Love Is a Secret (10 page)

14

Caroline paused outside her son’s bedroom, wincing at the computer printout he’d stuck to the door.

www.getevenbigger.com. Extend your penis now! Safe, simple and effective. Ten minutes and you’ve got yourself an enormous tool. Results are permanent and no surgery is needed.

The rest of the door was festooned with posters of naked women in provocative positions and a keep out notice. In her day, they’d decorated the inside of their school desks; hers, she recalled, had had postcards of ponies. Maybe that was where she’d gone wrong in life.

She knocked loudly. No answer. Teenagers were entitled to their privacy: she’d written something about it only the other month. Well, blow that. ‘Ben, come on. It’s nearly lunchtime! Are you going to lie there all day?’

There was a muffled grunt from the bed as Caroline picked her way through piles of jeans, sweaters and
GQ
magazines strewn on the floor, holding her breath against BO, stale air and a cheesy smell that might or might not have been feet. She slipped on one of the magazines, then bent down to pick it up, automatically scanning the coverlines.

Fifty ways to have great sex!

Fifty?

‘Close the bloody curtains!’

Shaken by the roar, which proved her son wasn’t as fast asleep as he had looked, she stumbled over a pile of CDs. There was a sharp crack.

‘What have you broken now, you stupid woman?’

‘Don’t talk to me like that.’ Caroline pulled back the duvet to jolly him along. Good God, he was naked! It had been a long time since she had seen her middle child without any clothes on. His legs were startlingly hairy, more so than Roger’s, and there were angry yellow pustules on his back, matching the ones on his face.

‘That’s Newfound Glory you’ve gone and smashed.’ Ben was out of bed now, wrapping his duvet round himself indignantly. ‘Do you know how much it cost?’

Well, at least he was talking.

‘Yes, as I probably paid for it,’ said Caroline, drily, wading back to the door. ‘Stop being so rude. And if you don’t get up now, it’ll be bedtime. You promised Dad you’d find a job this week.’

Ben retreated to the safety of his bed and buried his head under the pillow. ‘I’ve tried. There aren’t any.’

‘What about the pub? Or Tesco?’

‘Full up.’

‘Then why were they still giving out application forms when I asked for one yesterday?’

‘Chill out, Mum. I need to rest. I worked bloody hard for those exams.’

That one again. ‘Ben, we all work hard, but you finished nearly six weeks ago. Dad’s right. It’s time to face the real world. And another thing. Will you please remember to take your antibiotics or your skin will never get better?’

She hadn’t meant to be so hard. She softened her voice, trying to sound jokey. ‘It’s a good thing you don’t have to remember to take the pill or you’d be pregnant by now.’

‘Go away, Mum. You’re boring.’

‘Thanks very much.’

Pity it wasn’t a working day. Then she could have gone into the office to write about parenting instead of doing the practical bit.

She still had the magazine under her arm. Boring? Illogically, that stung more than anything else. She locked herself into the bathroom, sat on the loo lid and flicked to page fifty-nine.

Surprisingly, the text was less rude than practical. In the early days, she and Roger had had what she’d thought was a good sex life but it had dwindled with the exhaustion of work and children.

Now, with supreme irony, her older two children were probably having more sex than she was. Caroline reread tip number five. She’d never thought of that one and, for the first time in goodness knows how many years, her pelvis had begun to throb. She slid her hand down the front of her pants and followed the instructions.

Oh, my God.
Oh, my God
.

Sometime later, she came downstairs, cheeks flushed. The dishes were still in the sink, waiting to be put into the dishwasher as soon as she’d unloaded it. After that, she’d clean behind the sofas where, as Roger had acidly pointed out last night, Mrs B rarely ventured (‘Is it worth paying that woman money, Caro?’), then drive to the sports club to see Georgie in her match. That was what a mother should be doing. Not locking herself into the bathroom with her teenage son’s sex magazine.

Good! The post! Caroline flew to the door as a long envelope, addressed to Roger, fluttered to the carpet. Before leaving, Annabel had promised to send regular postcards and emails. In her last phone call she’d said it was hard to find postboxes or internet cafés, let alone pay-phones. And her mobile didn’t work in remote places.

This time last year, Caroline had had all three children at home. Now there were two. Next year, it would be one, and at some point in the future, none. Just her and Roger. What would they do? Nothing, since Roger’s affair, brought her pleasure any more. She’d even lost heart for shopping.

Maybe she should pop back upstairs to check her email before she went out in case there was anything from Zelda or Annabel.

The computer was kept in her elder daughter’s room so that she and Roger could, in theory, monitor the children’s online activities, but after all these months, the reminders of her absent daughter punched her in the stomach: posters of unsavoury young men with earrings in unspeakable crevices, make-up on her dressing-table, a prospectus from the university she was going to when she returned from her gap year. Tidy. Too tidy. Clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Nothing on the carpet. At night, Caroline even turned on the light; it made her feel that Annabel was a bit closer.

