Secrets (9 page)

Do I dress for dinner? Tess wonders while popping the snap-fastenings on Em's night-time babygro. ‘Shall I?’ She pauses. ‘Stop it.’ She pauses again. ‘Not you, Em – me. We'd probably be in the kitchen preparing our supper at the same time anyway. It's just convenience.’ She snuffles Em's tummy much to the baby's delight, scoops the child up and watches their reflection in the window. She often gazes at the sight of herself holding her child in this particular embrace; it is an image that cannot be bettered.

I love you, little girl. I love you. You and me, my baby, you and me.

She puts Em down in the cot, switches on the night-light, winds up the music box, watches her a while longer, then tiptoes from the room.

She hasn't many clothes but she does want to change. There's her denim skirt, a skinny black polo – a total makeover from the bagginess of her daytime garb. There's an unopened pair of black tights too. No suitable footwear really, only trainers. She'll go shoeless – she's noted that Joe never wears shoes inside, just chunky socks with or without his well-worn moccasin slippers. The latter are usually at the say-so of Wolf, who likes to take them tenderly to bed with him.

She puts on a little mascara for the first time since London and sits at the mirror having a look. You are a bit mad, she says to herself. Dressing for dinner with a man you don't know in a house you're treating as your own, you deluded thing.

It has just gone eight. She waits until ten past – indulging in a woman's prerogative to be late-ish when the plan was eight-ish.

But he isn't in the kitchen and there's nothing on the stove and the herbs are still in the cupboard and there are no sounds of life coming from the study. She stands there a while, furious that she should feel dejected, for feeling suddenly self-conscious in a stupid skirt. And brand bloody new, black bloody tights. Don't even mention the mascara. The stone floor is cold; through the soles of her feet she can feel the chill snaking an insidious path up her body. She is just wondering whether to add socks to her ensemble or change outfits completely when the back door opens and Joe appears, followed by Wolf who bounds to her in a skitter of muddy affection.

‘Bloody hell, Wolf,’ Joe says, ‘it's only been a couple of hours.’ He looks at Tess. ‘It must be love.’ He looks at the kitchen clock. ‘Shit. Sorry.’ He looks at Tess again. She looks different. She's in a skirt. Good legs. Something about her eyes. Nice though. Shame Wolf has left his mark. ‘Are you hungry?’

She nods.

‘Thirsty?’

She smiles as she nods.

‘Wine? Water?’

She looks a little embarrassed.

‘Wine?’ Joe helps.

‘Please – I mean, if you're having.’

‘Red or white?’

Again, she looks self-conscious.

‘This is a nice red,’ Joe says and they chink glasses and sip quietly.

‘Many hands make light work?’ Joe says as he plucks up an onion and throws it underarm to Tess. She catches it, much to Wolf's chagrin, who has been sitting quietly focused at her side.

‘Slice?’ she asks. ‘Dice?’

‘Finely chop, please.’

‘Is this for a secret recipe?’

‘It's my “if-you've-got-it, chuck-it-in” speciality,’ he says and once she's done the onion, he sets her to work on the tomatoes. Bolstered by the wine, it is a genial and industrious atmosphere and, when they aren't working their knives or humming to themselves, they talk lightly about their time apart. Joe finds out what she's been up to whilst he's been gone and Tess discovers he's off again, to London, then possibly straight on to France.

‘This smells good, don't you think?’ ‘It smells lovely. A welcome change from toast and Marmite.’

‘Is that what you live on?’ Joe gives her a stern but theatrical frown. He stirs the sauce and proffers the wooden spoon towards her lips. She would have preferred to take it off him but, a little self-consciously, she comes closer and sips straight from his spoon. She licks her lips and hums approval. He is looking at her intently and for a suspended moment they lock eyes before Tess turns away; calls herself crazy, tells herself she's been too long without male company, that it's ridiculous to melt just a little just because he's spooned sauce into her mouth. Joe notes the reddening to her cheeks and, when she turns away, he is left looking at the nape of her neck and he can't deny that it is all rather Thomas Hardy again. He's doing an Alec D'Urberville – albeit feeding this Tess sauce off a spoon instead of a strawberry by hand. He can see that she feels awkward and actually this quite stirs him. Also, he can see that she is unaware how this emotion affects her looks and actually, he likes the look of her. And he liked the look of her lips parting for his spoon, the feel of her mouth against it, the closeness of her body. The nape of her neck.

‘I'd better check on Em,’ she's saying and while she is upstairs, she takes off her mascara, looks at herself in the mirror and thinks she looks worse which, bizarrely, makes her feel better.

The pasta is in bowls on the table when she returns.

‘Seasoned with tarragon and sage,’ Joe announces, not actually noting any difference in barefaced Tess. ‘I like the labels you drew – very artistic.’

Tess has no complaints about toast and Marmite but Joe's pasta really does taste good. As it warms her, it thaws her awkwardness. ‘That Everything Shop is a treasure trove.’

Joe laughs, he knows exactly which shop she's referring to. ‘That's why I have a tab there.’

Tess stops chewing.

‘If you need anything for the house, just stick it on my tab,’ he clarifies.

She swallows thoughtfully.

‘Have you spent much?’ Joe asks and she should say, well, yes actually. Relatively speaking, she's spent quite a lot. Her purse is all but empty now. She should be recompensed, she's the house-sitter after all. Instead, Tess brushes away the suggestion as if it's grains of salt on the table. She twists her fork gamely into the pasta.

