Our Little Secret (4 page)

I picture their bodies, her legs wrapped around his, dishevelled clothing, smeared lipstick, the wonderful escapism of a fast and hard screw; and, God, I wish it was me.

I feel myself pulsing now, as her voice gasps higher, the banging faster. He’s panting hard, too.

‘Come on, baby,’ I hear him say.

Then they both do. The banging crescendoes, then stops. She sighs, then giggles and shushes him.

I imagine myself on the other side, the wet, delighted kisses, hushed groans of congratulation and pleasure. I feel a stab of jealous remorse, remembering how I clawed Scott’s back, when we came, how we kissed and then cried.

Suddenly, I hear the door of the toilet opening and I step back further into the shadows.

‘Shhh. It’s fine, there’s no one,’ I hear a female voice say.

Then, to my horror, the couple – still embracing – fall into the dark area where I am standing. They kiss deeply, but it only takes a moment before they see me.

She’s an air hostess, in uniform, strands of hair falling down from the otherwise perfect chignon. He’s good-looking. In his thirties, maybe. He’s in jeans and expensive-looking leather shoes, with his tanned sockless feet just visible. They turn their heads and stare at me, wide-eyed, then laugh. I blush furiously, not daring to speak, backing up against the coffee machines. They both know straight away that I know what they’ve been doing, and that I must have overheard everything.

‘Awkward,’ the man says, but he’s laughing. He has an American accent.

‘Sorry,’ the girl says to me. She has blue eyes, long eyelashes and a pretty, upturned nose. She makes a grimace as she pulls at the front of her white shirt to rearrange her cleavage. ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’

I shake my head. Who does she think I’ll tell?

Flustered, I walk towards them, to get past, to get to the cubicle.

‘We should have invited her in with us,’ the man says, winking at me, as I pass him. He raises his eyebrows up at me invitingly. His eyes spell out a clear question. ‘She’s a cutie.’

I’m so shocked, I rush inside the cubicle and close the door quickly. It smells of sex and the mirror is steamed up. How could they have done it in here? It’s tiny.

But, like them, I too am now overcome. I lean against the back of the door and hitch up my dress. I push my hands down the front of my leggings to find my pants. Then I rub my first and second finger either side of my clitoris. I can’t help myself, as I picture the air hostess and the good-looking guy.

I can imagine her more vividly now – her blue skirt hitched up, stocking tops, her white shirt open, her nipples falling out of her lacy bra. I imagine her pink lips pursed as he shoved her upwards with the force of his thrusting. I can see his hard cock sliding into her, and I imagine the hot, horny look on his face. I see him looking over her shoulder at me, to where I’m standing right next to them, watching. A sudden orgasm peaks, then drops me flat.

It’s alien to me to orgasm alone, which is why the feeling ends so abruptly, I guess. Afterwards, I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at myself, unsure whether to be ashamed or not, unsure
what
I feel. What am I doing? What have I let myself in for? How will this all end?

7

I yank my wheelie-case through the arrivals gate, more overwhelmed and close to tears than I’d like. You can tell we’re in New York. Everyone is so loud, and I’ve never seen so many different types of people in my life. All of humanity seems to be represented here, and all of them are talking at once.

The queue through immigration took ages, even thought I was in the fast business track. I guess there was a problem with my open return ticket, and they questioned the idea that I was on a two-week probation period for my employers, so I may not, in fact, be taken on full-time at all, so wouldn’t need the top-notch visa the Parkers have magicked up for me. I’m just as confused as the immigration officers were, and I guess it was my lack of clear details about my job that caused the hold-up. I feel a bit of a fool. I’ve flown halfway around the world for a job I know hardly anything about; to live with people I’ve never met. On paper, it sounds pretty reckless.

Ahead of me, a young girl in a denim jacket runs forward towards the barrier, flinging herself into the arms of an older woman with a squeal of delight. There’s nothing like witnessing a family reunion to make you feel lonely and very far away from home.