Caroline keyed in her password and opened her inbox. Speed reading, she checked the senders to sift out the urgent ones. There were various press releases from PRs for the Parenting page, sent on by the features secretary, and something from Zelda, marked urgent, about a feature on educational toys that needed to be in shortly. A short email from Jeff, hoping ‘all is well’. And nothing from Annabel, naughty girl.

Distraction. That was what she needed.
What Mums Know
. Log in. Message Board. She froze. Four people – four! – had replied to her question about Roger.

From Earth Mother to Part Time Mum: Give him another chance. You owe it to the kids. Yes, he was wrong but it’s our job to pick up the pieces. Have you considered stopping work to give your husband more time? And take care over your own appearance so he wants you again.

Such old-fashioned advice! But what did she expect from a group of parents who lived their lives online? Yet the pathetic thing was that after it had happened she
had
paid particular care to her own appearance so Roger desired her again.

From Expectent Mum to Part Time Mum: Chuck the barstard out. Hes not worth it.

Dodgy spelling but truthful. The writer seemed angry. So why wasn’t
she
? Anger would be so much more helpful than the hideous hurt that wouldn’t go away.

From Pushy Princess to Part Time Mum: Make him feel really guilty so he showers you with ‘sorry’ presents. When the kids are older, you could bugger off.

Is that what some women really did?

From Mimi to Part Time Mum: It’s very difficult to trust someone again when that trust has been eroded.

Yes.
Yes
.

Curiously, she scanned the rest of the chat messages. ‘Expectent’ Mum had been unbelievably cruel about kicking to poor old Mimi. Suppose she took it to heart?

From Part Time Mum to What Mums Know: I totally disagree with Expectent Mum. We all had ideas about bringing up kids before we had them ourselves. Eleven
is
much older than the usual age for kicking, but children who are troubled about things often resort to regressive behaviour. My youngest, Georgie, was quite difficult until she was eight or nine. Now my kids are reasonably well balanced, apart from my eighteen-year-old who spends all day in bed after A levels. My advice, for what it’s worth, is to tell him off firmly and then don’t refer to it until it happens again. If you make a big deal, he’ll keep going. And, Mimi, thanks for your advice to me.

Send.

Too late, she wished she hadn’t. Who was she to offer help to others? She couldn’t even cope with her own problems: work, Roger, Annabel . . . Sometimes it was all too much. Caroline sighed as Ben’s music, which sounded quite pleasant for a change, drifted along the corridor. Impulsively, she hugged herself. How would it feel to be loved again? Really loved? Slowly she began to dance, yet in her head it wasn’t Roger holding her, or even George Clooney. It was a faceless stranger, staring down at her with such intensity that her entire body vibrated with longing.

‘Mum, what are you doing?’

Ben was standing at the door in his checked boxer shorts and T-shirt with the slogan ‘i rock catholic chicks’. Roger, who’d had a Catholic upbringing, had nearly had apoplexy when his son had come home with it from Camden Market the other month.

‘Nothing.’ Caroline covered her confusion by pretending to tidy the desk. ‘Nothing at all.’

15

‘Freddygetoffthecomputer
now
.Ineeditforwork.Anywayyou’remeanttobedoingyourholidayworknotgoingonFacebook.YesyouwereIsawyou.You’vejustminimisedit – thereitisonthebaratthebottom.’

Eventually, Mark got Freddy off the computer so he could check his emails and brief Clive on his campaign to get the maximum amount of press coverage for EFT. ‘I’ve already got two magazines interested and I think I may have a third,’ said Mark, scrolling down his inbox in the hope that another journalist had been hooked since he last looked a few minutes ago.

‘Sounds good.’ Clive was guardedly pleased. ‘So, when do you think we’ll see something in print?’

‘Two of the magazines are weeklies so, with any luck, maybe late September.’

‘Why not sooner?’ His client sounded distinctly disgruntled.

‘Because they have six-week lead times. They couldn’t—’

‘
Dad! Dad! He’s hurting me again.
’

Mark leaped up to shut his office door. ‘Sorry. They couldn’t do it any faster. It’s not bad timing in view of the toy fair in—’

The door flew open to reveal a distraught Florrie, tears streaming down her face. ‘Look! He’s left marks all over my legs.’

Holding his finger to his lips to warn his daughter to be quiet, Mark flew past into the bathroom, the only room in the house which had a door that actually locked.

‘What’s going on, Mark?’

Think.
Fast
. ‘We’ve got some building work going on outside. Now, the third magazine, is talking about doing a double-page spread and—’

Bang, bang, bang.