‘I'll add it to what I owe you. I need to pay you anyway,’ Joe says. ‘I'll write a cheque tomorrow.’

Tess stops eating again. She takes contemplative sips at her wine before finally saying that, actually, if it wasn't a problem, cash would be better, if that was OK.

‘Cash?’

‘If that's OK?’ Tess thinks, please say it is.

‘No problem. We'll walk to the bank tomorrow morning, if you like – assuming you'll be taking Emmeline out. Been to the beach yet?’

‘I told you – I don't like beaches.’

Joe is about to ask why ever not, but there's something about the way she has lowered her face, how her look has gone all inward, that stops him. It appears sand is dangerous territory so he moves their conversation to neutral ground and they chat easily about bridges and fingernails, dogs and babies, late into the night.

Chapter Nine

‘Cash, then?’ Joe confirmed, standing outside the bank the next morning.

‘If that's OK.’ She fought to sound casual and nonchalant though the notion of money soon fleshing out her purse filled her with near manic relief. She hoped Joe might just think it was the whip of the mid-March wind making her quiver a little.

‘You guard the Wolfster,’ he said, handing Tess the retractable lead, which Wolf took advantage of just as soon as he was in her hands and his master was out of sight.

An unbelievable length of cord spewed out of the casing and though she said, shit, and pressed anything she thought could be pressed, Wolf was around the corner in no time and she was having to set her feet against his almighty lug.

‘So, I'm taking it that you don't water-ski either, let alone surf?’

Seb. She'd met him only the once and he'd been semi-naked. Today he was fully dressed and appeared taller than she remembered, but his accent was as distinctive as the shaggy fair hair spiralling out from his black fleece beany. He put his thumb and index finger in his mouth, blasted out a long whistle and within an instant, Wolf was back. ‘Universal Language of Dog,’ he shrugged and he placed his thumb over Tess's. ‘Push it forward – don't press it in.’

‘Does my dog know you?’

‘Nope – but that whistle always works. Well, it does for the larger, stupider dogs – no offence, big guy. Whereas the little 'uns – they'll just give you the canine equivalent of the finger.’ He didn't have to pause long for Tess to smile. ‘I have another whistle I use on the ladies.’ He gave a lusty wolf whistle through his teeth and finished with a wry, cocky grin at Tess. ‘Never fails,’ he shrugged and he laughed when Tess raised her eyebrows at her gullibility. He fanned a paying-in book. ‘I ought to go.’

Tess found herself hoping Joe wouldn't come out just yet and Seb wouldn't go in just yet. And would bloody Wolf stop his frisk and frolic.

‘Pop by,’ Seb said. ‘You know where to find me. And if I'm not in – just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you?’

‘Of course I can whistle.’

Funny girl, this one. With her blonde baby and oversized dog.

‘Do you know him?’ Tess asked Joe who'd come out of the bank at much the same time as Seb went in.

‘Who?’

‘The guy from the surfing place?’

Joe looked back briefly, not sure to whom in the queue Tess referred. ‘Er, no. Do you?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really – he said hi the first time I went to the pier. He's friendly.’

‘We are, mostly,’ Joe said.

‘He's Australian.’

‘They're friendly too, mostly.’ He gave Tess a fold of banknotes which she put in her jacket pocket. He could see that her hand remained curled around them, clinging on tight. But he did note that her eyes were watery and her cheeks red. But there again, the wind was particularly brisk this morning. ‘Beach?’ He said it very, very casually.

‘Not today,’ Tess replied briskly, as if she already had plans. ‘Em and I will see you at home.’

See you back at the house, Joe said to himself, watching Tess walk away.

What is it about the beach, Tess? And what is it about home?

She says she's eaten, when he offers to cook again later that day. He doubts it, though. She looks pale and tired. It seems her daily tea quota is down too – her two china cups and saucers have not been moved from the dresser.

The baby has been fractious; Tess working hard not to appear harried. But he's heard her cuss the dog and the singsong voice she usually employs to feed the baby has a strained edge to it. Her smile is there, but her eyes, which appear dark and dull, do not confirm it. Bath-time jollities have been less audible too.

She disappeared into Em's room long ago.

All is quiet. So quiet that Joe hovers on the first-floor landing, then again halfway up the second flight of stairs.

He looks up and there she is. He can see her, she's all in a crumple outside the baby's room. She's slumped on the floor, her back against the wall, her knees up, her head in her hands. Her shoulders are heaving. She's crying soundlessly – she appears to be consumed by utter sadness. He detects the effort it's taking her to counteract the need to let go with a stronger need for silence and invisibility. Mustn't wake the baby. Mustn't let anyone know. But her desolation descends the staircase heavily and every now and then, he can hear how her voice breaks through involuntarily; hollow and desperate.

Joe backs away.

What does she have to cry about?

Why so sad?

He wishes he could ask. He oughtn't to. He senses it is unequivocally private.

He'd like to make her a cup of tea.

Or offer her a glass of wine.

A chat.

But she doesn't appear again until the next morning.

She looks so fragile she's practically transparent.

It's so windy today, Joe thinks to himself. If she goes out in this, she might be blown away.

‘I'd stay in if I were you, Tess. I'm not venturing out myself in this weather. Thank God April's round the corner. Cup of tea? Kettle's just boiled. No? Later then – lunch too, perhaps.’