?’

  There’s a pause at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello? Are you still there?’ I’m about to hang up and try again, but then she says, ‘Tessa?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s this? Is this Scott’s phone?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sounds hesitant, like she’s not sure if it is his phone or not.

  ‘Can you put him on, please?’

  ‘He’s… not available at the moment.’ Her voice is young-sounding.

  ‘Not available? What do you mean? Is he still at work? In a meeting?’

  ‘He’s in the shower.’

  I let her words sink in. A woman has answered Scott’s phone while he’s in the shower. I freeze for a moment, feel the blood draining from my face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I know this must come as a surprise, but I’m Scott’s girlfriend. He really should’ve told you already.’

  Scott has a girlfriend. I can still taste the lasagne and orange juice in my mouth. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Tessa? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes. It’s okay, I’ll speak to him another time.’

  ‘The thing is—’

  But I don’t wait to hear what the thing is. I end the call, my thumb pressing down on the icon with a beep. Then I turn off my phone.

  Chapter Six

  I came home last night ready to crawl into bed, to give myself over to blissful sleep. And then I spoke to her.

  Scott has a girlfriend. A girlfriend. My Scott. The father of our dead children.

  I lay in bed last night, my eyes closed, willing myself to sleep. To find oblivion. But my mind refused to be still. Images of them together. Wondering what she’s like. How old is she? Is she beautiful? How did they meet? Where? When? Why didn’t he tell me about her? I didn’t even ask her name. Is she really his girlfriend, or is she just a fling? Do they laugh together? I try to think back to the last time Scott and I laughed. It’s not good that I have to think so hard about it; that I can’t recall a time in recent years. I know we used to laugh once upon a time. Great belly laughs where we could hardly breathe. Where I had to cry out for him to stop it because I would pee my pants.

  How could he do this to me? I know we’
re not living together any more, I know we’re ‘separated’. But it’s Scott. Me and Scott. I always assumed we’d get back together again. We were together for so long, I can barely remember a life before him. And so I lay in bed, first on one side, then the other, trying to slow my breathing, to clear my mind of all thoughts. I conjured images of empty skies and clear blue lakes; of happy, calm moments in my life. But all those good times were with him. And now they’re tainted by the knowledge of her.

  Every so often, I flicked on the light and checked the time – 1 a.m., 2.20 a.m., 2.35 a.m. I attempted to read my book. I made warm milk. Three a.m. I listened to soothing voices on Radio 4. But here I am in bed at seven bloody thirty, still wide awake, my brain still rattling along like a demented freight train.

  What should I do? What can I do? No wonder he was annoyed when I called him on Sunday night. I was taking him away from his floozy. What kind of a word is that? It sounds like something from the 1970s, not a word I’d ever use. But I can’t bring myself to refer to her as his girlfriend. And the word slut makes me sound so bitter.

  Who am I now? Not a wife? Not a mother? I have no ambition, no place or real purpose. I screw my eyes shut tighter and slide down further underneath the duvet.

  The trouble is, after Sam died, so did our marriage. Scott tried to make it work, but I was so consumed by grief, I couldn’t acknowledge that he was grieving too. I had no emotional room to think about him or his needs. And then, when he told me he was leaving – not even a year after we lost Sam – I couldn’t believe it. I assumed it was temporary. We never made the split official. Even now, a year and a half after he left, I still believe he will come back. Am I wrong? Are we really over?

  Dull morning light drifts in from behind the curtains. Car doors slam beyond the window. Children’s voices, high and excitable as they walk to school in clusters. I fling back the duvet, giving up the notion of getting any sleep. I have the day off, I should do something.

  I go through my morning ablutions on autopilot, slinging on a jersey tracksuit, grabbing a bowl of cornflakes and taking it into the lounge. I hate the sound of other people chewing; it sets my teeth on edge. Makes me gag. I think there’s a name for this – it’s like a phobia or something. So I’m always careful to eat quietly. But now, sitting alone on the sofa, I chew my cornflakes as loudly as I possibly can. A defiant crunch, crunch, crunch that makes me wonder if I might be losing my mind.