Christ, the door was going to break down if they didn’t stop. And now Freddy was playing his trumpet, although ‘playing’ was the wrong word: he had to be making that dreadful din on purpose.

‘Jeez, Mark, your builders are noisy. They sound as though they’re in the same room.’

‘It is a bit difficult, isn’t it? Look, can I ring you back?’

‘Not really. I’ve got another meeting. Pity – I wanted to give the board an update.’

‘Well, to be honest, there’s not much more news than—’

‘
Dad, he’s hitting me with the trumpet!
’

‘Sounds like your children need you.’ His client’s voice was acrid with disapproval. ‘Call me on Saturday, can you?’

Mark leaned out of the window, so he could hear better above Florrie’s yells. ‘Any particular time?’

‘Seven fifteen. Before I go into my breakfast meeting.’

He was gone. Seven fifteen, a.m. not p.m. On
Saturday
!

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ He flung open the door, grabbed Freddy by the shoulders and the trumpet fell on the floor. He could have shaken him, he really could. ‘You
know
I work from home. You
know
I have to give some kind of professional image. That was a new client. You know what a client is, don’t you?’

‘Someone who pays our school fees,’ said Freddy, sulkily.

‘Exactly.’ Mark paused, remembering how Hilary had joked that Freddy’s first word was ‘client’ because that was all Mark talked about. There had been a nugget of truth in it, which still made him feel guilty. ‘And if my client hears you two screaming, he’ll think I’m not capable of doing my job.’

‘You’re hurting me, Dad. Leggo.’ Freddy squirmed out of his grip.

‘Then next time be quiet when I’m on the office line. And for God’s sake, stop fighting her. Florrie, are you all right? My God, those bruises are
awful
.’

‘They’re the ones he did last week.’ Florrie sniffed. ‘These red ones are what he’s done now.’ She threw a furious look at her brother. ‘I’m going to tell Dad now, cos of this.’

‘
No!
’

Freddy flung himself across the room at her.

‘Get off her, Freddy.’ Mark pulled him away from his sister. ‘Tell me what?’

‘
If you tell him, I will never forgive you.
’

Florrie smirked. ‘Freddy’s disabled the NannyOnline system.

That’s why that dodgy site came up and loads of other stuff as well.’

‘You what? But how? You can’t have.’

‘Someone taught me at school,’ mumbled Freddy. ‘Wasn’t my fault.’

‘Hang on, let me get this right. You can disable a filter?’

‘Only if you know the password,’ piped up Florrie. ‘It’s on your noticeboard along with all that other stuff, like your pin numbers.’

What would Hilary do in a situation like this? What should
any
parent do? He felt so bloody powerless.
What Mums Know
was right. He knew nothing about women and nothing about kids.

‘Freddy. Go to your room. No television or Facebook for a week – no, a month.’

‘Make me.’ Freddy glued his feet to the floor as Mark tried to frog-march him down the corridor.

‘I bloody will if I have to.’ Mark tried to lift his son up but Freddy’s feet were flailing against his body. ‘Stop it, you’re hurting me – Freddy, I said
stop it
.’

‘
Cooeee
, everyone. Only
meeee
!’

‘Not now.’ Mark gritted his teeth, opened Freddy’s bedroom door with his knee and threw his son on to the floor. ‘That’s it, Freddy. You’re in serious trouble now.’

‘You’ve hurt me.’

‘Coo
eee
!’

‘Granny!’

Florrie was already downstairs.

‘I want to see her.’ Freddy pushed past him roughly. ‘Wait till I tell her what you’ve been doing.’

Slowly, Mark followed him down the stairs.

‘Hi, Daphne. How was your trip?’

His mother-in-law held out her arms and Mark braced himself for the inevitable clasp to her bosom. She released him with an enormous beam, having grazed his cheek on her large onyx earrings.

‘Fantastic, Mark. Absolutely fantastic. You really
must
go to the Galapagos Islands some time. It’s amazing. You haven’t lived until you’ve been.’

Daphne always said the same about whichever exotic place she’d visited. Mark still couldn’t work out how she afforded the trips. She’d been left in a reasonably comfortable position when Hilary’s father had died, but not that comfortable. Still, she certainly saved money in other ways, usually by eating with them. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d been very helpful since Hilary had left and he’d had to persuade her to take the Galapagos trip, which had been booked months before. He just wished she didn’t talk so much or come in and out of his house when she felt like it.

‘Now, I’ve brought you some little things.’

‘Oooh!’ Florrie fell on the pair of cheap star-shaped clip-on earrings. ‘Thanks, Gran. But maybe I ought to give them to Freddy.’

‘What do you mean, dear?’

Freddy kicked her. ‘Shut up, Florrie.’

‘Ow. Now I
will
tell her. I caught Freddy wearing one of Mum’s jumpers.’

‘Oh dear.’ Daphne shot Mark a worried look. ‘Now, Freddy, what did you want to do a silly thing like that for?’

‘Piss off.’ Freddy flew upstairs, slamming the door behind him.

‘I’ll explain later.’ Mark put the kettle on. ‘Sit down and I’ll make a cup of tea.’

‘Have you got any herbal? No? Just hot water, then. I met this wonderful couple on the plane who make their own herbal drinks and you wouldn’t believe the benefits. It can
revolutionise
your colon. But tell me.’ She dropped her voice. ‘How’s Hilary?’

He shut the door. ‘The same.’

Daphne sighed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left you.’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’

She kicked off her shoes and put her feet on a chair. ‘Sorry, darling, but you need to let the air circulate. Did I mention that this couple were qualified podiatrists as well? Absolutely
fascinating
! I’m going to see if there’s a course on it.’

‘Really?’ Mark tried to express polite interest. Daphne was always finding something
absolutely fascinating
and then, within a few months, finding something else equally fascinating instead. Before she went away, she had been advocating a painting-for-beginners class.

‘Now, what’s this about Freddy wearing Hilary’s clothes?’

Mark groaned. ‘It was a jumper and he was smelling it because it reminded him of her.’

Daphne’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh dear. Poor child.’

Mark patted her shoulder. ‘I know. The kids miss her and, to be honest, Daphne, I think we should tell them the truth.’

‘No, absolutely not. We promised, remember?’

‘Promised what, Gran?’

Mark stiffened. How long had Florrie been standing outside the door before she’d flung it open?

‘Hello, darling.’ Daphne beamed. ‘Oh dear, I’ve knocked over my hot water. Sweetie, would you get me a cloth?’

‘Promised what?’ repeated Florrie, sullenly. She fetched the J-cloth from the sink and carried it, dripping, to her grandmother.

She began to sob. ‘You were talking about Mum, weren’t you? She’s left home, hasn’t she? That’s what happened to a girl at school. Her dad went and they told her he was working in Dubai.’

‘No, darling, no.’ Daphne gathered Florrie to her. She sat like an overgrown doll on her grandmother’s lap, her head resting against the older woman’s crinkled cheeks, tanned from the sun. ‘I promise you on my absolute honour that Mummy would never leave you. Would she, Mark?’

‘Of course she wouldn’t, poppet.’ Clumsily, he put his hand on hers. But she pulled away. Hurt, Mark recalled how when she was little he could always pull her on to his knee and make it better.

‘We must be proud of her,’ Daphne added. ‘She’s a very clever woman, your mum. And she’ll be home by Christmas. I promise. Isn’t that right, Mark?’

He nodded. ‘Look, I need to check my emails. There’s a bit of a work crisis on.’

‘That’s all right. We girls need a bit of time together, don’t we, darling?’

Florrie, head still buried on Daphne’s shoulder, nodded.

It was such a relief to escape to his study, away from all the lies and tension. ‘It’s so difficult being an intelligent parent.’ That was what Hilary used to say after one of Freddy’s tantrums or Florrie’s rudeness. He hadn’t understood: he’d been confused by the edgy woman who burst into tears at the slightest provocation and was so different from the Hilary he had married. It had got worse when she’d been promoted and began working even longer hours, relying on a string of first nannies and then au pairs to hold the fort.

Your inbox is full.

Mark groaned. Now, on top of everything else, he needed to delete some messages for new ones to come through. Here they came, tumbling on to his screen; a mass of tirades from clients, possible editorial from a couple of journalists and a load of other stuff that was as important to him as those pamphlets that came with the Sunday papers.

It was also the ultimate excuse to put off proper work, thought Mark as his fingers began to fly across the keyboard.

From Mimi to Part Time Mum: Thanks for the kicking advice. Freddy’s still doing it and Florrie – my daughter – now has bruises on both legs. I’ll have to tell their holiday club or else I’ll be had up by Social Services. I’d like to tell their dad but he’s still away. I’m not sure I’m really cut out for this working-from-home business. I used to work in Central London, but since my husband started working away I set up on my own at home so, in theory, I could look after the kids. My mother-in-law helps but she makes me feel inadequate because she’s always giving me advice and barging in without knocking.

Don’t know how you manage to get to an office
and
have three kids. Am enjoying What Mums Know – it’s a break from all my work emails.

From Part Time Mum to Mimi: Didn’t realise you work from home. So you’re really part-time like me. The office is bliss, actually. Sometimes it’s a huge relief to get away from them. Sympathise about the mother-in-law. Mine is safely tucked away in Scotland. My husband doesn’t work abroad but he might as well. He’s got the kind of job that means he’s not usually home until really late. I joke that during the week I’m a single mother.