Love Is a Secret (8 page)

Briefly, Susan reread her message. She’d deliberately failed to mention that Tabitha was disabled because it would have defeated the object of joining a group in which she wanted to be normal. On the other hand, if she didn’t describe Tabitha’s circumstances, it would be difficult to explain why she felt so worried and betrayed.

Send.

Just pressing the button made her feel better. And no one would tell. That was the beauty of being Rainbow. Now for those weeds.

She’d just found the trowel under the sink when the phone rang. She knew it! Something had happened. The wheelchair had tipped over. Tabitha was hurt. How could she have let them go?

‘Mrs Thomas?’

‘Yes.’ She could barely get the word out.

‘This is Bekki Adams from the
Gazette
. We’re doing a story on the centre closing and I was given your name. I wonder if you could spare the time to give us a quote on what this means to you.’

The relief that Tabitha was all right made her babble: ‘Yes, I can. But you’re wrong about something. The centre isn’t necessarily going to close. We’re starting a campaign to save it.’

‘You are? Fantastic. I didn’t know.’

Her enthusiasm gave Susan hope.

‘Can you help us, er . . . Bekki? Could you run a piece encouraging readers to support us?’

‘I’ll need to check with my editor first,’ the girl sounded excited, ‘but it sounds a great idea to me.’

12

TIP FROM JULIE OF EASTBOURNE

Give your kids a diary to keep through the summer. Get them to stick things in like leaves from a walk or postcards from places you’ve been to.

Mark stared at the screen, wondering where he had gone wrong. Why weren’t his own kids into innocent pursuits like collecting leaves or postcards instead of being glued to Facebook, computer games where everyone got shot or that awful music channel on Sky?

Briefly, he wondered if Julie of Eastbourne could be persuaded to swap kids for a week. Any child who was prepared to keep a nature diary would be a doddle to look after. It was all he could do to get his lot seated at the table for breakfast. ‘Freddy, can you hurry up?’

‘I can but I won’t.’

‘Stop being so difficult. And eat up.’

‘I
hate
brown bread, Dad. Why can’t we have white bread like Mum used to give us?’

Mark wiped fingers, stained with blackberry jelly, on the ‘Dad’ apron that the kids had given him, via Daphne, last Christmas and hoped he’d been right to play down that awful cross-dressing scene the other day. Somehow it didn’t seem right for a boy to fuss about the kind of bread he got for breakfast, just as it wasn’t right for him to wear his mother’s pink silk evening top. It might be her bra next, if this went on. ‘Because white isn’t healthy for you.’

‘It is, if it’s got those wholemeal bits in it like that stuff on television,’ piped up Florrie.

Freddy studied his plate unenthusiastically. ‘And why have you given me an E?’

Mark nearly dropped the margarine tub. ‘A
what
?’

‘An E!’ Freddy waved a large white tablet in the air. ‘Our biology teacher says we should never have anything that’s got a circle on it. It could be Ecstasy.’

‘For pity’s sake, Freddy, it’s a bloody vitamin pill. Look!’

Mark waved the bottle in front of him. It had a large jolly smiley face on it, promising a lifetime of vitality.

‘Well, it shouldn’t have a circle.’

‘Write and tell the manufacturers.’

‘I will.’

He probably would too, thought Mark, trying to sponge blackberry jelly off his poorly ironed blue and white striped shirt. When Freddy wasn’t behaving like an uncontrollable toddler, he was coming out with observations that showed a fine line in lateral thinking. That child would go far, but it was anyone’s guess whether it would be up or down. He was still worried about those nubile pictures on the computer. ‘Are you sure you didn’t download anything from that teen site?’ He couldn’t bring himself to dignify it with its full name.

‘I
swear
. I told you, these things just pop up sometimes.’

Freddy’s eyes shone with such righteous indignation that Mark knew he was telling the truth.

‘And what about Mum’s jumper?’ said Florrie, mischievously.

‘Shurrup. I told you. I
wasn’t
wearing it. I was just smelling it.’ He flushed. ‘It reminded me of her.’