As the crowd of expectant families thins out, I see the line of people holding signs. There are all sorts of names scrawled on bits of cardboard, and I study them all. What I don’t expect is the man in a smart black uniform, wearing a peaked cap, who is standing slightly apart from the crowd at the end of the barrier. He’s holding a clipboard with my name typed onto it in a large font. He must be in his fifties and is wearing designer shades and a grim expression, as if dealing with this common riff-raff is just, frankly, beneath him.

I approach nervously and introduce myself. He shakes my hand. He’s wearing black leather gloves, despite the heat.

‘Please come this way, Miss Henshaw. Welcome to New York.’

Outside, there’s noise everywhere, honking cabs and large, colourful adverts for brands I recognize, but the air still smells intoxicatingly foreign.

The driver guy – I still don’t know his name, and doubt very much that he’s going to tell me – walks ahead of me, wheeling my bag. I wish I’d invested in better luggage. My case is neon-pink, and in his hands it looks like the cheap, tacky thing it is.

I hoist my fake designer handbag onto my shoulder and dig out my shades (also fake – but at least they’re new and, as yet, unscratched). I shake my head, fanning my hair out of the collar of my leather jacket, trying to pretend that I’m important, but I don’t feel it. I feel tired and grubby.

I hadn’t expected it to be so hot in New York and I don’t know how far we have to walk, but I’m already uncomfortably warm. I left freezing wintry drizzle in Manchester, but here it’s most definitely spring. I suddenly realize that I have all the wrong clothes with me.

I hear a car lock beep and discover that our car – well, more of a limo – is parked right ahead of us, next to the kerb. It’s black, sleek and shiny. It has tinted windows. The kind of car you expect to see celebrities in.

I wish Tiff could see this. Whenever we discuss our fantasy marriage ceremonies, a limo is always on the top of the hen-do list, but neither of us has ever been in one. Or has ever been likely to go in one. Until now. I wish I could be more excited, but I just feel very, very nervous. Like everyone must be able to tell the giant fraud that I am.

I sense raised eyebrows from the other passengers, and people waiting for the line of yellow cabs, as we walk directly to the limo and, in a second, my gaudy pink case has been swallowed into its vast trunk.

The driver guy opens the back door for me, like I really am a celebrity, and with less grace than I’d like, I step into the pale leather interior.

Then he shuts the door and I’m sealed in, the world outside immediately muffled. It’s blissfully cool.

The car gently rocks as the driver, I assume, gets into the front, but there’s a wall of black glass between us, so I can’t see him. Can he see me, though? I’m not sure. I hear a clicking noise and then his voice comes through a speaker set into the door.

‘Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Henshaw. It’s going to be a long drive. There’s a refrigerator ahead of you, between the seats, if you need any refreshments. If you’d like to sleep, you’ll find blankets and a pillow in the cupboard to the right of the fridge. If you need anything, please press the black button just at head height above your door.’

Then his voice has gone. Smoothly and with hardly any sound, we pull away from the kerb.

Oh.

My.

God.

8

No matter how exciting stepping into the limo felt, the novelty soon wears off. It just feels weird not having anyone to share it with. I have no signal on my phone, so my attempt to text Tiff a selfie doesn’t work, and the driver wasn’t kidding when he said it would be a long trip. I get excited as I get a brief glimpse of the famous New York skyline, but all too soon it’s gone, and we’re heading north and there’s nothing worth looking at all – just lanes and lanes of traffic and industrial-looking buildings for miles.

Growing hungry, I finally pluck up the courage to raid the fridge and eat some odd-tasting crisp-type potato things, some Hershey’s Kisses and a packet of peanuts, as well as having a full-fat Coke, for a treat, but I can’t help feeling self-conscious the whole time. I’m not sure if the driver can see me.

I wish the glass wasn’t there and he would talk to me. There’s so much I want to ask, but somehow I can’t pluck up the nerve to press the black button and start asking questions about our mutual employer.