Florrie slid off the kitchen stool. ‘How sad can you get?’

Mark patted Freddy briefly on the shoulder to show he understood.

‘Come on, you two, or I’m going to be late.’

The meeting, thank goodness, was on the Paddington side of London. Providing they got out now
and
there was a space in the station car park, he might just make it after he’d dropped the kids off at the holiday club.

‘Ouch, Florrie – fuck off.’

‘Freddy, don’t use that word!’

‘It’s not a word.’

Mark ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Then what the hell is it?’

Freddy grinned. ‘Two words.’

His son was going to be the death of him. ‘If I’d wanted to work in the mental-health industry, I’d have done so. Now, get your butt upstairs and brush your hair.’

‘No.’ Freddy gave him two fingers from the staircase. ‘It’s
my
hair.’

‘Well, I sired it.’

‘What does “sire” mean?’

‘Provided the sperm,’ replied Florrie, promptly. ‘He provided sperm during sexual intercourse with Mum to make you and your hair.’

‘
Don’t talk like that.
’

‘I just have.’

‘Well, stop it.’

‘Make me.’

She was upset. It was as hard for her as it was for him.

‘Florrie.’ Mark tried to put his arms round her but she pushed him away. ‘In the car, both of you,’ he said, more softly. ‘But clean your teeth first.’

There was a soft thud as the post fluttered through the door. For the past month, Freddy had been on tenterhooks to see if he’d won a competition for Wattevers tickets that he’d entered through the local paper. Mark didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d have heard by now.

‘There’s a postcard from Mum!’ yelled Freddy.

Florrie, toothbrush in hand, flew back down the stairs. ‘Where?’

‘Shut up, I’m reading it.’

‘Share,’ commanded Mark, looking over Freddy’s shoulder.

The sight of the large loopy writing, almost unreadable, like many bright people’s script, made his armpits sweat.

‘She’s been roller-skating,’ said Freddy, disbelievingly. ‘In Central Park. Look. There’s a picture. I want to go roller-skating. I keep telling you.’

‘We’ll go next weekend.’

‘But I want to go roller-skating in Central Park, not boring old Oxford.’

Florrie nodded. It wasn’t often they were in agreement. ‘She doesn’t say when she’s coming back. And why isn’t there a postmark?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s a pretty stamp, isn’t it? I could get you an album if you like and we could start collecting them.’

‘For God’s sake, Dad, that’s so
sad
.’

‘Well, what about a holiday diary, then? I’ll give you a tenner if you write something.’

Florrie looked mildly interested. ‘Every day?’

‘No. You get one tenner in total.’

‘In your dreams, Dad.’

He sighed. ‘Look, we’ll definitely go roller-skating. That’s a promise.’

‘Tonight?’ asked Freddy, picking his nose.

Mark ran his hands through his hair in frustration. It was so hard getting everything right. There was so much to remember and do that he needed a spreadsheet to record all their activities and his jobs. ‘Not tonight. At the weekend. Now, in the car – fast. And don’t flick that. Here’s some loo paper.’

Why, he asked himself, gazing out of the window at the Oxfordshire countryside as the train sped towards London, couldn’t Hilary have been a normal mother like her own? Daphne had been a traditional intelligent, stay-at-home mum who had given birth to one very bright daughter. Keen to give her the opportunities she had never had, she’d encouraged her to go to Oxford, after which Hilary had got a place on a banking course for graduates. Then she’d got married, had the kids and continued working.

‘Aren’t you happy?’ he had asked her, when she’d been offered the New York job that he hadn’t even known she’d applied for.

She’d looked at him with those serious eyes and the classic English-rose face that had first attracted him to her. ‘Define happiness, Mark. Is it putting up with kids who answer you back so you can’t think clearly any more? Or suddenly realising that society expects you to put someone else – two other people, or three if you include you – before yourself for the rest of your life? If I’m going to make something of myself, it means being selfish. If I put the kids first, they’ll have exactly the same identity struggle in twenty years’ time. At least, Florrie will. It’s worse for girls. I’ve been brought up to go places, Mark. I can’t do that here any more.’

He should have told her that, yes, she was being a selfish cow and that plenty of other mothers and fathers were making sacrifices, if that was what you called it. But he’d been too scared of losing her. They had continued to make love, always at his instigation, until the day she went.

The train stopped at Reading station. Already? He still had some fine-tuning to do on the press release for Educational Fun Toys, the new client he was meeting. Mark opened his laptop. Better check his emails in case the EFT people had changed the arrangements. Good. Nothing in his inbox that couldn’t wait until later. His index finger hovered over the integral mouse. He’d like to see if anyone had replied on the kicking issue but there was only another thirty minutes until the train got into Paddington.

That press release should come first but . . .

What Mums Know
. Message Board. Mark’s chest lurched slightly.

He hadn’t really expected anyone to bother but there were two replies for Mimi. Grateful that both seats next to him were empty, he skimmed the messages. One, from someone called Rainbow, was very New Age, and the second had come from ‘Expectent’ Mum.

From Rainbow to Mimi: My daughter used to lash out at other kids and the teacher had to move her in class. That didn’t work but then another mum said it was because of frustration and I needed to find her another outlet. So every time she did it, I got her to clap her hands really loudly. I’d clap mine too and it became a game. Now she’s stopped.

A
clapping
game? As if that would work on Freddy!

From Expectent Mum to Mimi: If your kid is so orful, you must be a pretty lousie mum. If it were my kid, Id give it a smack.

Thats what my mum wuld have done.

Mark shifted uncomfortably on the seat. It served him right for asking advice from strangers who couldn’t even spell. Maybe he was a hopeless mum but was that because he was actually a dad or because he couldn’t do it right? Scanning the messages for any more hate mail, he stopped in his tracks.

I want to know if anyone out there can tell me if it’s possible to go on after your husband has had an affair.

Mark went cold. There had definitely been times, before Hilary went, when her behaviour had been so erratic that he had wondered if she’d been cheating on him.

Looking back at what happened, I feel really stupid because I didn’t guess the truth. But I honestly didn’t think my husband would do that kind of thing.

He could understand that, all right.

From Mimi to Part Time Mum: You’re not stupid. You trusted in someone and they let you down. But trust is an intrinsic part of love. Neither can flourish without the other. My husband is working abroad temporarily but I’m pretty certain he doesn’t play around. I’m not sure, to be honest, if a marriage can really survive an affair. There are people who say they’ve done it but I can’t help wondering if they really loved each other in the first place.

Send.

For what it was worth. Hopefully, ‘Expectent’ Mum would read it and learn how to spell words like ‘intrinsic’. And now he really did have to deal with that press release.
What Mums Know
was getting too much in the way of real work.

The meeting went well, although the client, a sharp-brained, lean young man in his late twenties with a degree in child psychology, kept giving him odd, furtive looks. Was it him or his presentation?

‘That’s great, Mark. I like it. And the list of possible contacts. Go ahead and send out the release.’

Mark sighed inwardly with relief. This client could be big. Very big. Just like private-school fees.

Clive Hastings (‘Call me Clive’) touched his arm lightly. ‘There’s only one thing.’

Mark’s heart sank. He hadn’t got the contract after all.

‘You might like to check out your hair in the bathroom. Looks as though something nasty’s landed on it.’

Automatically, Mark patted the top of his head. Feeling something sticky, he brought down a sample in his fingers. ‘Blackberry jelly!’ He stared at it, aghast. ‘Don’t say I’ve been walking around with this on my head since breakfast.’

Clive’s eyebrows nearly hit his bald patch. ‘Blackberry jelly?’

‘Yes.’ Mark laughed awkwardly. ‘I must have smeared it on myself when I was spreading my son’s toast for breakfast.’

Clive slammed his hand on the edge of the desk. ‘A working man who makes his son’s breakfast! That’s what I like to hear. I can tell, Mark, that you’re exactly the right man for this job. Educational Fun Toys needs representatives who are fully integrated into parenthood.’ His eyes flickered. ‘Is that part of your culture, by any chance?’