Instead, I dig down in my handbag and pull out the brown envelope that contains all the info I have: flight details, the printed emails I’ve been sent, as well as all the information Tiff and I printed from the Internet.

The emails are from J. Gundred – I take it that was the actual name of the woman from the interview. She wasn’t Gunter at all. Close, though. The emails are brief and to the point, and I get the feeling they were all written in haste, but then the Parkers seemed keen for me to start right away, and so Gundred has obviously worked around the clock to get my visa and flights sorted.

But I still don’t know anything at all about the children. Even the barest, most essential facts, like how many there are, or how old. I did email back and ask her, but she told me the Parkers would introduce me to my specific job spec when they met me.

Now I’m wondering what I’ve let myself in for. What if they have problem children, or real delinquents? Maybe that explains why nobody has given me any details. Fuck! Or, worse, what if they have a brand-new baby? I fudged my baby experience on my CV. I haven’t actually ever looked after a baby. Apart from Ryan, of course, but family doesn’t count.

I wonder what type of parents the Parkers might be. There’s certainly no evidence of any kids in their posh limo. No squashed biscuits or crusty car seats here.

Now something that has never entered my head hits me full force and I realize just how much I’ve been coasting along on the fantasy of all this. What if the Parkers are not only rich, but also very strict? Or really dull? What if they don’t have a sense of humour – like old Gundred at the interview? What if she’s their kind of person, rather than me?

I shuffle the papers and pull out the sheet from Wikipedia and the entries for Edward and Marnie Parker, the people who are now officially in charge of my life.

It’s been hard to find out anything personal about them. From what I can gather, he’s loaded, having accrued his fortune in the art world. He’s some sort of cutting-edge curator, and there’s lots of hyperlinks to cool young artists. There are words about art and architecture movements I’ve never heard of, let alone can actually pronounce, and paragraphs about how Parker has influenced this and that with his ‘esoteric and eclectic tastes’. I imagine that he operates in a world of strict minimalism and sits on extremely uncomfortable chairs.

There is one picture of him. He’s got a bit of a Robert Downey, Junior vibe going on, although he’s younger. Late thirties, tops. He has greying hair and trendy black-framed glasses and is wearing a natty pinstriped suit in the photo, at some sort of red-carpet event. He looks like he keeps himself in shape, and his skin is perfect, although he’s frowning, like he’s annoyed to have his photo taken.

What, if anything, will we talk about over breakfast? That’s if they’re the kind of family that will let me eat with them. They may want to keep me entirely separate. But that might be just as well. I don’t know anything about art. Although I do have a T-shirt from the market with a Damian Hurst fake-diamond skull printed on it, so that might count? But I doubt it.

She – Marnie – Mrs Parker owns an exclusive designer boutique, but I’m not altogether sure what it sells. There’s a picture of the shop front in an extraordinarily posh shopping street in Manhattan on Wikipedia, but no recent pictures of her. She used to be a model and there’s a couple of shots from the Noughties, with her on the catwalk with some strange, angular costume on, slit down to the navel, and she’s got crazy hair and blue make-up on (or at least the light is blue), so it’s impossible to tell what she actually looks like.

There’s also a link, but it’s to a tiny blurry thumbnail of an oil portrait of Marnie Parker by somebody who sounds famous, as it was displayed in a big art gallery. It’s difficult to make out, but she’s definitely nude and lying on her side.

Maybe the super-rich don’t worry about posing nude. I’d never do that, though. Not for anyone.

The other printed piece of paper was from a gossip site and the ‘moving house’ news:

Fifty million bucks. Bloody hell! That sure is a lot of dough.

But I’m more interested in the details about the Parkers. It doesn’t say how big ‘the family’ is.

There is only one further bit of information. Something Tiff found. She’s better at searching for stuff than me. It was a paragraph in a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
last year: